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Michael Garrett - NC Senate's Viral Statement on the Bad Bunny Halftime Show “I watched #BadBunny deliver the most American halftime show I have ever seen. Then I came home and watched it again. And I am not okay. In the best possible way. He sang every single word...

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Ethical American

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252,102 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten •via X (Twitter)

KunstNachrichten & Politik#BadBunny
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Happy 5th Anniversary to Everyone ❤️ Since the birth of our NFSC, we’ve walked a powerful path through storms and sunshine and Mr. Miles Guo didn’t just help us - He awakened us and he taught us Truth, Love, Courage through the movement and this is more than a fight - This is Family, this is Faith, this is History in the making. I don’t have the right to speak for others and I never will but based on what I’ve seen - The Alliance and our Great Fellow Fighters didn’t just fight but they protected, they bled, they sacrificed, they stood tall when it hurt the most and their bravery has become the heartbeat of our movement and this is the reality, not a story or a rumor and from my point of view, it’s only going to get better and stronger. With all due respect to Brothers and Sisters, let’s take a moment to show more appreciation towards the great people around us, those in the Alliance, your Farm, your Fellow Fighters who are showing up with intelligence and courage, both online and offline activities and I truly mean this to everyone from every part of the world - One of the greatest way to stay United is by sharing Love, Respect, Support, Advice, Experiences with one another, all under the one and only important goal is to grow stronger together and fight against CCP, a journey that has been incredibly tough and long but deeply meaningful. For a very long time - I kept hearing the same question over and over again: People asked with worry, when will Mr. Miles Guo come out ? But ever since 3.15, my mind has been holding onto just one question that I keep asking myself every single day: Why would he choose to stay inside when he had the option to be free outside ? IN MY PERSONAL OPINION, it's because he wants to make it clear to everyone that he prioritizes his mission to TAKE DOWN THE CCP over his own freedom - That’s why I’ve never spent even a second believing he couldn’t get out because the people behind him is massive and there’s no such thing as 99% - It’s a 100% chance he could be released if he chose to make the call... Most importantly, please don’t misunderstand: the FACT is that he is a PURE, CLEAN, INNOCENT PERSON who has done absolutely nothing wrong and everyone knows it - CCP, the West, the Families knows it pretty well and they know far more than all of us combined and whether people agree or not, it doesn’t change the fact that he was a good person, a man of his word, a man who never backed down from doing what’s right and good for the Chinese people.
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Happy 5th Anniversary to Everyone ❤️ Since the birth of our NFSC, we’ve walked a powerful path through storms and sunshine and Mr. Miles Guo didn’t just help us - He awakened us and he taught us Truth, Love, Courage through the movement and this is more than a fight - This is Family, this is Faith, this is History in the making. I don’t have the right to speak for others and I never will but based on what I’ve seen - The Alliance and our Great Fellow Fighters didn’t just fight but they protected, they bled, they sacrificed, they stood tall when it hurt the most and their bravery has become the heartbeat of our movement and this is the reality, not a story or a rumor and from my point of view, it’s only going to get better and stronger. With all due respect to Brothers and Sisters, let’s take a moment to show more appreciation towards the great people around us, those in the Alliance, your Farm, your Fellow Fighters who are showing up with intelligence and courage, both online and offline activities and I truly mean this to everyone from every part of the world - One of the greatest way to stay United is by sharing Love, Respect, Support, Advice, Experiences with one another, all under the one and only important goal is to grow stronger together and fight against CCP, a journey that has been incredibly tough and long but deeply meaningful. For a very long time - I kept hearing the same question over and over again: People asked with worry, when will Mr. Miles Guo come out ? But ever since 3.15, my mind has been holding onto just one question that I keep asking myself every single day: Why would he choose to stay inside when he had the option to be free outside ? IN MY PERSONAL OPINION, it's because he wants to make it clear to everyone that he prioritizes his mission to TAKE DOWN THE CCP over his own freedom - That’s why I’ve never spent even a second believing he couldn’t get out because the people behind him is massive and there’s no such thing as 99% - It’s a 100% chance he could be released if he chose to make the call... Most importantly, please don’t misunderstand: the FACT is that he is a PURE, CLEAN, INNOCENT PERSON who has done absolutely nothing wrong and everyone knows it - CCP, the West, the Families knows it pretty well and they know far more than all of us combined and whether people agree or not, it doesn’t change the fact that he was a good person, a man of his word, a man who never backed down from doing what’s right and good for the Chinese people.

Wild Ox

33,220 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

🚨 Lamine Yamal statement. “𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐦, 𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐡. Yesterday in the stadium, the chant “the one who doesn’t boo is Muslim” was heard. I know it was aimed at the rival team and it wasn’t something against me — but as a Muslim, it doesn’t stop being a lack of respect and something intolerable”. “I understand that not all the fans are like that… but to those who sing these things: using a religion as a joke in a stadium makes you look like ignorant and racist people”. “Football is for enjoying it and cheering, not for disrespecting people for who they are or what they believe in”. “That said, thanks to the people who came to cheer us on, see you at the World Cup”.
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🚨 Lamine Yamal statement. “𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐦, 𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐡. Yesterday in the stadium, the chant “the one who doesn’t boo is Muslim” was heard. I know it was aimed at the rival team and it wasn’t something against me — but as a Muslim, it doesn’t stop being a lack of respect and something intolerable”. “I understand that not all the fans are like that… but to those who sing these things: using a religion as a joke in a stadium makes you look like ignorant and racist people”. “Football is for enjoying it and cheering, not for disrespecting people for who they are or what they believe in”. “That said, thanks to the people who came to cheer us on, see you at the World Cup”.

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BREAKING: VP Vance asks for Americans to pray for the victims of the deadly mosque shooting in San Diego and condemns political violence in the United States: "I don't know a single person who would say anything other than what I'm about to say, which is that that type of violence in the United States of America is reprehensible." "I encourage every single American to pray for everybody who was involved and affected by it. We don't want that to happen in our country, and may God rest the souls of the people who lost their lives."
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BREAKING: VP Vance asks for Americans to pray for the victims of the deadly mosque shooting in San Diego and condemns political violence in the United States: "I don't know a single person who would say anything other than what I'm about to say, which is that that type of violence in the United States of America is reprehensible." "I encourage every single American to pray for everybody who was involved and affected by it. We don't want that to happen in our country, and may God rest the souls of the people who lost their lives."

Fox News

76,863 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat

Soul of the Soul: A Sanctuary of Kindness in a World of Chaos The cats were more than just companions to him—they were a reflection of his soul, and to them, he was safety itself. In the world of cats, tails raised high are a universal signal of absolute trust and comfort, a silent acknowledgment that they were in the presence of someone who offered not just food, but unwavering love and security. These small creatures, wandering through the ruins, found in him their sanctuary. He was not just a man to them; he was their guardian, their source of calm in a chaotic world. Whenever he approached, it was as if their silent language spoke: “Here, we are safe.” He was the kind-hearted man who brought peace to every being, human or otherwise. His purity was a shield, his presence a refuge, and even the simplest souls found solace in his light. The cats, those silent witnesses, felt his warmth and gravitated toward him as if they knew his essence was one of boundless compassion. His Absence: A Void Filled with Memories Now, the “Soul of the Soul” is gone, leaving behind a silence heavy with sorrow. Yet, in that silence lives the memory of a hand that fed without fail and a voice that reassured those around him that light could still shine through the darkest times. Even the cats, who felt his love in its purest form, will sit waiting—yearning for the hand that nurtured them and the presence that made them feel whole. These cats were not merely animals; they were living, breathing testimonials to his limitless humanity. He taught us that kindness is not just a virtue—it is resistance, a quiet yet powerful defiance against the cruelty of the world. Though his physical presence has departed, his legacy endures in every heart he touched, in every creature he comforted, and in every corner of Gaza that bore witness to his compassion. #Soul_of_the_Soul #KindnessAsResistance #FreePalestine #GazaLivesOn
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Soul of the Soul: A Sanctuary of Kindness in a World of Chaos The cats were more than just companions to him—they were a reflection of his soul, and to them, he was safety itself. In the world of cats, tails raised high are a universal signal of absolute trust and comfort, a silent acknowledgment that they were in the presence of someone who offered not just food, but unwavering love and security. These small creatures, wandering through the ruins, found in him their sanctuary. He was not just a man to them; he was their guardian, their source of calm in a chaotic world. Whenever he approached, it was as if their silent language spoke: “Here, we are safe.” He was the kind-hearted man who brought peace to every being, human or otherwise. His purity was a shield, his presence a refuge, and even the simplest souls found solace in his light. The cats, those silent witnesses, felt his warmth and gravitated toward him as if they knew his essence was one of boundless compassion. His Absence: A Void Filled with Memories Now, the “Soul of the Soul” is gone, leaving behind a silence heavy with sorrow. Yet, in that silence lives the memory of a hand that fed without fail and a voice that reassured those around him that light could still shine through the darkest times. Even the cats, who felt his love in its purest form, will sit waiting—yearning for the hand that nurtured them and the presence that made them feel whole. These cats were not merely animals; they were living, breathing testimonials to his limitless humanity. He taught us that kindness is not just a virtue—it is resistance, a quiet yet powerful defiance against the cruelty of the world. Though his physical presence has departed, his legacy endures in every heart he touched, in every creature he comforted, and in every corner of Gaza that bore witness to his compassion. #Soul_of_the_Soul #KindnessAsResistance #FreePalestine #GazaLivesOn

Wayfarer

51,174 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

From the longbowmen who stood their ground against the French knights at Agincourt and the sailors of Nelson's fleet in the Trafalgar cape in 1805, all the way through to the soldiers who charged the beaches at Normandy and the brave men and women who withstood the Blitz and the relentless bombing of London, each and every one of these people did what they did for a common idea, the idea of being BRITISH. Our whole country is in the grip of an establishment which wishes to wash away everything it means to be British to tell you that you cannot be proud of who you are or where you come from, to tell you that you can't be proud of our little island which conquered and civilized the entire world. The island that wrote and signed the Magna Carta, the island whose language dominates the global culture and is spoken in every corner of the globe. This is our moment, this is our last chance to salvage what is left of the United Kingdom before it is too late. Before our way of life exists only in history books, taught somewhere in Russian or Chinese, culminating in the story of how we lost it all, how we threw it ALL away. It’s time to make Britain great again.
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From the longbowmen who stood their ground against the French knights at Agincourt and the sailors of Nelson's fleet in the Trafalgar cape in 1805, all the way through to the soldiers who charged the beaches at Normandy and the brave men and women who withstood the Blitz and the relentless bombing of London, each and every one of these people did what they did for a common idea, the idea of being BRITISH. Our whole country is in the grip of an establishment which wishes to wash away everything it means to be British to tell you that you cannot be proud of who you are or where you come from, to tell you that you can't be proud of our little island which conquered and civilized the entire world. The island that wrote and signed the Magna Carta, the island whose language dominates the global culture and is spoken in every corner of the globe. This is our moment, this is our last chance to salvage what is left of the United Kingdom before it is too late. Before our way of life exists only in history books, taught somewhere in Russian or Chinese, culminating in the story of how we lost it all, how we threw it ALL away. It’s time to make Britain great again.

Scott Lewis

31,489 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

Claude Monet painted the same stretch of cliff more than ninety times. The place is Étretat, a small fishing village on the coast of Normandy, where the chalk cliffs fall into the sea in great arches and a single spire of rock, the Aiguille, stands alone in the water. Monet had known the place since childhood. He grew up in Normandy, and these cliffs were among the first landscapes he ever saw... He returned to paint them again and again. He worked through the 1880s in front of the same rock formations, and across that time he produced more than ninety canvases of them: the cliffs at dawn, at sunset, under storm, under calm, in winter light and in the gold of a clear evening. In his letters to Alice, the woman he would later marry, he described the agony of it: the weather turning, the tide rising, the sun moving, the colour he had begun to capture vanishing before he could finish. He often worked on several canvases at once, switching between them as the conditions changed, racing each one against the hour. In a letter to his friend Frédéric Bazille he wrote: "It is beautiful here in Etretat. Every day I discover even more beautiful things. It is intoxicating me, and I want to paint it all, my head is bursting. I want to fight, scratch it off, start again, because I start to see and understand. It seems to me as if I can see nature and I can catch it all." The cliffs of Étretat had stood for millions of years and would look, to most people, the same on any given day. Monet saw that they were never the same even for two minutes. He stood on that shore and tried to hold, on canvas, something that exists only for an instant and then is gone forever. And that's exactly what those paintings really are: 90 attempts to keep a single, vanishing moment of light from disappearing. As Dylan Thomas once wrote: "Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." -- -- -- If you want a deeper dive into the craft of painting, I recently wrote a piece exploring it in detail. You can read it here: And if you'd like to support my work, a paid subscription is what makes it possible:
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Claude Monet painted the same stretch of cliff more than ninety times. The place is Étretat, a small fishing village on the coast of Normandy, where the chalk cliffs fall into the sea in great arches and a single spire of rock, the Aiguille, stands alone in the water. Monet had known the place since childhood. He grew up in Normandy, and these cliffs were among the first landscapes he ever saw... He returned to paint them again and again. He worked through the 1880s in front of the same rock formations, and across that time he produced more than ninety canvases of them: the cliffs at dawn, at sunset, under storm, under calm, in winter light and in the gold of a clear evening. In his letters to Alice, the woman he would later marry, he described the agony of it: the weather turning, the tide rising, the sun moving, the colour he had begun to capture vanishing before he could finish. He often worked on several canvases at once, switching between them as the conditions changed, racing each one against the hour. In a letter to his friend Frédéric Bazille he wrote: "It is beautiful here in Etretat. Every day I discover even more beautiful things. It is intoxicating me, and I want to paint it all, my head is bursting. I want to fight, scratch it off, start again, because I start to see and understand. It seems to me as if I can see nature and I can catch it all." The cliffs of Étretat had stood for millions of years and would look, to most people, the same on any given day. Monet saw that they were never the same even for two minutes. He stood on that shore and tried to hold, on canvas, something that exists only for an instant and then is gone forever. And that's exactly what those paintings really are: 90 attempts to keep a single, vanishing moment of light from disappearing. As Dylan Thomas once wrote: "Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." -- -- -- If you want a deeper dive into the craft of painting, I recently wrote a piece exploring it in detail. You can read it here: And if you'd like to support my work, a paid subscription is what makes it possible:

James Lucas

57,710 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat

“This Is the Line” What happens when evil is met with silence? The answer is right in front of us in the blood on American soil, in the corruption that walks free, in the truth that gets labeled hate. Charlie Kirk is dead. And whether the world admits it or not, he was killed for standing where cowards refuse to. That’s what happens when truth confronts evil: evil pulls the trigger. And what has America done? •Allowed one side to get away with violence over and over. •Watched as the justice system turned into a political weapon. •Punished those who speak truth and protected those who burn it down. But this isn’t just about Charlie. It’s about every warrior who’s been silenced, slandered, or targeted for refusing to bow. And here’s the truth the world doesn’t want to hear: If the Founders hadn’t met tyranny with force we’d still be British subjects. If we hadn’t fought back terror would rule every inch of this earth. If we do nothing now America will not survive. What America needs isn’t more politicians. It needs men and women who won’t fold. Who know that silence is surrender. Who are willing to defend what’s right in word, in action, and if necessary… in battle. This is the line. You’re either standing on it or you’ve already stepped over to the side of the cowards.
0:15

“This Is the Line” What happens when evil is met with silence? The answer is right in front of us in the blood on American soil, in the corruption that walks free, in the truth that gets labeled hate. Charlie Kirk is dead. And whether the world admits it or not, he was killed for standing where cowards refuse to. That’s what happens when truth confronts evil: evil pulls the trigger. And what has America done? •Allowed one side to get away with violence over and over. •Watched as the justice system turned into a political weapon. •Punished those who speak truth and protected those who burn it down. But this isn’t just about Charlie. It’s about every warrior who’s been silenced, slandered, or targeted for refusing to bow. And here’s the truth the world doesn’t want to hear: If the Founders hadn’t met tyranny with force we’d still be British subjects. If we hadn’t fought back terror would rule every inch of this earth. If we do nothing now America will not survive. What America needs isn’t more politicians. It needs men and women who won’t fold. Who know that silence is surrender. Who are willing to defend what’s right in word, in action, and if necessary… in battle. This is the line. You’re either standing on it or you’ve already stepped over to the side of the cowards.

John “TIG” Tiegen

18,085 Aufrufe • vor 10 Monaten

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.
0:10

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.

SiriusB

15,437 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

This moment was captured the day my Alex Rose was born. And today, our movie has been the number one movie in the whole world for a whole beautiful month. Thank you for taking me on the journey of a lifetime, my dearest Alex. To every heart that has watched our film- Thank you. Thank you for seeing her. And for feeling seen in her. "Life is beautiful, and messy, and complicated. And sometimes it doesn't look the way you think it's supposed to look and that is okay. . . Keep going." To all of us who are still figuring life out, here's to putting our rose colored glasses on. And keep on going 🌹 I love you with every bit of my heart. Always, Your Sofia
0:14

This moment was captured the day my Alex Rose was born. And today, our movie has been the number one movie in the whole world for a whole beautiful month. Thank you for taking me on the journey of a lifetime, my dearest Alex. To every heart that has watched our film- Thank you. Thank you for seeing her. And for feeling seen in her. "Life is beautiful, and messy, and complicated. And sometimes it doesn't look the way you think it's supposed to look and that is okay. . . Keep going." To all of us who are still figuring life out, here's to putting our rose colored glasses on. And keep on going 🌹 I love you with every bit of my heart. Always, Your Sofia

Sofia Carson

27,310 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

Georgia has fallen. I just went to a mall that I grew up going to. It was completely overrun by blacks and Mexicans. Why are the men of Georgia and the U.S. overall not standing up this this racial and cultural replacement? It makes me see red. The politicians don’t care, they have money to make for themselves so they can live in their gated communities away from all of the racial sludge. The only thing that can save this country is mass deportation of MOST minorities (citizen or not). I certainly will work behind the scenes to save this country and the west in general because it is absolutely INFURIATING to look around and see only people who don’t look like me and my family, just absorbing the glory of my ancestors.
0:11

Georgia has fallen. I just went to a mall that I grew up going to. It was completely overrun by blacks and Mexicans. Why are the men of Georgia and the U.S. overall not standing up this this racial and cultural replacement? It makes me see red. The politicians don’t care, they have money to make for themselves so they can live in their gated communities away from all of the racial sludge. The only thing that can save this country is mass deportation of MOST minorities (citizen or not). I certainly will work behind the scenes to save this country and the west in general because it is absolutely INFURIATING to look around and see only people who don’t look like me and my family, just absorbing the glory of my ancestors.

Prêstón Alfónső Párra Mejia Luca Matteo del Tóro

528,941 Aufrufe • vor 7 Monaten

A football club is more than commercial competition and sporting rivalry. It is, above all, a platform for things that truly matter - a place where values and principles should be the foundation of everything we do. Today, we chose to stand on the side of values, meritocracy, and the future. We made a decision to prioritise our fans - even at the cost of a sporting result. It was a bold move, and we believe it carries a significance that goes far beyond Poland. In a world where winning is increasingly treated as the only currency that matters, choosing people over points sends a message that the rest of football needs to hear. This decision has the potential not only to change football in Poland, but to prove that there are still places in this world where values come first - before everything else. It has not been an easy week. I am deeply grateful for every word of support you have shared with us. This was one of the hardest decisions of my life. We want to be a club of the future that honours its past. That is who we are - and who we will remain.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ Wisła Kraków 🔵⚪️🔴
0:18

A football club is more than commercial competition and sporting rivalry. It is, above all, a platform for things that truly matter - a place where values and principles should be the foundation of everything we do. Today, we chose to stand on the side of values, meritocracy, and the future. We made a decision to prioritise our fans - even at the cost of a sporting result. It was a bold move, and we believe it carries a significance that goes far beyond Poland. In a world where winning is increasingly treated as the only currency that matters, choosing people over points sends a message that the rest of football needs to hear. This decision has the potential not only to change football in Poland, but to prove that there are still places in this world where values come first - before everything else. It has not been an easy week. I am deeply grateful for every word of support you have shared with us. This was one of the hardest decisions of my life. We want to be a club of the future that honours its past. That is who we are - and who we will remain.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ Wisła Kraków 🔵⚪️🔴

Jarosław Królewski

30,073 Aufrufe • vor 4 Monaten

Good morning to everyone in Massachusetts who now sees that there is hope in our state. The Charlie Kirk Vigil at Boston Common last night brought together so many patriots, united in prayer, strength, and determination for change. Thank you to every single person who showed up. You reminded us that we are not alone. One of the most inspiring parts of the night was hearing from the young speakers who talked about the impact Charlie had on their lives and why they feel called to get involved. Their words were powerful and showed that the next generation is ready to carry this mission forward. But this is just the beginning. We need to take that same energy back to our towns, our schools, and our communities. Get involved, speak up, and be part of the movement for a better Massachusetts. This is exactly what Charlie would have wanted. Not just a moment of mourning, but a spark that ignites real action. Together, we can honor his legacy by standing up for our values and shaping the future of our state.
0:11

Good morning to everyone in Massachusetts who now sees that there is hope in our state. The Charlie Kirk Vigil at Boston Common last night brought together so many patriots, united in prayer, strength, and determination for change. Thank you to every single person who showed up. You reminded us that we are not alone. One of the most inspiring parts of the night was hearing from the young speakers who talked about the impact Charlie had on their lives and why they feel called to get involved. Their words were powerful and showed that the next generation is ready to carry this mission forward. But this is just the beginning. We need to take that same energy back to our towns, our schools, and our communities. Get involved, speak up, and be part of the movement for a better Massachusetts. This is exactly what Charlie would have wanted. Not just a moment of mourning, but a spark that ignites real action. Together, we can honor his legacy by standing up for our values and shaping the future of our state.

Chester Tam

31,347 Aufrufe • vor 9 Monaten

There is a room in Málaga that was built to be the closest thing on earth to standing inside heaven. It is called the camarín of the Virgin of Victory, and it is hidden at the top of a tower inside the Santuario de la Victoria. To reach it, you climb and the ascent is the entire point... The building you are climbing through was completed in 1700, and it was designed as a single argument made in stone. At the bottom lies a crypt: a black chamber crowded with white plaster skeletons, a meditation on death and the brevity of life. From there a staircase rises, and as you climb it the light grows stronger and the imagery changes from bones to saints. The architects of the time understood this ascent as the soul's own journey, the dark crypt as the stage of penitence, the staircase as the stage of spiritual progress, and the room at the very top as the final stage: the union of the soul with the divine. That room at the top is the camarín, and its dome is one of the most extraordinary interiors in Spain... Every surface is covered in white and gold plasterwork. There is no empty space anywhere. The Baroque called this horror vacui, the horror of the void: the conviction that a space meant to represent heaven should not contain a single bare patch of stone. Out of that plasterwork emerge angels, flowers, birds, and mirrors. The mirrors are not decoration alone. They catch the light pouring in through the windows of the drum and throw it around the chamber, so that the gold seems to move and the whole room appears to shimmer and breathe. This wonder was built by people who believed that if you wanted to show a human being what heaven might feel like, you did not describe it to them. You built a room, and you let them climb into it... -- -- -- If you enjoyed this, I write a weekly newsletter read by over 50,000 people who love rediscovering the beauty of the past. You can join us here: If you'd like to support my work, a paid subscription is what makes it possible.
0:13

There is a room in Málaga that was built to be the closest thing on earth to standing inside heaven. It is called the camarín of the Virgin of Victory, and it is hidden at the top of a tower inside the Santuario de la Victoria. To reach it, you climb and the ascent is the entire point... The building you are climbing through was completed in 1700, and it was designed as a single argument made in stone. At the bottom lies a crypt: a black chamber crowded with white plaster skeletons, a meditation on death and the brevity of life. From there a staircase rises, and as you climb it the light grows stronger and the imagery changes from bones to saints. The architects of the time understood this ascent as the soul's own journey, the dark crypt as the stage of penitence, the staircase as the stage of spiritual progress, and the room at the very top as the final stage: the union of the soul with the divine. That room at the top is the camarín, and its dome is one of the most extraordinary interiors in Spain... Every surface is covered in white and gold plasterwork. There is no empty space anywhere. The Baroque called this horror vacui, the horror of the void: the conviction that a space meant to represent heaven should not contain a single bare patch of stone. Out of that plasterwork emerge angels, flowers, birds, and mirrors. The mirrors are not decoration alone. They catch the light pouring in through the windows of the drum and throw it around the chamber, so that the gold seems to move and the whole room appears to shimmer and breathe. This wonder was built by people who believed that if you wanted to show a human being what heaven might feel like, you did not describe it to them. You built a room, and you let them climb into it... -- -- -- If you enjoyed this, I write a weekly newsletter read by over 50,000 people who love rediscovering the beauty of the past. You can join us here: If you'd like to support my work, a paid subscription is what makes it possible.

James Lucas

69,219 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat

I’ve seen a lot of people accuse Saudi Arabia of fabricating the moon sighting. Below is proof that it wasn’t. The first video is the exact moment the moon was sighted. The second video is the official testifying before a judge about the set up and what he saw exactly. He says "At 6:11pm (precisely) we saw an opening in the sky, and we all saw the moon and around the opening was all clouds" There is also a picture but it is against the Sunnah to share proof when a testimony is given by a Muslim so I refuse to share it in case we set a precedent to always share a picture and that would be a big error. A testimony of a Muslim is enough as we see from the Hadith of the Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم It was narrated that Ibn 'Abbaas رضي الله عنه said: A Bedouin came to the Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم and said, I have seen the new moon tonight. He said, "Do you bear witness that there is no god except Allah and that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah?" He said, Yes. He said, "Get up, O Bilaal, and announce to the people that they should fast tomorrow." [at Tirmidhi: 691 Abu Dawood: [2340], an Nasaa'i: [2112] Ibn Maajah: [1652]. Shaykh al Albaani رحمه الله said: So we see from the Hadith that he, صلى الله عليه وسلم، instructed Bilaal to announce to the people that they would fast the next day. So the Messenger صلى الله عليه وسلم was content with the testimony of this man, whom he did not know, on the basis that he bore witness that there is no God but Allah and that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah, i.e. he knew that he was a Muslim, but he did not check on him any further and he did not try to find out how intelligent and smart he was, as was the case in the first Hadith in which the witness was 'Abd Allah ibn 'Umar ibn al Khattab رضي الله عنه. Yet despite that he accepted his testimony. This Hadith makes things easier for people, and what this means is that the judge should be content with the witness as he appears to be, without needing to find people who know this man and can testify that he is of good character, as was the habit of judges since time immemorial. Rather it is sufficient to know that he is a Muslim. This man was a Bedouin of whom the Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم had no prior knowledge and he was content that he uttered the Shahaadatayn before him. So he was a Muslim with the same rights and duties as any other, and based on his testimony and the fact that he was a Muslim he said: O Bilaal, announced to the people that they should fast tomorrow. [At Ta laaq 'ala Kitaab Bulugh al Maraam, (audio tape), Hadith 5, Kitaab al Siyaam] This Hadith is evidence for the principle that a Muslim is to be regarded as being of good character unless proven otherwise. Al San'aani رحمه الله said concerning what we learn from the hadeeth of Ibn 'Abbaas رضي الله عنه: It indicates that the basic principle with regard to the Muslims is that they are of good character, because the Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم did not ask the Bedouin for anything except the Shahaadah. [Subul as Salaam by as San'aani: 2/153] And Allah knows best.
0:30

I’ve seen a lot of people accuse Saudi Arabia of fabricating the moon sighting. Below is proof that it wasn’t. The first video is the exact moment the moon was sighted. The second video is the official testifying before a judge about the set up and what he saw exactly. He says "At 6:11pm (precisely) we saw an opening in the sky, and we all saw the moon and around the opening was all clouds" There is also a picture but it is against the Sunnah to share proof when a testimony is given by a Muslim so I refuse to share it in case we set a precedent to always share a picture and that would be a big error. A testimony of a Muslim is enough as we see from the Hadith of the Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم It was narrated that Ibn 'Abbaas رضي الله عنه said: A Bedouin came to the Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم and said, I have seen the new moon tonight. He said, "Do you bear witness that there is no god except Allah and that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah?" He said, Yes. He said, "Get up, O Bilaal, and announce to the people that they should fast tomorrow." [at Tirmidhi: 691 Abu Dawood: [2340], an Nasaa'i: [2112] Ibn Maajah: [1652]. Shaykh al Albaani رحمه الله said: So we see from the Hadith that he, صلى الله عليه وسلم، instructed Bilaal to announce to the people that they would fast the next day. So the Messenger صلى الله عليه وسلم was content with the testimony of this man, whom he did not know, on the basis that he bore witness that there is no God but Allah and that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah, i.e. he knew that he was a Muslim, but he did not check on him any further and he did not try to find out how intelligent and smart he was, as was the case in the first Hadith in which the witness was 'Abd Allah ibn 'Umar ibn al Khattab رضي الله عنه. Yet despite that he accepted his testimony. This Hadith makes things easier for people, and what this means is that the judge should be content with the witness as he appears to be, without needing to find people who know this man and can testify that he is of good character, as was the habit of judges since time immemorial. Rather it is sufficient to know that he is a Muslim. This man was a Bedouin of whom the Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم had no prior knowledge and he was content that he uttered the Shahaadatayn before him. So he was a Muslim with the same rights and duties as any other, and based on his testimony and the fact that he was a Muslim he said: O Bilaal, announced to the people that they should fast tomorrow. [At Ta laaq 'ala Kitaab Bulugh al Maraam, (audio tape), Hadith 5, Kitaab al Siyaam] This Hadith is evidence for the principle that a Muslim is to be regarded as being of good character unless proven otherwise. Al San'aani رحمه الله said concerning what we learn from the hadeeth of Ibn 'Abbaas رضي الله عنه: It indicates that the basic principle with regard to the Muslims is that they are of good character, because the Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم did not ask the Bedouin for anything except the Shahaadah. [Subul as Salaam by as San'aani: 2/153] And Allah knows best.

ابن البخاري

245,087 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

Why do so many kids quit baseball at 13? Steve Springer has heard every excuse. But the real answer is usually simple. It is the pressure put on them by the people who love them most. Parents who turn the car ride home into a postgame review. Coaches who only talk to a kid if they got two hits the night before. Ten year olds playing with tension, anxiety, and pressure instead of calmness and focus and fun. Steve's response to the parents who ask what happened: you know what happened. You were a whack job. Hard to hear. But the cost is real. Kids who quit at 13 because of that pressure don't always come back to the game. And even if they do come back, it's usually not til they are 17, once their body changes and they want to try again. That is four years of instincts they never get back. Steve Springer has coached, scouted, and played professionally for decades and this week on the podcast he breaks down what kids need at every age to keep developing instead of burning out. Want the full episode? Comment PODCAST and I will send it over.
0:15

Why do so many kids quit baseball at 13? Steve Springer has heard every excuse. But the real answer is usually simple. It is the pressure put on them by the people who love them most. Parents who turn the car ride home into a postgame review. Coaches who only talk to a kid if they got two hits the night before. Ten year olds playing with tension, anxiety, and pressure instead of calmness and focus and fun. Steve's response to the parents who ask what happened: you know what happened. You were a whack job. Hard to hear. But the cost is real. Kids who quit at 13 because of that pressure don't always come back to the game. And even if they do come back, it's usually not til they are 17, once their body changes and they want to try again. That is four years of instincts they never get back. Steve Springer has coached, scouted, and played professionally for decades and this week on the podcast he breaks down what kids need at every age to keep developing instead of burning out. Want the full episode? Comment PODCAST and I will send it over.

Nick Lemke, RD | Sports Nutrition for Athletes

13,212 Aufrufe • vor 23 Tagen

When we started Igloo APAC, we had one goal. Capture every Pudgy Penguins moment in a way that does it justice. That’s why RIC was one of our first hires. What he built with Little Unusual Malaysia said everything. Every aftermovie he made was something we were genuinely proud of. And no video comes alive without the right people in it. SYMPHONY 紫匀🦄✨ and AloeVera brought so much heart to every frame. But I want to take a moment for the people who worked behind the scenes. Suenwins | YGG, now at YGG, one of the most dedicated people I have ever worked with. A true wonder woman. @magicross7, a genuine pillar of the Asian penguin community. The energy he brings is unmatched. Fallacy 西西 🐧, brand new to the team but gave more than anyone could have asked for. Shawn Benedict 🐧✳️, the most underrated one of all. The guy who showed up, did the hard work on the ground, and never once asked for the credit. The muscles behind every event. Most of them have moved on now. And honestly, that makes me proud. 🤍 These people didn’t just do their jobs. They cared. They showed up. They helped build something real from nothing. Paths change. Teams evolve. But the work we did together, and the people who made it happen, will always mean something to me. 🙏 They deserve every public shoutout. Not just one person alone. 👇🏻 full aftermovie at the comment
0:13

When we started Igloo APAC, we had one goal. Capture every Pudgy Penguins moment in a way that does it justice. That’s why RIC was one of our first hires. What he built with Little Unusual Malaysia said everything. Every aftermovie he made was something we were genuinely proud of. And no video comes alive without the right people in it. SYMPHONY 紫匀🦄✨ and AloeVera brought so much heart to every frame. But I want to take a moment for the people who worked behind the scenes. Suenwins | YGG, now at YGG, one of the most dedicated people I have ever worked with. A true wonder woman. @magicross7, a genuine pillar of the Asian penguin community. The energy he brings is unmatched. Fallacy 西西 🐧, brand new to the team but gave more than anyone could have asked for. Shawn Benedict 🐧✳️, the most underrated one of all. The guy who showed up, did the hard work on the ground, and never once asked for the credit. The muscles behind every event. Most of them have moved on now. And honestly, that makes me proud. 🤍 These people didn’t just do their jobs. They cared. They showed up. They helped build something real from nothing. Paths change. Teams evolve. But the work we did together, and the people who made it happen, will always mean something to me. 🙏 They deserve every public shoutout. Not just one person alone. 👇🏻 full aftermovie at the comment

Aaron Teng 安伦 🐧

18,308 Aufrufe • vor 3 Monaten

The Australian government does not deserve our trust, or our respect. Today, Minister Penny Wong sat back in her chair grappling for words, desperately looking for the right lie to tell. It is worse than dishonest - it is an absolute lack of care. Penny Wong came to this country when she was 8 years old. She came to a country that afforded her the ability to become who she is, and she is now doing her part to destroy it. Back in the 70’s, when she came, Australia was a fair-minded place and a great place to be. Yet here she is... Here in Australia. Undermining our country and lying to our faces. Because she can’t tell the truth. Because if she did, it would destroy any semblance of care for Australia tied to her old party’s Labor brand. It would say the quiet part out loud. The truth. The truth that the Albanese government is more interested in the fortunes of the ISIS brides, women who chose to leave this country to go and fight against our people, than those of us that can’t find or afford a place to live here at home. I am tired of being told how to think by people that completely lack morals and couldn’t care less. People that are elected and paid to operate in the national interest but always put their twisted ethics and back pockets ahead of our nation and our people. I don’t know when Labor stopped caring about Australian workers or worse, when they started hating Australia, but they have and they do. The absolute lack of opposition, the lack of authentic choice has pushed us into a place where these absolute traitors to the interests of the people who pay them - goes entirely unchecked. We are careening out of control, unchecked migration, an energy grid that is just about to collapse, no industry to speak of, and no good reason to start or maintain a business in this place. It happened fast, but those of us who pay our taxes and take risks to make Australia a better place, are being undermined and white-anted by our politicians. The people we are forced to trust, and must pretend to respect, because they have the force of law on their side. Not because they are any good at their jobs. Not because they have earned our affection. No. Simply because they are in charge and there is little to nothing that can be done about it. It is becoming apparent that the two party system has outlived its useful life. Too much corruption, too many words too carefully chosen in a pantomime between to political forces that don’t really want to change anything. They just want to have their go, to have their turn to jam their grubby hands into the till. Surely with this major and catastrophic failure by the so-called Honourable Minister Senator Wong, the people will be able to see through the veil and into the absolute and irresponsible lack of care at the heart of this deceitful Labor government. They lie about everything, and they can, because they don’t have an opposition worthy of the title. I am growing more confident by the day that the only solution to our woes is a new political force, a fresh, Australia first force, that will act in the national interest and put all these corrupt and useless used-car salesmen red and blue in the dustbin of history. It can’t come soon enough. Time is short. I just want Australia back.
0:19

The Australian government does not deserve our trust, or our respect. Today, Minister Penny Wong sat back in her chair grappling for words, desperately looking for the right lie to tell. It is worse than dishonest - it is an absolute lack of care. Penny Wong came to this country when she was 8 years old. She came to a country that afforded her the ability to become who she is, and she is now doing her part to destroy it. Back in the 70’s, when she came, Australia was a fair-minded place and a great place to be. Yet here she is... Here in Australia. Undermining our country and lying to our faces. Because she can’t tell the truth. Because if she did, it would destroy any semblance of care for Australia tied to her old party’s Labor brand. It would say the quiet part out loud. The truth. The truth that the Albanese government is more interested in the fortunes of the ISIS brides, women who chose to leave this country to go and fight against our people, than those of us that can’t find or afford a place to live here at home. I am tired of being told how to think by people that completely lack morals and couldn’t care less. People that are elected and paid to operate in the national interest but always put their twisted ethics and back pockets ahead of our nation and our people. I don’t know when Labor stopped caring about Australian workers or worse, when they started hating Australia, but they have and they do. The absolute lack of opposition, the lack of authentic choice has pushed us into a place where these absolute traitors to the interests of the people who pay them - goes entirely unchecked. We are careening out of control, unchecked migration, an energy grid that is just about to collapse, no industry to speak of, and no good reason to start or maintain a business in this place. It happened fast, but those of us who pay our taxes and take risks to make Australia a better place, are being undermined and white-anted by our politicians. The people we are forced to trust, and must pretend to respect, because they have the force of law on their side. Not because they are any good at their jobs. Not because they have earned our affection. No. Simply because they are in charge and there is little to nothing that can be done about it. It is becoming apparent that the two party system has outlived its useful life. Too much corruption, too many words too carefully chosen in a pantomime between to political forces that don’t really want to change anything. They just want to have their go, to have their turn to jam their grubby hands into the till. Surely with this major and catastrophic failure by the so-called Honourable Minister Senator Wong, the people will be able to see through the veil and into the absolute and irresponsible lack of care at the heart of this deceitful Labor government. They lie about everything, and they can, because they don’t have an opposition worthy of the title. I am growing more confident by the day that the only solution to our woes is a new political force, a fresh, Australia first force, that will act in the national interest and put all these corrupt and useless used-car salesmen red and blue in the dustbin of history. It can’t come soon enough. Time is short. I just want Australia back.

Matthew Camenzuli

81,532 Aufrufe • vor 9 Monaten