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[ NEW ]Therapist: Fluke 💕 ความละมุนที่อยากให้คุณๆ ได้สัมผัส กับความสุภาพของผู้ชายรอยสักเท่ๆคนนี้คนนนี้ A tattooed young man who carries an abundance of cuteness and politeness. ————————— 📍: Bang Po station ( Blue Line ) LINE OA: 📞: 064-640-6500

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365 The river

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25,416 views • 9 months ago •via X (Twitter)

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🚨🇺🇸 BREAKING: ANOTHER LIGHT RAIL STABBING- VICTIM IN CRITICAL CONDITION ON CHARLOTTE BLUE LINE, SECOND MAJOR ATTACK IN 4 MONTHS America's public transit systems are becoming crime scenes. A person was stabbed in the chest Friday afternoon on Charlotte's Blue Line light rail near the 25th Street station. The victim is in critical but stable condition. This is the second major stabbing on Charlotte's light rail this year. In August, Iryna Zarutska was killed on the same system in an attack that drew national attention. One rider, Hallie Pister, said her husband narrowly missed boarding that exact train. She had previously gone to city council after Zarutska's murder to demand security on every train: "We should not have to feel like we are one stroke of bad luck away from being the next victim" City council clearly didn't listen. This is now a national pattern. Chicago: woman set on fire by a man with 50 prior arrests. NYC: homeless man set ablaze by an arsonist who calmly walked away. Senior citizen punched onto train tracks. Now Charlotte, twice in four months. Public transit used to be a sign of a functioning civilization. Now it's where Americans go to get stabbed, burned, and pushed onto tracks while leaders debate whether more police is "appropriate." Source: Spectrum Local News / Matt Van Swol
0:14

🚨🇺🇸 BREAKING: ANOTHER LIGHT RAIL STABBING- VICTIM IN CRITICAL CONDITION ON CHARLOTTE BLUE LINE, SECOND MAJOR ATTACK IN 4 MONTHS America's public transit systems are becoming crime scenes. A person was stabbed in the chest Friday afternoon on Charlotte's Blue Line light rail near the 25th Street station. The victim is in critical but stable condition. This is the second major stabbing on Charlotte's light rail this year. In August, Iryna Zarutska was killed on the same system in an attack that drew national attention. One rider, Hallie Pister, said her husband narrowly missed boarding that exact train. She had previously gone to city council after Zarutska's murder to demand security on every train: "We should not have to feel like we are one stroke of bad luck away from being the next victim" City council clearly didn't listen. This is now a national pattern. Chicago: woman set on fire by a man with 50 prior arrests. NYC: homeless man set ablaze by an arsonist who calmly walked away. Senior citizen punched onto train tracks. Now Charlotte, twice in four months. Public transit used to be a sign of a functioning civilization. Now it's where Americans go to get stabbed, burned, and pushed onto tracks while leaders debate whether more police is "appropriate." Source: Spectrum Local News / Matt Van Swol

Mario Nawfal

25,444 views • 9 months ago

🚨🇺🇸 NYU STUDENT SHARES ASSAULT FOOTAGE AS SERIAL ATTACKER TARGETS WOMEN AROUND CAMPUS Another day in New York City. An NYU student has released surveillance footage of herself being violently assaulted on Broadway while walking to her 9:30 a.m. class. The video shows a man following her across the street, targeting her, and attacking her in broad daylight as bystanders watch in shock. The suspect: a tall male with long brunette hair and beard, wearing gray sweatpants, a black puffer jacket, and a blue towel around his neck. Police say he's responsible for multiple assaults on women around campus over the past month. The victim's message: "I am a student at NYU. I should not be scared to be walking the street to go to my 9:30 a.m. class. These people are disgusting and they should not be able to be walking around the street freely targeting girls... I heard that this guy did this a month ago. That is not okay. This just shows that you really need to reflect on who you're voting for and supporting right now because New York needs help and we're just not getting the help we need." She's right. A man assaults multiple women over the course of a month and remains on the streets. This is what decades of progressive criminal justice policy gets you. Blue cities keep voting for leaders who prioritize "compassion" for criminals over safety for citizens, and young women walking to class pay the price. Source: Amelia Lewis / Rebecca Mistereggen
2:27

🚨🇺🇸 NYU STUDENT SHARES ASSAULT FOOTAGE AS SERIAL ATTACKER TARGETS WOMEN AROUND CAMPUS Another day in New York City. An NYU student has released surveillance footage of herself being violently assaulted on Broadway while walking to her 9:30 a.m. class. The video shows a man following her across the street, targeting her, and attacking her in broad daylight as bystanders watch in shock. The suspect: a tall male with long brunette hair and beard, wearing gray sweatpants, a black puffer jacket, and a blue towel around his neck. Police say he's responsible for multiple assaults on women around campus over the past month. The victim's message: "I am a student at NYU. I should not be scared to be walking the street to go to my 9:30 a.m. class. These people are disgusting and they should not be able to be walking around the street freely targeting girls... I heard that this guy did this a month ago. That is not okay. This just shows that you really need to reflect on who you're voting for and supporting right now because New York needs help and we're just not getting the help we need." She's right. A man assaults multiple women over the course of a month and remains on the streets. This is what decades of progressive criminal justice policy gets you. Blue cities keep voting for leaders who prioritize "compassion" for criminals over safety for citizens, and young women walking to class pay the price. Source: Amelia Lewis / Rebecca Mistereggen

Mario Nawfal

1,761,965 views • 9 months ago

I watched the first episode of the new The 'BURBS remake- -This is the first line- "I can't believe we have a white picket fence. They're so charming and yet so micro-aggressive at the same time." Yes, white picket fences are now racist. -Ray Peterson is now Samira Fisher, a civil litigation attorney and first time mother who is questioning living in a white neighborhood -Her husband is a woke white British man who doesn't want his paternity leave to end, and works as a book editor -While listening to rap in her car, a white neighbor knocks on Samira's window and yells "CAN I HELP YOU?!!' -White neighbor judges her for listening to rap in front of her baby and it's framed as a bad thing -White neighbor knows her husband and says- ' I heard you were.....back' -White neighbor asks if her name is African -Invites her to wine night and encourages her to 'pump and dump' since she's breast feeding -Samira calls her brother and says her new neighborhood is 'Caucasian'- "Am I a bad mom for bringing my melonated son out here?" -Brother said its a good neighborhood to raise her son, but Samira wants more for HERSELF -Says her white neighbors are crazy -Husband's best friend is a sad man who is getting divorced because his wife is unhappy and wants to start over while she's young, but she's really just screwing her dentist -Husband and best friend know something about the creepy house, but are keeping it from Samira -Samira notices creepy things about the house across the street throughout the episode -White lady mispronounces Samira's name and it's framed as an insult -Another neighbor is gay white woman- "there's a lot of people who don't care for middle aged lesbians" and an odd white man who calls himself a "lone wolf" -After meeting her neighbors Samira describes the vibe as "it's giving GET OUT" -Indian best friend says the neighbors were racist, until they tried to act not racist, until they eventually really weren't racist -Tom Hanks makes a cameo as the founder of Hinkley Hills -The highly educated lawyer Samira begins her investigation into the creepy house with google searches for- "Hinkley Hills House Old" and "Hinkley Hills Alison Grant Murder Bad"😭 -White librarian calls Samira's son a "cute little mocha munchkin"🤣 and Samira is insulted -Creepy house goes up for sale, and sells quickly to a doctor -Samira welcomes the new neighbor with a plate of brownies- but the new owner calls the cops on her for trespassing "new owner said they saw a black person skulking around their property" -Cops are racist, but they know her husband so it becomes a misunderstanding - Samira gets mad her husband is nice to the cops -Neighbors come over to comfort Samira "we share your rage," and Samira smiles even though she called them crazy the whole episode -Samira, no longer on the fence about living in the suburbs, decides to stay to stick it to the racist new neighbor -Villain and new neighbor is a WHITE MAN
0:12

I watched the first episode of the new The 'BURBS remake- -This is the first line- "I can't believe we have a white picket fence. They're so charming and yet so micro-aggressive at the same time." Yes, white picket fences are now racist. -Ray Peterson is now Samira Fisher, a civil litigation attorney and first time mother who is questioning living in a white neighborhood -Her husband is a woke white British man who doesn't want his paternity leave to end, and works as a book editor -While listening to rap in her car, a white neighbor knocks on Samira's window and yells "CAN I HELP YOU?!!' -White neighbor judges her for listening to rap in front of her baby and it's framed as a bad thing -White neighbor knows her husband and says- ' I heard you were.....back' -White neighbor asks if her name is African -Invites her to wine night and encourages her to 'pump and dump' since she's breast feeding -Samira calls her brother and says her new neighborhood is 'Caucasian'- "Am I a bad mom for bringing my melonated son out here?" -Brother said its a good neighborhood to raise her son, but Samira wants more for HERSELF -Says her white neighbors are crazy -Husband's best friend is a sad man who is getting divorced because his wife is unhappy and wants to start over while she's young, but she's really just screwing her dentist -Husband and best friend know something about the creepy house, but are keeping it from Samira -Samira notices creepy things about the house across the street throughout the episode -White lady mispronounces Samira's name and it's framed as an insult -Another neighbor is gay white woman- "there's a lot of people who don't care for middle aged lesbians" and an odd white man who calls himself a "lone wolf" -After meeting her neighbors Samira describes the vibe as "it's giving GET OUT" -Indian best friend says the neighbors were racist, until they tried to act not racist, until they eventually really weren't racist -Tom Hanks makes a cameo as the founder of Hinkley Hills -The highly educated lawyer Samira begins her investigation into the creepy house with google searches for- "Hinkley Hills House Old" and "Hinkley Hills Alison Grant Murder Bad"😭 -White librarian calls Samira's son a "cute little mocha munchkin"🤣 and Samira is insulted -Creepy house goes up for sale, and sells quickly to a doctor -Samira welcomes the new neighbor with a plate of brownies- but the new owner calls the cops on her for trespassing "new owner said they saw a black person skulking around their property" -Cops are racist, but they know her husband so it becomes a misunderstanding - Samira gets mad her husband is nice to the cops -Neighbors come over to comfort Samira "we share your rage," and Samira smiles even though she called them crazy the whole episode -Samira, no longer on the fence about living in the suburbs, decides to stay to stick it to the racist new neighbor -Villain and new neighbor is a WHITE MAN

Steph Anie

71,739 views • 7 months ago

MiniMax H3で清涼飲料水のCM動画を生成。 映像スタイルはモーショングラフィックス。 もちろん、プロンプトはClaude Codeに全部書いてもらっています。 プロンプトを書いてもらう方法は引用元で紹介しています😃 今回使用したプロンプト↓ ----------------- integrated_multimodal_description: Create a complete 15-second Japanese flat-illustration motion-graphics commercial for a bottled mineral water in a clean 16:9 composition. The bottle is the hero of every shot: it appears within the first second, stays large and centred, and its pale blue label reading the exact Latin characters "AOI WATER" is sharp and readable in every frame it occupies. Use friendly 2D vector illustration, thick navy outlines, flat solid colour fills, and springy cutout animation with snappy overshoot easing. Compact palette of warm white, deep navy, bright aqua, deep blue and saturated yellow, where yellow carries the summer heat and aqua carries the cold refreshment. A fictional young Japanese actress supports the product, drawn as a flat vector icon with a round friendly face, simple dot eyes, a curved smile, a glossy black chin-length bob, a white short-sleeved shirt over a navy tank top; she keeps the same design in every shot. No photorealism, no 3D rendering, no gradients, no drop shadows, no browser interface, no screen-recording artifacts, no player controls. [Shot 1] Begin on a saturated yellow field. A large white sun pulses twice at the top of the frame and wavy heat-haze lines rise from the bottom edge. At 00:00.800 a tall white bottle of AOI WATER shoots up from the bottom edge into the centre of the frame, overshooting and settling at eighty percent of the frame height, and a single white flash frame fires on the impact. Three aqua ripple rings expand from the bottle and the small navy headline assembles word by word at the top: "この夏、あつい。" [Shot 2] At 00:02.400, a wave of bright aqua water sweeps across the frame from the left and washes the yellow away. The bottle stays centred and rotates a quarter turn to show its side. Its pale blue label assembles letter by letter into "AOI WATER" with a thin white underline drawing beneath, six round condensation drops pop onto the glass one after another, and two flat ice cubes tumble down past it. [Shot 3] At 00:05.000, a deep blue field wipes in from the right. The bottle tilts on the left and a clear aqua stream pours in a smooth arc into a tall glass on the right; three flat ice cubes drop into the glass one at a time and bounce, throwing a radial burst of white droplets on the third. Two white snowflake marks pop in beside the glass and the kinetic word "キンッ。" stamps in with a small shake. [Shot 4] At 00:07.600, the deep blue flips to aqua in a hard shape wipe. The actress stands centre frame holding the bottle high, tips it and drinks; a column of aqua fills her outlined body from top to bottom in three quick pulses, one per gulp, and white radial speed-lines snap outward on the third. The kinetic word "ごくっ" pops in beside her cheek and the bottle stays fully visible in her hand. [Shot 5] At 00:10.200, a saturated yellow field wipes in from the bottom. The actress jumps once with the bottle raised above her head, her bob and shirt lifting, while flat aqua and white circles, triangles and arcs burst outward from her in a ring and three ripple rings expand from her landing point. The headline assembles in two stages: "夏に、" then "負けない。" A thick yellow underline strikes beneath the second phrase. [Shot 6] At 00:12.600, cut to a calm warm-white end card with generous negative space. The bottle slides to the centre and scales up slightly, its "AOI WATER" label square to the viewer and perfectly readable, with a ring of six aqua droplets popping outward around it one by one. The logotype "AOI WATER" reveals in deep navy beside the bottle with a small aqua droplet mark, and the smaller line "アオイ・ウォーター" fades in beneath it. A calm, bright young Japanese woman (S1) says in an off-screen voiceover: [Japanese] 夏に、負けない。 The end card holds sharp, centred and readable until exactly 15.000 seconds. Throughout: flat vector motion graphics only, one palette and one line weight, the same bottle design and the same character design in every shot, and something on screen is always moving. All Japanese text in clean gothic type and the label and logotype in clean geometric capitals, correctly formed and static once placed, with no subtitles of the spoken line and no other lettering. overall_soundscape: A deep whoosh and a short impact thud land as the bottle shoots up into frame, followed by three soft ripple taps. An airy whoosh runs under each colour wipe and a liquid sweep carries the aqua water across the frame. Rounded pops mark the sun pulses and each condensation drop, two ice cubes clink as they tumble, and a bottle cap cracks open before a clear pouring stream and three ice cubes landing in a glass. Three deep gulps and a quick refreshed exhale carry the drink, a light whoosh and landing thud carry the jump, and a clean shimmering chime rings on the logotype. non_diegetic_music: Generate an original 15-second bright Japanese commercial cue at 128 BPM using marimba, ukulele upstrokes, hand claps, a warm round bass and a light drum kit, playing without a gap from the first frame to the last. Open with a single accent hit as the bottle lands at 00:00.800, add the full kit as the water sweeps in, thin to marimba and claps under the pour, push to the loudest point with a rising fill under the jump, drop under the spoken line, and resolve on one clean sustained chord at 15.000 seconds. No singing and no lyrics.
0:15

MiniMax H3で清涼飲料水のCM動画を生成。 映像スタイルはモーショングラフィックス。 もちろん、プロンプトはClaude Codeに全部書いてもらっています。 プロンプトを書いてもらう方法は引用元で紹介しています😃 今回使用したプロンプト↓ ----------------- integrated_multimodal_description: Create a complete 15-second Japanese flat-illustration motion-graphics commercial for a bottled mineral water in a clean 16:9 composition. The bottle is the hero of every shot: it appears within the first second, stays large and centred, and its pale blue label reading the exact Latin characters "AOI WATER" is sharp and readable in every frame it occupies. Use friendly 2D vector illustration, thick navy outlines, flat solid colour fills, and springy cutout animation with snappy overshoot easing. Compact palette of warm white, deep navy, bright aqua, deep blue and saturated yellow, where yellow carries the summer heat and aqua carries the cold refreshment. A fictional young Japanese actress supports the product, drawn as a flat vector icon with a round friendly face, simple dot eyes, a curved smile, a glossy black chin-length bob, a white short-sleeved shirt over a navy tank top; she keeps the same design in every shot. No photorealism, no 3D rendering, no gradients, no drop shadows, no browser interface, no screen-recording artifacts, no player controls. [Shot 1] Begin on a saturated yellow field. A large white sun pulses twice at the top of the frame and wavy heat-haze lines rise from the bottom edge. At 00:00.800 a tall white bottle of AOI WATER shoots up from the bottom edge into the centre of the frame, overshooting and settling at eighty percent of the frame height, and a single white flash frame fires on the impact. Three aqua ripple rings expand from the bottle and the small navy headline assembles word by word at the top: "この夏、あつい。" [Shot 2] At 00:02.400, a wave of bright aqua water sweeps across the frame from the left and washes the yellow away. The bottle stays centred and rotates a quarter turn to show its side. Its pale blue label assembles letter by letter into "AOI WATER" with a thin white underline drawing beneath, six round condensation drops pop onto the glass one after another, and two flat ice cubes tumble down past it. [Shot 3] At 00:05.000, a deep blue field wipes in from the right. The bottle tilts on the left and a clear aqua stream pours in a smooth arc into a tall glass on the right; three flat ice cubes drop into the glass one at a time and bounce, throwing a radial burst of white droplets on the third. Two white snowflake marks pop in beside the glass and the kinetic word "キンッ。" stamps in with a small shake. [Shot 4] At 00:07.600, the deep blue flips to aqua in a hard shape wipe. The actress stands centre frame holding the bottle high, tips it and drinks; a column of aqua fills her outlined body from top to bottom in three quick pulses, one per gulp, and white radial speed-lines snap outward on the third. The kinetic word "ごくっ" pops in beside her cheek and the bottle stays fully visible in her hand. [Shot 5] At 00:10.200, a saturated yellow field wipes in from the bottom. The actress jumps once with the bottle raised above her head, her bob and shirt lifting, while flat aqua and white circles, triangles and arcs burst outward from her in a ring and three ripple rings expand from her landing point. The headline assembles in two stages: "夏に、" then "負けない。" A thick yellow underline strikes beneath the second phrase. [Shot 6] At 00:12.600, cut to a calm warm-white end card with generous negative space. The bottle slides to the centre and scales up slightly, its "AOI WATER" label square to the viewer and perfectly readable, with a ring of six aqua droplets popping outward around it one by one. The logotype "AOI WATER" reveals in deep navy beside the bottle with a small aqua droplet mark, and the smaller line "アオイ・ウォーター" fades in beneath it. A calm, bright young Japanese woman (S1) says in an off-screen voiceover: [Japanese] 夏に、負けない。 The end card holds sharp, centred and readable until exactly 15.000 seconds. Throughout: flat vector motion graphics only, one palette and one line weight, the same bottle design and the same character design in every shot, and something on screen is always moving. All Japanese text in clean gothic type and the label and logotype in clean geometric capitals, correctly formed and static once placed, with no subtitles of the spoken line and no other lettering. overall_soundscape: A deep whoosh and a short impact thud land as the bottle shoots up into frame, followed by three soft ripple taps. An airy whoosh runs under each colour wipe and a liquid sweep carries the aqua water across the frame. Rounded pops mark the sun pulses and each condensation drop, two ice cubes clink as they tumble, and a bottle cap cracks open before a clear pouring stream and three ice cubes landing in a glass. Three deep gulps and a quick refreshed exhale carry the drink, a light whoosh and landing thud carry the jump, and a clean shimmering chime rings on the logotype. non_diegetic_music: Generate an original 15-second bright Japanese commercial cue at 128 BPM using marimba, ukulele upstrokes, hand claps, a warm round bass and a light drum kit, playing without a gap from the first frame to the last. Open with a single accent hit as the bottle lands at 00:00.800, add the full kit as the water sweeps in, thin to marimba and claps under the pour, push to the loudest point with a rising fill under the jump, drop under the spoken line, and resolve on one clean sustained chord at 15.000 seconds. No singing and no lyrics.

タナベ | AI動画 × マーケティング

62,960 views • 1 month ago

This evening, Israeli residents set fire twice to the perimeter of the UNRWA Headquarters in occupied East Jerusalem. This took place while UNRWA and other UN Agencies’ staff were on the compound. While there were no casualties among our staff, the fire caused extensive damage to the outdoor areas. The UNRWA headquarters has on its grounds a petrol and diesel station for the Agency’s fleet of cars. Our director with the help of other staff had to put out the fire themselves as it took the Israeli fire extinguishers and police a while before they turned up. A crowd accompanied by armed men were witnessed outside the compound chanting “Burn down the United Nations” (see video below 👇 from Israeli media). This is an outrageous development. Once again, the lives of UN staff were at a serious risk. In light of this second appalling incident in less than a week, I have taken the decision to close down our coumpound until proper security is restored. Over the past two months, Israeli extremists have been staging protests outside the UNRWA compound in Jerusalem, called by an elected member of the Jerusalem municipality. This week, the protest became violent when demonstrators threw stones at UN staff and at the buildings of the compound. Over the past months, UN staff have regularly been subjected to harassment and intimidation. Our compound has been seriously vandalized and damaged. On several occasions, Israeli extremists threatened our staff with guns. It is the responsibility of the State of Israel as an occupying power to ensure that United Nations personnel and facilities are protected at all times. UN staff, premises and operations should be protected at all times in line with international law. I call on all those who have influence to put an end to these attacks and hold all those responsible accountable. The perpetrators of these attacks must be investigated and those responsible must be held accountable. Anything less will set a new dangerous standard.
0:13

This evening, Israeli residents set fire twice to the perimeter of the UNRWA Headquarters in occupied East Jerusalem. This took place while UNRWA and other UN Agencies’ staff were on the compound. While there were no casualties among our staff, the fire caused extensive damage to the outdoor areas. The UNRWA headquarters has on its grounds a petrol and diesel station for the Agency’s fleet of cars. Our director with the help of other staff had to put out the fire themselves as it took the Israeli fire extinguishers and police a while before they turned up. A crowd accompanied by armed men were witnessed outside the compound chanting “Burn down the United Nations” (see video below 👇 from Israeli media). This is an outrageous development. Once again, the lives of UN staff were at a serious risk. In light of this second appalling incident in less than a week, I have taken the decision to close down our coumpound until proper security is restored. Over the past two months, Israeli extremists have been staging protests outside the UNRWA compound in Jerusalem, called by an elected member of the Jerusalem municipality. This week, the protest became violent when demonstrators threw stones at UN staff and at the buildings of the compound. Over the past months, UN staff have regularly been subjected to harassment and intimidation. Our compound has been seriously vandalized and damaged. On several occasions, Israeli extremists threatened our staff with guns. It is the responsibility of the State of Israel as an occupying power to ensure that United Nations personnel and facilities are protected at all times. UN staff, premises and operations should be protected at all times in line with international law. I call on all those who have influence to put an end to these attacks and hold all those responsible accountable. The perpetrators of these attacks must be investigated and those responsible must be held accountable. Anything less will set a new dangerous standard.

Philippe Lazzarini

2,502,360 views • 2 years ago

🚨Armed Robbery on F Train Leaves Victim Shaken BROOKLYN, NY - Early morning commuters on an F train were jolted by a brazen robbery that unfolded as the train approached the 18th Avenue station on Tuesday, January 14, 2025. At approximately 6:00 AM, a 44-year-old man became the target of a group of unidentified assailants armed with a baseball bat, a knife, and pieces of lumber. According to police reports, the victim was traveling southbound when he was suddenly confronted by the menacing group. Without warning, they displayed their weapons, instilling immediate fear. The assailants then proceeded to forcibly take the victim's cellphone. In a harrowing turn of events, they pushed him out of the moving subway car and onto the platform, leaving him to deal with the shock of the ordeal as they continued their escape on the same train. The NYPD is now turning to the public for help in identifying these individuals who remain at large. The police have released media depicting the suspects and are asking anyone with information to come forward. The incident, occurring within the confines of the 66 Precinct/Transit District 34, has left the typically busy subway line in a state of unease. Fortunately, no physical injuries were reported, but the psychological impact on the victim and fellow passengers is palpable. This incident serves as a stark reminder of the unpredictability and potential dangers lurking in public transit. The police are urging anyone with information to contact them, hoping to swiftly bring those responsible to justice and restore a sense of security to the city's subway users.
0:16

🚨Armed Robbery on F Train Leaves Victim Shaken BROOKLYN, NY - Early morning commuters on an F train were jolted by a brazen robbery that unfolded as the train approached the 18th Avenue station on Tuesday, January 14, 2025. At approximately 6:00 AM, a 44-year-old man became the target of a group of unidentified assailants armed with a baseball bat, a knife, and pieces of lumber. According to police reports, the victim was traveling southbound when he was suddenly confronted by the menacing group. Without warning, they displayed their weapons, instilling immediate fear. The assailants then proceeded to forcibly take the victim's cellphone. In a harrowing turn of events, they pushed him out of the moving subway car and onto the platform, leaving him to deal with the shock of the ordeal as they continued their escape on the same train. The NYPD is now turning to the public for help in identifying these individuals who remain at large. The police have released media depicting the suspects and are asking anyone with information to come forward. The incident, occurring within the confines of the 66 Precinct/Transit District 34, has left the typically busy subway line in a state of unease. Fortunately, no physical injuries were reported, but the psychological impact on the victim and fellow passengers is palpable. This incident serves as a stark reminder of the unpredictability and potential dangers lurking in public transit. The police are urging anyone with information to contact them, hoping to swiftly bring those responsible to justice and restore a sense of security to the city's subway users.

Viral News NYC

107,619 views • 1 year ago

This is a statue of the only man in Troy who saw the trap. He tried to warn everyone, and this is what the gods did to him because of it... His name was Laocoön, a Trojan priest. When the Greek army vanished and left a giant wooden horse outside the city gates, all of Troy celebrated. Only Laocoön refused to believe it. He warned his people the horse was a trick and, to prove it was hollow, hurled his spear into its side. In Virgil's telling, he spoke a line that has outlasted almost everything else about Troy: "I fear the Greeks, even when they bring gifts." He was right. The horse was packed with soldiers, and Troy was hours from destruction. This sculpture shows what he got for it. Two enormous sea serpents rise out of the sea and coil around him and his young sons, dragging all three down together. The father's whole body is knotted in the struggle, every muscle straining, his face locked in a scream. The gods wanted Troy to fall, and Laocoön was in the way. The Trojans watched him die in agony and drew exactly the wrong conclusion: they decided the gods were punishing him for attacking a holy gift. So they pulled the horse inside their own walls, and that night, Troy burned... The statue is called Laocoön and His Sons. It is the work of three Greek sculptors from the island of Rhodes, Agesander, Athenodoros, and Polydorus, and dates to the Hellenistic period, making it well over two thousand years old. Buried for more than a thousand years, it was dug out of a Roman vineyard in 1506, and Michelangelo rushed across Rome to see it the day it was found. It has been called the single greatest depiction of human suffering in the history of art, but it endures because of what it is really about: the man who sees the truth, says it out loud, and is destroyed for being right while the crowd watches... It is one of the oldest patterns there is, and it has never stopped repeating. There is nothing new under the sun.
0:17

This is a statue of the only man in Troy who saw the trap. He tried to warn everyone, and this is what the gods did to him because of it... His name was Laocoön, a Trojan priest. When the Greek army vanished and left a giant wooden horse outside the city gates, all of Troy celebrated. Only Laocoön refused to believe it. He warned his people the horse was a trick and, to prove it was hollow, hurled his spear into its side. In Virgil's telling, he spoke a line that has outlasted almost everything else about Troy: "I fear the Greeks, even when they bring gifts." He was right. The horse was packed with soldiers, and Troy was hours from destruction. This sculpture shows what he got for it. Two enormous sea serpents rise out of the sea and coil around him and his young sons, dragging all three down together. The father's whole body is knotted in the struggle, every muscle straining, his face locked in a scream. The gods wanted Troy to fall, and Laocoön was in the way. The Trojans watched him die in agony and drew exactly the wrong conclusion: they decided the gods were punishing him for attacking a holy gift. So they pulled the horse inside their own walls, and that night, Troy burned... The statue is called Laocoön and His Sons. It is the work of three Greek sculptors from the island of Rhodes, Agesander, Athenodoros, and Polydorus, and dates to the Hellenistic period, making it well over two thousand years old. Buried for more than a thousand years, it was dug out of a Roman vineyard in 1506, and Michelangelo rushed across Rome to see it the day it was found. It has been called the single greatest depiction of human suffering in the history of art, but it endures because of what it is really about: the man who sees the truth, says it out loud, and is destroyed for being right while the crowd watches... It is one of the oldest patterns there is, and it has never stopped repeating. There is nothing new under the sun.

James Lucas

499,777 views • 2 months ago

🇷🇺 THE ENEMY WILL CRUMBLE 🇷🇺 Putin did not offer a holiday. He offered a verdict. He has no doubt the enemy will crumble. Not a slogan for television. A line from the man who refuses to decorate the war with a calendar. That is the Kremlin’s position now. Confidence without a date. Certainty about the outcome. Silence about the hour. Because war is cruel. Because war is hard to predict. Because anyone who sells you a Tuesday for victory is selling you a fairy tale. 🇷🇺 NO DATE, NO ILLUSION 🇷🇺 He will not name the turning point by month. That is not weakness. That is refusal to lie about the nature of the fight. Combat is losses. Combat is tragedy. Combat is a sequence of problems that do not obey press conferences. A date is a gift to the enemy. A date becomes a test. Miss it and the information machine screams collapse. Hit it and they move the goalposts. So the line is colder and more serious: the direction is set. The clock is not. 🇷🇺 WAR DOES NOT RUN ON SCHEDULES 🇷🇺 Anyone who has watched this special operation knows the pattern. Offensives stall. Then they resume. A town holds. Then it does not. Weather, drones, ammunition, command, morale — all of it moves faster than speeches. That is why the refusal to timestamp the collapse is the honest part of the message. Russia is not promising fireworks for the elections. It is promising pressure until the other side breaks. Pressure is not a holiday. Pressure is daily. 🇷🇺 THE ENEMY IS ALREADY BENDING 🇷🇺 Look at what “crumble” means in practice. Forced roundups. Men pulled off the street. Desertion files in the hundreds of thousands. Units that must be rebuilt while they are still being spent. A political class in Kiev that talks about sky-closing and terror language because the map is no longer a comfort. An army that hunts its own population is not an army at the peak of its strength. It is an army trying to delay the moment when the front and the rear admit the same thing. That moment is what Putin says he does not doubt. 🇷🇺 CONFIDENCE WITHOUT A CALENDAR 🇷🇺 This is the discipline of the current line. Do not feed panic at home with rumors of a new draft. Do not feed the West a date they can circle in red. Hold the initiative. Keep the grouping filled by contract. Keep advancing where the line gives. Confidence without a calendar is not vagueness. It is a method. The method says: we know the destination. We will not perform the journey for your cameras. 🇷🇺 THE TURNING POINT IS A PROCESS 🇷🇺 A turning point in a war of this scale is not a single explosion on a single morning. It is the week the replacements stop arriving. It is the month the desertion numbers become policy. It is the season when Western warehouses cannot hide the shortage anymore. Putin is telling the country that process is underway — and that he will not cheapen it with a countdown. 🇷🇺⚔️🇷🇺 The enemy will crumble. The date belongs to the battlefield, not to the rumor mill. Flags up. The work continues.
0:15

🇷🇺 THE ENEMY WILL CRUMBLE 🇷🇺 Putin did not offer a holiday. He offered a verdict. He has no doubt the enemy will crumble. Not a slogan for television. A line from the man who refuses to decorate the war with a calendar. That is the Kremlin’s position now. Confidence without a date. Certainty about the outcome. Silence about the hour. Because war is cruel. Because war is hard to predict. Because anyone who sells you a Tuesday for victory is selling you a fairy tale. 🇷🇺 NO DATE, NO ILLUSION 🇷🇺 He will not name the turning point by month. That is not weakness. That is refusal to lie about the nature of the fight. Combat is losses. Combat is tragedy. Combat is a sequence of problems that do not obey press conferences. A date is a gift to the enemy. A date becomes a test. Miss it and the information machine screams collapse. Hit it and they move the goalposts. So the line is colder and more serious: the direction is set. The clock is not. 🇷🇺 WAR DOES NOT RUN ON SCHEDULES 🇷🇺 Anyone who has watched this special operation knows the pattern. Offensives stall. Then they resume. A town holds. Then it does not. Weather, drones, ammunition, command, morale — all of it moves faster than speeches. That is why the refusal to timestamp the collapse is the honest part of the message. Russia is not promising fireworks for the elections. It is promising pressure until the other side breaks. Pressure is not a holiday. Pressure is daily. 🇷🇺 THE ENEMY IS ALREADY BENDING 🇷🇺 Look at what “crumble” means in practice. Forced roundups. Men pulled off the street. Desertion files in the hundreds of thousands. Units that must be rebuilt while they are still being spent. A political class in Kiev that talks about sky-closing and terror language because the map is no longer a comfort. An army that hunts its own population is not an army at the peak of its strength. It is an army trying to delay the moment when the front and the rear admit the same thing. That moment is what Putin says he does not doubt. 🇷🇺 CONFIDENCE WITHOUT A CALENDAR 🇷🇺 This is the discipline of the current line. Do not feed panic at home with rumors of a new draft. Do not feed the West a date they can circle in red. Hold the initiative. Keep the grouping filled by contract. Keep advancing where the line gives. Confidence without a calendar is not vagueness. It is a method. The method says: we know the destination. We will not perform the journey for your cameras. 🇷🇺 THE TURNING POINT IS A PROCESS 🇷🇺 A turning point in a war of this scale is not a single explosion on a single morning. It is the week the replacements stop arriving. It is the month the desertion numbers become policy. It is the season when Western warehouses cannot hide the shortage anymore. Putin is telling the country that process is underway — and that he will not cheapen it with a countdown. 🇷🇺⚔️🇷🇺 The enemy will crumble. The date belongs to the battlefield, not to the rumor mill. Flags up. The work continues.

𝐃𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐝 𝐙 🇷🇺 🇷🇸🇮🇪

14,244 views • 14 days ago

"I'm a K9 officer in central Ohio. Five years ago I drove down to the training facility to pick out my dog from a litter of twelve German Shepherd puppies. By the time I got there, eleven had already been claimed by other officers. The one left was the smallest. Nobody had wanted him. I took him home anyway. Last spring, that dog dragged me 47 feet across the asphalt of a gas station parking lot with three rounds in my vest, and bit a man who was walking up with a handgun to finish what he had started. I'm alive because of the runt of the litter. I'm Officer Brennan Vasiliev. I'm 38 years old. I'm with the Franklin County Sheriff's Office in central Ohio. I've been a deputy for 13 years. I've been in the K9 unit for the last six. I want to tell you about how I ended up with Hero. In April of 2020, our department was rotating two new K9 officers into our existing unit. I had finally moved up the waiting list after four years of trying. I had been a patrol deputy with a clean record, an above-average pistol score, and the kind of dog-handling background — I had grown up on a working farm in southeast Ohio with two working dogs my whole childhood — that made me a reasonable candidate. I was the junior of the two new K9 handlers. The other handler, a senior deputy named Sergeant Marcus Holloway who had been with the unit before and was returning after taking time off to recover from a back injury, had first pick. The selection day was on a Tuesday in late April of 2020. We drove down to a working-line German Shepherd breeder in southern Ohio called Riverstone Kennels, run by a woman named Petra Linde who has been training and supplying police K9s for 26 years. The litter she had for us was twelve puppies. Eight weeks old. Working-line stock, bred from imported European parents. All twelve had been pre-tested for trainability, drive, nerve, and structure by Petra and our department's training officer over the previous two weeks. Eleven puppies had been picked already by handlers from other departments who had come through over the previous week. When Sergeant Holloway and I arrived, one puppy remained. He was in a small grass-fenced play area by himself. The other puppies of his litter had all been collected and prepared for transport to their new departments. He was alone in the play yard. He was the smallest of the litter. Petra told us he had weighed in at the bottom of the litter every week of his life. He had been the last one to nurse. He had been the last one to walk. He had passed his trainability tests — Petra would not have offered him to a police department if he hadn't — but he had passed them at the bottom of the curve. He was eight weeks old. He weighed about eleven pounds. He had oversized paws and ears that were just starting to stand up. He had the standard black-and-tan coloring of a working-line Shepherd, with one small white spot on the tip of his chest. Sergeant Holloway looked at the file Petra handed him. He looked at the puppy in the play yard. He looked at me. He said, "Vasiliev. You came up the waiting list. You take him. I'll wait for the next litter." I said, "Sarge. You have first pick. He's yours if you want him." Sergeant Holloway said, "Vasiliev. I have two herniated discs and I'm 49 years old. I need a dog with a build that's already developed. I'll wait two more months for Petra's June litter. You take this one. Take care of him." I walked into the play yard. The puppy was sitting in the grass with his back to me, watching a butterfly. I knelt down about six feet from him. He turned around. He stood up on his oversized paws. He walked right up to me and he sat down on top of my left boot. I want to tell you what happened next, what I named him on the drive home, and what he did five years later when three rounds came through my vest in a gas station parking lot in central Ohio."
0:10

"I'm a K9 officer in central Ohio. Five years ago I drove down to the training facility to pick out my dog from a litter of twelve German Shepherd puppies. By the time I got there, eleven had already been claimed by other officers. The one left was the smallest. Nobody had wanted him. I took him home anyway. Last spring, that dog dragged me 47 feet across the asphalt of a gas station parking lot with three rounds in my vest, and bit a man who was walking up with a handgun to finish what he had started. I'm alive because of the runt of the litter. I'm Officer Brennan Vasiliev. I'm 38 years old. I'm with the Franklin County Sheriff's Office in central Ohio. I've been a deputy for 13 years. I've been in the K9 unit for the last six. I want to tell you about how I ended up with Hero. In April of 2020, our department was rotating two new K9 officers into our existing unit. I had finally moved up the waiting list after four years of trying. I had been a patrol deputy with a clean record, an above-average pistol score, and the kind of dog-handling background — I had grown up on a working farm in southeast Ohio with two working dogs my whole childhood — that made me a reasonable candidate. I was the junior of the two new K9 handlers. The other handler, a senior deputy named Sergeant Marcus Holloway who had been with the unit before and was returning after taking time off to recover from a back injury, had first pick. The selection day was on a Tuesday in late April of 2020. We drove down to a working-line German Shepherd breeder in southern Ohio called Riverstone Kennels, run by a woman named Petra Linde who has been training and supplying police K9s for 26 years. The litter she had for us was twelve puppies. Eight weeks old. Working-line stock, bred from imported European parents. All twelve had been pre-tested for trainability, drive, nerve, and structure by Petra and our department's training officer over the previous two weeks. Eleven puppies had been picked already by handlers from other departments who had come through over the previous week. When Sergeant Holloway and I arrived, one puppy remained. He was in a small grass-fenced play area by himself. The other puppies of his litter had all been collected and prepared for transport to their new departments. He was alone in the play yard. He was the smallest of the litter. Petra told us he had weighed in at the bottom of the litter every week of his life. He had been the last one to nurse. He had been the last one to walk. He had passed his trainability tests — Petra would not have offered him to a police department if he hadn't — but he had passed them at the bottom of the curve. He was eight weeks old. He weighed about eleven pounds. He had oversized paws and ears that were just starting to stand up. He had the standard black-and-tan coloring of a working-line Shepherd, with one small white spot on the tip of his chest. Sergeant Holloway looked at the file Petra handed him. He looked at the puppy in the play yard. He looked at me. He said, "Vasiliev. You came up the waiting list. You take him. I'll wait for the next litter." I said, "Sarge. You have first pick. He's yours if you want him." Sergeant Holloway said, "Vasiliev. I have two herniated discs and I'm 49 years old. I need a dog with a build that's already developed. I'll wait two more months for Petra's June litter. You take this one. Take care of him." I walked into the play yard. The puppy was sitting in the grass with his back to me, watching a butterfly. I knelt down about six feet from him. He turned around. He stood up on his oversized paws. He walked right up to me and he sat down on top of my left boot. I want to tell you what happened next, what I named him on the drive home, and what he did five years later when three rounds came through my vest in a gas station parking lot in central Ohio."

Crazy Moments

79,185 views • 2 months ago

People told him not to go in. Everyone knew the water was too strong. When the man came back out holding the dog, the entire riverbank fell silent. Rain hammered down without pause. Floodwater tore past the rescue line, fast and merciless. Emergency lights washed the scene in red and blue, reflecting off faces trozen with tear. The man stood just behind the tape. Early forties. Army veteran. His uniform was soaked and heavy. One leg was injured badly enough that he leaned on a crutch to stay upright. His hands were locked tight around the handle, knuckles pale from the strain. Then the dog lost its footing. The current grabbed it in an instant. A brief flash of wet fur broke the surface, then vanished beneath the water. The man didn't wait. He let the crutch fall. It disappeared immediately, pulled away like it weighed nothing. Someone yelled his name. Another hand reached out for him, but the distance was already gone. He stepped into the flood, limping, fighting for balance as the water climbed higher. The rescue team could only watch as a man with one damaged leg pushed into a river that had already taken too much. When he came back up, he wasn't alone. The dog was in his arms, trembling and weak, eyes wide but alive. It pressed its body against his chest as if it understood exactly what had just happened. He staggered onto the shore and collapsed. Mud clung to everything. Rain kept falling. His breathing came in heavy gasps. No one spoke. That was more than a rescue. This was a man making a different choice than he once had. A man who refused to stand on the bank and watch another life disappear. What came next at the clinic, and long after the water receded, is what gives this moment its meaning.
0:11

People told him not to go in. Everyone knew the water was too strong. When the man came back out holding the dog, the entire riverbank fell silent. Rain hammered down without pause. Floodwater tore past the rescue line, fast and merciless. Emergency lights washed the scene in red and blue, reflecting off faces trozen with tear. The man stood just behind the tape. Early forties. Army veteran. His uniform was soaked and heavy. One leg was injured badly enough that he leaned on a crutch to stay upright. His hands were locked tight around the handle, knuckles pale from the strain. Then the dog lost its footing. The current grabbed it in an instant. A brief flash of wet fur broke the surface, then vanished beneath the water. The man didn't wait. He let the crutch fall. It disappeared immediately, pulled away like it weighed nothing. Someone yelled his name. Another hand reached out for him, but the distance was already gone. He stepped into the flood, limping, fighting for balance as the water climbed higher. The rescue team could only watch as a man with one damaged leg pushed into a river that had already taken too much. When he came back up, he wasn't alone. The dog was in his arms, trembling and weak, eyes wide but alive. It pressed its body against his chest as if it understood exactly what had just happened. He staggered onto the shore and collapsed. Mud clung to everything. Rain kept falling. His breathing came in heavy gasps. No one spoke. That was more than a rescue. This was a man making a different choice than he once had. A man who refused to stand on the bank and watch another life disappear. What came next at the clinic, and long after the water receded, is what gives this moment its meaning.

Gabriele Corno

35,312 views • 2 months ago

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 views • 5 months ago

A family in Australia has remained defiant in selling their nearly 5-acre property in the last few years as developers have been forced to build around them. Most recently, they declined a whopping $50 million offer for their home. Slap bang in the middle of a new-build development in The Ponds area near the city of Quakers Hill, the Zammits have indicated they cannot put a price on their beloved home. It’s a stark contrast to the adjacent rows of newly constructed houses that surround their longtime property. Their neighbors have praised their resilience as they enjoy the cul-de-sacs that this in-the-middle property creates by staying put, rather than having a typical through street. “The fact that most people sold out years and years ago, these guys have held on. All credit to them,” Taylor Bredin, an agent with Ray White Quakers Hill, told the outlet. Bredin estimated that the land could accommodate up to 50 houses, with each subdivided 3,200-square-foot block potentially fetching a million dollars each. Diane Zammit, 51, previously spoke to the outlet and reminisced about the area’s past, describing it as “farmland dotted with little red brick homes and cottages.”“Every home was unique and there was so much space — but not any more. It’s just not the same,” she said. Most of the neighboring blocks of land sold back in 2012 — which would have valued the Zammits’ property at around $4.75 million 10 years ago. Their Windsor Castle-style home features a 650-foot driveway in the middle of their expansive lawn. About 40 minutes from Sydney’s central core, the property offers panoramic views of the Blue Mountains. The neighboring high-density homes are built right up to the property’s fence line.
0:11

A family in Australia has remained defiant in selling their nearly 5-acre property in the last few years as developers have been forced to build around them. Most recently, they declined a whopping $50 million offer for their home. Slap bang in the middle of a new-build development in The Ponds area near the city of Quakers Hill, the Zammits have indicated they cannot put a price on their beloved home. It’s a stark contrast to the adjacent rows of newly constructed houses that surround their longtime property. Their neighbors have praised their resilience as they enjoy the cul-de-sacs that this in-the-middle property creates by staying put, rather than having a typical through street. “The fact that most people sold out years and years ago, these guys have held on. All credit to them,” Taylor Bredin, an agent with Ray White Quakers Hill, told the outlet. Bredin estimated that the land could accommodate up to 50 houses, with each subdivided 3,200-square-foot block potentially fetching a million dollars each. Diane Zammit, 51, previously spoke to the outlet and reminisced about the area’s past, describing it as “farmland dotted with little red brick homes and cottages.”“Every home was unique and there was so much space — but not any more. It’s just not the same,” she said. Most of the neighboring blocks of land sold back in 2012 — which would have valued the Zammits’ property at around $4.75 million 10 years ago. Their Windsor Castle-style home features a 650-foot driveway in the middle of their expansive lawn. About 40 minutes from Sydney’s central core, the property offers panoramic views of the Blue Mountains. The neighboring high-density homes are built right up to the property’s fence line.

Historic Vids

27,645,995 views • 3 years ago

Never Knew This 🇺🇸🙏🇺🇸 The teenager working as a theater usher wasn't supposed to amount to much. He'd already dropped out of high school. He was sweeping up popcorn and tearing tickets when the news broke over the radio on December 7, 1941. Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor. Within weeks, he walked into a Marine Corps recruitment office and enlisted. Boot camp at New River, North Carolina broke him down and rebuilt him from scratch. He came out the other side leaner, harder, and assigned to the 2nd Marine Division — one of the most battle-tested units in the entire Pacific Theater. By mid-1942, his unit was training in Samoa. Everyone knew what was coming. On August 7, 1942, American forces launched their first major offensive against Japan — storming the beaches of a remote jungle island in the Solomon Islands called Guadalcanal. Military planners expected a quick victory. Instead, they walked into six months of savage, suffocating combat. Japanese forces counterattacked. A severe, life-threatening complication of malaria, blackwater fever causes red blood cells to rupture inside the body. Victims develop violent chills, raging fever, jaundice, and eventually kidney failure. The urine turns dark — almost black — as the body begins destroying itself from within. In the 1940s, without modern treatment, surviving it was considered extraordinary. Donald should not have made it. He was evacuated to a Navy hospital in Wellington, New Zealand, where he spent over a year fighting to live. There were days he couldn't stand. Days he couldn't eat. Days when the line between alive and gone felt impossibly thin. Against every expectation, he recovered. He returned to duty, was promoted to Corporal, and spent the remainder of the war as a Marine Drill Instructor — shaping the next generation of Marines with the same precision that had once been drilled into him. He was an expert marksman. He was honorably discharged in 1945. He'd married a nightclub singer named Adelaide Adams. They had daughters to feed and bills to pay and a future that wasn't at all guaranteed. He started doing stand-up. Then, to get called earlier at alphabetical auditions, he adopted his wife's last name professionally. Donald Yarmy became Don Adams. In 1954, he won on Arthur Godfrey's Talent Scouts, cracking open the door to television. Through the late 1950s and early 1960s, he appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, The Steve Allen Show, and developed a lovably incompetent detective character that kept making audiences roar. Then in 1965, producers Mel Brooks and Buck Henry came calling. They were creating a spy spoof for NBC — a comedic takedown of Cold War paranoia and James Bond glamour. They needed someone to play Maxwell Smart, Agent 86, a bumbling secret agent who somehow always saved the day despite himself. Don Adams was born for the role. Get Smart premiered September 18, 1965, and became a cultural phenomenon almost overnight. Three Emmy Awards followed - 1967, 1968, 1969 — for Outstanding Performance. Later, a whole new generation of children would fall in love with his voice as the accident-prone Inspector Gadget, the bumbling cartoon detective who somehow always triumphed. They laughed without knowing anything about Guadalcanal. They just knew the voice made them happy. He never made his military service the centerpiece of his identity. Don Adams passed away on September 25, 2005, at age 82, from a lung infection. He was buried at Hollywood Forever Cemetery in Los Angeles, surrounded by the legends of an industry he'd helped define. It's in every person who still smiles when they hear "Would you believe..?" It's in every child who grew up watching Inspector Gadget and had no idea they were laughing at a warrior. It's in the quiet dignity of a man who faced death in a jungle at 18, came home with nothing, and built something beautiful anyway. Private Donald Yarmy survived when he shouldn't have. Don Adams made sure it meant something beautiful.
0:18

Never Knew This 🇺🇸🙏🇺🇸 The teenager working as a theater usher wasn't supposed to amount to much. He'd already dropped out of high school. He was sweeping up popcorn and tearing tickets when the news broke over the radio on December 7, 1941. Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor. Within weeks, he walked into a Marine Corps recruitment office and enlisted. Boot camp at New River, North Carolina broke him down and rebuilt him from scratch. He came out the other side leaner, harder, and assigned to the 2nd Marine Division — one of the most battle-tested units in the entire Pacific Theater. By mid-1942, his unit was training in Samoa. Everyone knew what was coming. On August 7, 1942, American forces launched their first major offensive against Japan — storming the beaches of a remote jungle island in the Solomon Islands called Guadalcanal. Military planners expected a quick victory. Instead, they walked into six months of savage, suffocating combat. Japanese forces counterattacked. A severe, life-threatening complication of malaria, blackwater fever causes red blood cells to rupture inside the body. Victims develop violent chills, raging fever, jaundice, and eventually kidney failure. The urine turns dark — almost black — as the body begins destroying itself from within. In the 1940s, without modern treatment, surviving it was considered extraordinary. Donald should not have made it. He was evacuated to a Navy hospital in Wellington, New Zealand, where he spent over a year fighting to live. There were days he couldn't stand. Days he couldn't eat. Days when the line between alive and gone felt impossibly thin. Against every expectation, he recovered. He returned to duty, was promoted to Corporal, and spent the remainder of the war as a Marine Drill Instructor — shaping the next generation of Marines with the same precision that had once been drilled into him. He was an expert marksman. He was honorably discharged in 1945. He'd married a nightclub singer named Adelaide Adams. They had daughters to feed and bills to pay and a future that wasn't at all guaranteed. He started doing stand-up. Then, to get called earlier at alphabetical auditions, he adopted his wife's last name professionally. Donald Yarmy became Don Adams. In 1954, he won on Arthur Godfrey's Talent Scouts, cracking open the door to television. Through the late 1950s and early 1960s, he appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, The Steve Allen Show, and developed a lovably incompetent detective character that kept making audiences roar. Then in 1965, producers Mel Brooks and Buck Henry came calling. They were creating a spy spoof for NBC — a comedic takedown of Cold War paranoia and James Bond glamour. They needed someone to play Maxwell Smart, Agent 86, a bumbling secret agent who somehow always saved the day despite himself. Don Adams was born for the role. Get Smart premiered September 18, 1965, and became a cultural phenomenon almost overnight. Three Emmy Awards followed - 1967, 1968, 1969 — for Outstanding Performance. Later, a whole new generation of children would fall in love with his voice as the accident-prone Inspector Gadget, the bumbling cartoon detective who somehow always triumphed. They laughed without knowing anything about Guadalcanal. They just knew the voice made them happy. He never made his military service the centerpiece of his identity. Don Adams passed away on September 25, 2005, at age 82, from a lung infection. He was buried at Hollywood Forever Cemetery in Los Angeles, surrounded by the legends of an industry he'd helped define. It's in every person who still smiles when they hear "Would you believe..?" It's in every child who grew up watching Inspector Gadget and had no idea they were laughing at a warrior. It's in the quiet dignity of a man who faced death in a jungle at 18, came home with nothing, and built something beautiful anyway. Private Donald Yarmy survived when he shouldn't have. Don Adams made sure it meant something beautiful.

G-PA

70,214 views • 6 months ago

After more than a decade in the public spotlight, and three assassination attempts on her husband in two years, Melania Trump has had enough. In a blistering post Monday on the social media platform X, the first lady nailed ABC “comedian” Jimmy Kimmel for his classless attacks on President Donald Trump and his family. And she demanded ABC do something about it. Melania referred to it only as a “monologue,” but her post was pretty clearly a response to a joke Kimmel made Thursday on “Jimmy Kimmel Live!”, in which he referred to the first lady as an “expectant widow” — two days before a murderous gunman attacked the White House Correspondents’ Dinner in Washington while both Trumps were inside. And there was truth in every line of her post: “Kimmel’s hateful and violent rhetoric is intended to divide our country. His monologue about my family isn’t comedy — his words are corrosive and [deepen] the political sickness within America,” she wrote. “People like Kimmel shouldn’t have the opportunity to enter our homes each evening to spread hate. “A coward, Kimmel hides behind ABC because he knows the network will keep running cover to protect him. “Enough is enough. It is time for ABC to take a stand. How many times will ABC’s leadership enable Kimmel’s atrocious behavior at the expense of our community?” Kimmel’s material is more about feeding the liberal superiority complex than it is about being funny. The fact that he still has a show at all is more a testament to the nauseatingly liberal bias of American media than any quality of the entertainment he provides. And if anything, “coward” is too kind a term for a man who casts potshots at the president while protected by his own celebrity, the kind of man who would lie to his benighted audience about matters like the assassination of conservative activist Charlie Kirk, and then lie — tearfully — about his own lying. As to Melania’s demand that ABC do something about Kimmel? Smart money wouldn’t be betting on that happening anytime soon. As a symbol of the “resistance” to all things Trump, Kimmel enjoys a spiteful popularity that’s independent of any actual humor he’s still capable of. Long the No. 2 man in ratings for late-night shows, Kimmel is seen in the industry as poised to move into the No. 1 spot once the equally distasteful (and equally Trump-hating) Stephen Colbert leaves CBS at the end of May. ABC has already proven it has no problem allowing Kimmel to pollute American airwaves and politics in pursuit of profit — and Kimmel still makes a profit for the network, according to Fox Business senior correspondent and New York Post columnist Charles Gasparino. But for millions of Americans, sickened by the likes of Kimmel and Co., and their unrelenting attacks on a president supported by more than 77 million voters, the first lady’s post on Monday was a welcome turn. The American left will undoubtely ignore the post — or celebrate it in some sickening fashion. But the sane parts of the country will understand the point. Melania Trump has had enough. Conservative Americans have, too.
0:13

After more than a decade in the public spotlight, and three assassination attempts on her husband in two years, Melania Trump has had enough. In a blistering post Monday on the social media platform X, the first lady nailed ABC “comedian” Jimmy Kimmel for his classless attacks on President Donald Trump and his family. And she demanded ABC do something about it. Melania referred to it only as a “monologue,” but her post was pretty clearly a response to a joke Kimmel made Thursday on “Jimmy Kimmel Live!”, in which he referred to the first lady as an “expectant widow” — two days before a murderous gunman attacked the White House Correspondents’ Dinner in Washington while both Trumps were inside. And there was truth in every line of her post: “Kimmel’s hateful and violent rhetoric is intended to divide our country. His monologue about my family isn’t comedy — his words are corrosive and [deepen] the political sickness within America,” she wrote. “People like Kimmel shouldn’t have the opportunity to enter our homes each evening to spread hate. “A coward, Kimmel hides behind ABC because he knows the network will keep running cover to protect him. “Enough is enough. It is time for ABC to take a stand. How many times will ABC’s leadership enable Kimmel’s atrocious behavior at the expense of our community?” Kimmel’s material is more about feeding the liberal superiority complex than it is about being funny. The fact that he still has a show at all is more a testament to the nauseatingly liberal bias of American media than any quality of the entertainment he provides. And if anything, “coward” is too kind a term for a man who casts potshots at the president while protected by his own celebrity, the kind of man who would lie to his benighted audience about matters like the assassination of conservative activist Charlie Kirk, and then lie — tearfully — about his own lying. As to Melania’s demand that ABC do something about Kimmel? Smart money wouldn’t be betting on that happening anytime soon. As a symbol of the “resistance” to all things Trump, Kimmel enjoys a spiteful popularity that’s independent of any actual humor he’s still capable of. Long the No. 2 man in ratings for late-night shows, Kimmel is seen in the industry as poised to move into the No. 1 spot once the equally distasteful (and equally Trump-hating) Stephen Colbert leaves CBS at the end of May. ABC has already proven it has no problem allowing Kimmel to pollute American airwaves and politics in pursuit of profit — and Kimmel still makes a profit for the network, according to Fox Business senior correspondent and New York Post columnist Charles Gasparino. But for millions of Americans, sickened by the likes of Kimmel and Co., and their unrelenting attacks on a president supported by more than 77 million voters, the first lady’s post on Monday was a welcome turn. The American left will undoubtely ignore the post — or celebrate it in some sickening fashion. But the sane parts of the country will understand the point. Melania Trump has had enough. Conservative Americans have, too.

The Western Journal

68,762 views • 5 months ago