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This woman has ZERO self-pride and ZERO self-worth. She’s standing in the welfare office filming herself like she just won the lottery — giddy about scoring Section 8, WIC, a free bus pass, backpacks, and lunch. All paid for by people who actually work. No shame. No embarrassment. Pure... entitlement, served with duck lips and tattoos. This is the exact culture the left has spent decades building: turn people into proud dependents, celebrate the handout as an “achievement,” and mock anyone who still believes in earning their own way. Real dignity comes from self-reliance. From busting your ass, building a family that doesn’t need the government as a crutch, and teaching your kids that free stuff has a cost — usually your soul and your future. This video is disgusting because it normalizes the rot. The welfare state didn’t lift her up; it trapped her in a mindset where collecting checks feels like winning. We don’t need more of this. We need work requirements, time limits, and a culture that says: stand on your own two feet or get out of the way. America was built by people with pride — not people bragging about their latest government score.show more

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‘Multiculturalism’ is a lovely idea in theory — until your local intersection in Brampton turns into the set of a Bollywood wedding and the entire neighborhood feels like a different country. These people have zero interest in assimilating, zero respect for the culture that made this place worth moving to, and every intention of just overlaying their own ways on top of yours. Enjoy the ‘diversity.’

‘Multiculturalism’ is a lovely idea in theory — until your local intersection in Brampton turns into the set of a Bollywood wedding and the entire neighborhood feels like a different country. These people have zero interest in assimilating, zero respect for the culture that made this place worth moving to, and every intention of just overlaying their own ways on top of yours. Enjoy the ‘diversity.’

Seinfeld’s Pez Dispenser 🇨🇦 🇺🇸

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This is called the sonder effect. It’s the realization that every stranger you see has an inner life as rich, layered, and emotionally real as your own. The person walking past you is not just “a woman in a red coat” or “some guy in traffic.” He has a past, private fears, people he misses, routines he hates, memories that still sting, and plans he has not told anyone yet. Most of the time, our brains simplify other people into background. Not because we are cruel, but because we have to move through the world from inside our own point of view. Sonder is what happens when that illusion breaks for a second. You stop seeing people as scenery and start seeing them as entire worlds. That is what makes it powerful. It does not just make the world feel bigger. It makes you more humble, more patient, and a little more aware of how much you do not know about the people around you. For one second, the background characters disappear. And everyone becomes real.

This is called the sonder effect. It’s the realization that every stranger you see has an inner life as rich, layered, and emotionally real as your own. The person walking past you is not just “a woman in a red coat” or “some guy in traffic.” He has a past, private fears, people he misses, routines he hates, memories that still sting, and plans he has not told anyone yet. Most of the time, our brains simplify other people into background. Not because we are cruel, but because we have to move through the world from inside our own point of view. Sonder is what happens when that illusion breaks for a second. You stop seeing people as scenery and start seeing them as entire worlds. That is what makes it powerful. It does not just make the world feel bigger. It makes you more humble, more patient, and a little more aware of how much you do not know about the people around you. For one second, the background characters disappear. And everyone becomes real.

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Kedarnath is a tremendous space. The utterance of the sound “Shiva” attains a completely new dimension and significance in Kedar. It is a space which has been specially prepared for this particular sound. When we utter the word “Shiva,” it is the freedom of the uncreated, the liberation of one who is not created. It is almost like on this planet, the sound “Shiva” emanates from this place. For thousands of years, people have experienced that space as a reverberation of that sound. This is also a place that has witnessed thousands of Yogis and mystics of every kind. When I say every kind, you cannot imagine those kinds. These are people who made no attempt to teach anything to anyone. Their way of making an offering to the world was by leaving their energies, their path, their work – everything – in a certain way in these spaces.

Kedarnath is a tremendous space. The utterance of the sound “Shiva” attains a completely new dimension and significance in Kedar. It is a space which has been specially prepared for this particular sound. When we utter the word “Shiva,” it is the freedom of the uncreated, the liberation of one who is not created. It is almost like on this planet, the sound “Shiva” emanates from this place. For thousands of years, people have experienced that space as a reverberation of that sound. This is also a place that has witnessed thousands of Yogis and mystics of every kind. When I say every kind, you cannot imagine those kinds. These are people who made no attempt to teach anything to anyone. Their way of making an offering to the world was by leaving their energies, their path, their work – everything – in a certain way in these spaces.

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I genuinely cannot understand how someone can watch this story and still stand there, looking at two women, and somehow decide that the wrong one is the victim. On one side, you have a girl (Yıldız) who has been mistreated her entire life. Since the moment she was born, she was treated like a sacrifice for a conflict she was never even part of and later we find out that this conflict never even existed. Her right to study was taken from her. She was pushed into a marriage at a very young age just imagine being six, seven, eight years old, living in fear of being tied to someone you don’t even know. She was treated like a servant in her own home, by the very people she thought were her family. And just when she gets close to the happiness she dreamed of, the man she was engaged to shows up with another wife. She gets mistreated by that wife, by his family, and even (unintentionally) by him, because he was trying to run away from his own feelings, and that only caused her more heartbreak. The whole world was literally against her. She fought through all of that, only to find out in the end that everything she suffered for was based on something that wasn’t even real. Her entire life was built on a lie. That she isn’t even part of that family that she has literally no one in this world. Now on the other side… You have a girl (Melek) who, yes, was taken from her biological mother but she was raised by loving parents. She had everything anyone could wish for: education, freedom, a happy childhood, a healthy environment. She lived her life, fell in love, went out, made choices and no one questioned her, no one controlled her. And then what did she do? She found out that her man was engaged to another woman before marrying her (and even saw him marry her) and instead of holding on to her dignity, she chose to stay, to fight for a man who lied to her, to hold onto a marriage he tried to end multiple times. She used her unborn child to keep him tied to her. She lied constantly, and her excuse was that she was “protecting her marriage” a marriage that was already broken from the moment Serhat removed that ring at the airport in episode one. She tried to hand Yıldız (a woman who had already suffered enough) over to dangerous people. Then she found out the truth about her own birth (that her father ra*ped her mother.)And still no empathy. No moment of humanity toward her own mother. All she cared about was herself. And even though none of this had anything to do with Yıldız, she still found a way to blame it on her. Instead of holding her father accountable, she went and made a deal with him to get rid of Yıldız. She literally made a deal with the devil just to hurt Yıldız one more time. And after all of that… you want me to feel sorry for her? You want me to call her a victim? I honestly cannot believe we are living on the same planet with people who see this and still say, “she’s the victim.” Not morally. Not logically. Not emotionally. There is no world where this makes sense. It’s like watching someone clearly cause harm, and still calling them the victim and actually BELIEVING it. #HalefKöklerinÇağrısı

I genuinely cannot understand how someone can watch this story and still stand there, looking at two women, and somehow decide that the wrong one is the victim. On one side, you have a girl (Yıldız) who has been mistreated her entire life. Since the moment she was born, she was treated like a sacrifice for a conflict she was never even part of and later we find out that this conflict never even existed. Her right to study was taken from her. She was pushed into a marriage at a very young age just imagine being six, seven, eight years old, living in fear of being tied to someone you don’t even know. She was treated like a servant in her own home, by the very people she thought were her family. And just when she gets close to the happiness she dreamed of, the man she was engaged to shows up with another wife. She gets mistreated by that wife, by his family, and even (unintentionally) by him, because he was trying to run away from his own feelings, and that only caused her more heartbreak. The whole world was literally against her. She fought through all of that, only to find out in the end that everything she suffered for was based on something that wasn’t even real. Her entire life was built on a lie. That she isn’t even part of that family that she has literally no one in this world. Now on the other side… You have a girl (Melek) who, yes, was taken from her biological mother but she was raised by loving parents. She had everything anyone could wish for: education, freedom, a happy childhood, a healthy environment. She lived her life, fell in love, went out, made choices and no one questioned her, no one controlled her. And then what did she do? She found out that her man was engaged to another woman before marrying her (and even saw him marry her) and instead of holding on to her dignity, she chose to stay, to fight for a man who lied to her, to hold onto a marriage he tried to end multiple times. She used her unborn child to keep him tied to her. She lied constantly, and her excuse was that she was “protecting her marriage” a marriage that was already broken from the moment Serhat removed that ring at the airport in episode one. She tried to hand Yıldız (a woman who had already suffered enough) over to dangerous people. Then she found out the truth about her own birth (that her father ra*ped her mother.)And still no empathy. No moment of humanity toward her own mother. All she cared about was herself. And even though none of this had anything to do with Yıldız, she still found a way to blame it on her. Instead of holding her father accountable, she went and made a deal with him to get rid of Yıldız. She literally made a deal with the devil just to hurt Yıldız one more time. And after all of that… you want me to feel sorry for her? You want me to call her a victim? I honestly cannot believe we are living on the same planet with people who see this and still say, “she’s the victim.” Not morally. Not logically. Not emotionally. There is no world where this makes sense. It’s like watching someone clearly cause harm, and still calling them the victim and actually BELIEVING it. #HalefKöklerinÇağrısı

Maurora🫦

10,530 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

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

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

SiriusB

15,437 Aufrufe • vor 4 Monaten

No. You don’t get to launder this by calling him an “observer,” as if he were a neutral bystander who happened to be shot for no reason. Everyone knows what’s happening. Literal communists are operating in lockstep with taxpayer-funded NGOs to mass-recruit people, whip them into a frenzy, and deploy them in defense of their own interests. The recruiting pipeline is obvious and consistent: the disabled, the mentally ill, the elderly. We’ve all seen the footage. Organizations like States at the Core then train these people to obstruct ICE. They drill escalation, not restraint. Doxxing. Harassment. Following agents. Surrounding vehicles. Screaming. Conditioning people to intervene at any cost. And it works. Watch the video I attached. A small woman steps alone in front of a moving car. The physics don’t matter to her. Self-preservation doesn’t matter. Her survival instinct has been stripped out and replaced with obedience. That doesn’t happen organically. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it. And not one of you has said, “Maybe don’t do this. Maybe don’t send people to play chicken with vehicles and guns.” You didn’t speak up because dead bodies are useful to you. They justify the next riot. Once you condition people this way, it’s inevitable that someone shows up armed. It’s inevitable that ICE agents are threatened. It’s inevitable that you misframe it afterward. It’s inevitable that you roll out barricades and prepare for a night of fire in Minneapolis. And yes, it’s inevitable that you push people into this in subzero weather like lab animals—MK-Ultra levels of behavioral control. You are despicable because this is all about money. About keeping the grift alive. You’re willing to put people in harm’s way, to break them, even to kill them, so your funding and your lifestyle continue uninterrupted. The so-called “observer” was a victim, but not of ICE. He was a victim of you.

No. You don’t get to launder this by calling him an “observer,” as if he were a neutral bystander who happened to be shot for no reason. Everyone knows what’s happening. Literal communists are operating in lockstep with taxpayer-funded NGOs to mass-recruit people, whip them into a frenzy, and deploy them in defense of their own interests. The recruiting pipeline is obvious and consistent: the disabled, the mentally ill, the elderly. We’ve all seen the footage. Organizations like States at the Core then train these people to obstruct ICE. They drill escalation, not restraint. Doxxing. Harassment. Following agents. Surrounding vehicles. Screaming. Conditioning people to intervene at any cost. And it works. Watch the video I attached. A small woman steps alone in front of a moving car. The physics don’t matter to her. Self-preservation doesn’t matter. Her survival instinct has been stripped out and replaced with obedience. That doesn’t happen organically. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it. And not one of you has said, “Maybe don’t do this. Maybe don’t send people to play chicken with vehicles and guns.” You didn’t speak up because dead bodies are useful to you. They justify the next riot. Once you condition people this way, it’s inevitable that someone shows up armed. It’s inevitable that ICE agents are threatened. It’s inevitable that you misframe it afterward. It’s inevitable that you roll out barricades and prepare for a night of fire in Minneapolis. And yes, it’s inevitable that you push people into this in subzero weather like lab animals—MK-Ultra levels of behavioral control. You are despicable because this is all about money. About keeping the grift alive. You’re willing to put people in harm’s way, to break them, even to kill them, so your funding and your lifestyle continue uninterrupted. The so-called “observer” was a victim, but not of ICE. He was a victim of you.

DataRepublican (small r)

425,981 Aufrufe • vor 7 Monaten

Real estate investor shows the reality of renting to people on Section 8 He’s tried to raise awareness of this issue online but he always gets flooded with comments from people saying things like, It’s not a big, “If Section 8 tenants trash your houses, don't worry about it. The government will reimburse landlords for all the damages” That’s is absolutely not true and he says it’s not true, “No they will not. That is 100% not true. You stooges” It’s social media trolls and bots that all flood in to back the people causing the issues every time This was a property in San Diego, California…. Of course it was. California is flooded with Section 8

Real estate investor shows the reality of renting to people on Section 8 He’s tried to raise awareness of this issue online but he always gets flooded with comments from people saying things like, It’s not a big, “If Section 8 tenants trash your houses, don't worry about it. The government will reimburse landlords for all the damages” That’s is absolutely not true and he says it’s not true, “No they will not. That is 100% not true. You stooges” It’s social media trolls and bots that all flood in to back the people causing the issues every time This was a property in San Diego, California…. Of course it was. California is flooded with Section 8

Wall Street Apes

58,245 Aufrufe • vor 3 Monaten

Your circle is either your power or poison, choose them wisely. This touching scene caught on camera shows a group of young boys enjoying a baseball game together. When a player decided to toss a ball into the stands, all the boys immediately pointed to one of their friends - it was his birthday. The player noticed their gesture and threw the ball straight to him. As the birthday boy caught it, his friends burst into cheers, their faces glowing with pure excitement and joy. It wasn’t just about the ball - it was about friendship, kindness, and the simple magic of childhood. Moments like this remind us that the people around us shape who we are. The right circle will lift you up, celebrate your wins, and find joy in your happiness. The wrong one will quietly drain your light. Your circle can be your strength or your weakness, choose wisely.

Your circle is either your power or poison, choose them wisely. This touching scene caught on camera shows a group of young boys enjoying a baseball game together. When a player decided to toss a ball into the stands, all the boys immediately pointed to one of their friends - it was his birthday. The player noticed their gesture and threw the ball straight to him. As the birthday boy caught it, his friends burst into cheers, their faces glowing with pure excitement and joy. It wasn’t just about the ball - it was about friendship, kindness, and the simple magic of childhood. Moments like this remind us that the people around us shape who we are. The right circle will lift you up, celebrate your wins, and find joy in your happiness. The wrong one will quietly drain your light. Your circle can be your strength or your weakness, choose wisely.

Restoring Your Faith in Humanity

158,416 Aufrufe • vor 6 Monaten

”White people crying was the goal” They say it openly. They laugh about it. And the audience applauds. This clip is a perfect example of how normalized it has become to openly discriminate against White people. It’s not just a throwaway comment, it’s a celebration of hurting an entire group of people based solely on their race. And the fact that it’s met with applause shows how deeply this mindset has infiltrated our culture. Now imagine if someone said the same thing about Black people, or any other minority group. The outrage would be immediate and intense. There would be calls for censorship, bans, and apologies. The media would be all over it. But when it’s directed at White people, it’s treated like a joke, or worse, like a victory. That double standard is not just unfair, it’s dangerous. It teaches people that it’s acceptable to demean, dehumanize, and mock a group of people as long as they’re White. And if we don’t call it out, it becomes normal.

”White people crying was the goal” They say it openly. They laugh about it. And the audience applauds. This clip is a perfect example of how normalized it has become to openly discriminate against White people. It’s not just a throwaway comment, it’s a celebration of hurting an entire group of people based solely on their race. And the fact that it’s met with applause shows how deeply this mindset has infiltrated our culture. Now imagine if someone said the same thing about Black people, or any other minority group. The outrage would be immediate and intense. There would be calls for censorship, bans, and apologies. The media would be all over it. But when it’s directed at White people, it’s treated like a joke, or worse, like a victory. That double standard is not just unfair, it’s dangerous. It teaches people that it’s acceptable to demean, dehumanize, and mock a group of people as long as they’re White. And if we don’t call it out, it becomes normal.

Taya Bass

534,247 Aufrufe • vor 7 Monaten

Apparently, I saw this video online and I decided to share. What this worker is applying is called bitumen, or what many of us know as bituminous coating. Most people think a wall is a solid, impenetrable block, but in reality, it is more like a sponge. Concrete and blocks have microscopic pores that pull water from the earth through a process we call capillary action. This thick black substance is the shield that stops that water from climbing up into the house. It is not about making the wall look good because this part will be buried under the dirt forever. It is about creating a skin that water cannot breathe through. When do you need to do this? The need for this arises because the soil is a very aggressive environment. Water is not your only enemy.. The ground also contains salts and sulfates that want to eat away at the cement. If this moisture finds its way to the steel bars inside the columns, those bars will start to rust. And when steel rusts, it expands, and that expansion is what cracks the concrete from the inside out. This coating is the only thing standing between your foundation and that kind of slow destruction. Thats is why if you see wet patches at the bottom of your walls inside your house, it usually means someone skipped this step or did it poorly during construction. You can apply this anytime you are building parts of a structure that will stay in contact with the ground. It is common in areas where the water table is high or where the soil stays damp for most of the year. This is a one-shot opportunity. Once you backfill the soil, you can never go back to fix it without a lot of expense and a lot of digging. It is about having the foresight to protect the heart of the building while it is still exposed. Please don’t ignore this if you need to. If you ignore it now to save a bit of money, you will be funding the future decay of your own home. I hope this helps.

Apparently, I saw this video online and I decided to share. What this worker is applying is called bitumen, or what many of us know as bituminous coating. Most people think a wall is a solid, impenetrable block, but in reality, it is more like a sponge. Concrete and blocks have microscopic pores that pull water from the earth through a process we call capillary action. This thick black substance is the shield that stops that water from climbing up into the house. It is not about making the wall look good because this part will be buried under the dirt forever. It is about creating a skin that water cannot breathe through. When do you need to do this? The need for this arises because the soil is a very aggressive environment. Water is not your only enemy.. The ground also contains salts and sulfates that want to eat away at the cement. If this moisture finds its way to the steel bars inside the columns, those bars will start to rust. And when steel rusts, it expands, and that expansion is what cracks the concrete from the inside out. This coating is the only thing standing between your foundation and that kind of slow destruction. Thats is why if you see wet patches at the bottom of your walls inside your house, it usually means someone skipped this step or did it poorly during construction. You can apply this anytime you are building parts of a structure that will stay in contact with the ground. It is common in areas where the water table is high or where the soil stays damp for most of the year. This is a one-shot opportunity. Once you backfill the soil, you can never go back to fix it without a lot of expense and a lot of digging. It is about having the foresight to protect the heart of the building while it is still exposed. Please don’t ignore this if you need to. If you ignore it now to save a bit of money, you will be funding the future decay of your own home. I hope this helps.

A.Y.O

75,399 Aufrufe • vor 4 Monaten

This. Is. Not. OK. Republican Congressman Eli Crane from Arizona called black people “Colored people” on the House floor yesterday. Crane specifically said, “Mr. Chairman, that was unbelievably inspiring, my amendment has nothing to do with whether or not colored people or black people or anybody can serve. Okay? It has nothing to do with colors of your skin — any of that stuff.” Democrat Congresswoman Joyce Beatty then interjected and asked that Crane’s use of the words “colored people” be stricken from the record. She said “I find it offensive and very inappropriate,” before continuing “I am asking for unanimous consent to take down the words of referring to me or any of my colleague as ‘colored people.’ What causes this? It was obviously a slip-up, but people who slip up like this do so for a reason. Someone who doesn’t use this term with their friends typically doesn’t accidentally say it when they are speaking in public. Does anyone think this is OK?

This. Is. Not. OK. Republican Congressman Eli Crane from Arizona called black people “Colored people” on the House floor yesterday. Crane specifically said, “Mr. Chairman, that was unbelievably inspiring, my amendment has nothing to do with whether or not colored people or black people or anybody can serve. Okay? It has nothing to do with colors of your skin — any of that stuff.” Democrat Congresswoman Joyce Beatty then interjected and asked that Crane’s use of the words “colored people” be stricken from the record. She said “I find it offensive and very inappropriate,” before continuing “I am asking for unanimous consent to take down the words of referring to me or any of my colleague as ‘colored people.’ What causes this? It was obviously a slip-up, but people who slip up like this do so for a reason. Someone who doesn’t use this term with their friends typically doesn’t accidentally say it when they are speaking in public. Does anyone think this is OK?

Ed Krassenstein

3,721,773 Aufrufe • vor 3 Jahren

This woman is a single mother who has a job as a delivery driver for a company that has a Fed Ex route contract. She relies on this job to support her and her kids. She just found out that the company she works for lost the contract and they will all be out of a job in about a month. She found out from someone else, not the company that she works for. 🤯 She is considering just taking her load back and walking out. This happens quite often in the delivery service field. Companies like Amazon and Fed Ex deliveries are contracted out and if those contractors don’t meet certain standards they can lose the contract. 💯 It’s possible the new contractor will hire her but nothing is guaranteed. My son just went through this a couple of years ago and they did not hire most of the drivers over to the new company. Many people told her not to quit, to stick it out and to go apply with the new company asap. She said if they don’t hire her it is just wasted time in getting a new job. She’s upset because she feels it is disrespectful of her company not to let them know personally and give them time to find a new job. I wouldn’t make matters worse. She needs the money. Stick it out and start looking for a new job. Did you know this happens regularly in the delivery service field, that contractors lose the contracts all the time and people lose their jobs?

This woman is a single mother who has a job as a delivery driver for a company that has a Fed Ex route contract. She relies on this job to support her and her kids. She just found out that the company she works for lost the contract and they will all be out of a job in about a month. She found out from someone else, not the company that she works for. 🤯 She is considering just taking her load back and walking out. This happens quite often in the delivery service field. Companies like Amazon and Fed Ex deliveries are contracted out and if those contractors don’t meet certain standards they can lose the contract. 💯 It’s possible the new contractor will hire her but nothing is guaranteed. My son just went through this a couple of years ago and they did not hire most of the drivers over to the new company. Many people told her not to quit, to stick it out and to go apply with the new company asap. She said if they don’t hire her it is just wasted time in getting a new job. She’s upset because she feels it is disrespectful of her company not to let them know personally and give them time to find a new job. I wouldn’t make matters worse. She needs the money. Stick it out and start looking for a new job. Did you know this happens regularly in the delivery service field, that contractors lose the contracts all the time and people lose their jobs?

👉M-Û-R-Č-H👈

80,792 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

Candace Owens says it’s very weird and creepy that Charlie’s friends and people who work for TPUSA are sometimes at the building where Erika Kirk lives. However we’re not supposed to find it creepy that she has people watching them everyday while they try to live their lives. In fact she just says “obviously” she has sources where Erika lives as if it’s just a normal thing when in reality it’s straight up psycho behavior. Candace tries so hard to make everything seem “weird” or “creepy” but the weirdest and creepiest part about all of this has actually been her and the things she’s said and done.

Candace Owens says it’s very weird and creepy that Charlie’s friends and people who work for TPUSA are sometimes at the building where Erika Kirk lives. However we’re not supposed to find it creepy that she has people watching them everyday while they try to live their lives. In fact she just says “obviously” she has sources where Erika lives as if it’s just a normal thing when in reality it’s straight up psycho behavior. Candace tries so hard to make everything seem “weird” or “creepy” but the weirdest and creepiest part about all of this has actually been her and the things she’s said and done.

Cinema Shogun

64,134 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

Unpopular opinion about El Salvador. A TON of workers here are lazy as hell and i do hope this message reaches many Salvadoreños in the United States. You leave the job site, little will get done and yes tools and materials will disappear. I said it. If you’re going to build a home, start a business, or just hire a few helping hands for that side project, get ready to fire fast. Put in systems of checks and balances, hire solid management, use cameras, and lock up materials. If you have the time or money you or someone you really trust must manage the project on SITE. I’ve hired thousands of people throughout the last few 6 years while personally living in 9 Latin countries and El Salvador has been one of the hardest to work in. El Salvador also happens to be my favorite country at the moment with my favorite people. It’s beautiful, small, has a Chuck E cheese for my daughter but most important, it’s safe for my family. So why is it so damn hard to work with people here? I think it’s because of the civil war. This is going to sound crazy coming from a president of a non profit but free money destroys people. It enables them. It ruins their will to work ultimately creating a lazy and slothful person Over 2.5 million people from El Salvador live in the United States. MANY of them send money every 2 weeks to their aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews to “help” them. This has turned into dependency. It has created a cycle of entitlement rather than self-sufficiency. “Why would I work for 10 hours in the sun when I can tell my aunt that I need money for medicine?” There are kids here with no desire to self educate, no desire to work, because they’re sucking the tit of their families in the United States or Canada. 2 of my hardest workers who show up early, never miss a day are these two men in this video. No arms, and an elderly who just wants to work. Their speed compared to a young healthy man is slow in comparison but their will and desire to work is unwavering. They’re inspiring. They are happy at work. They don’t complain. They’re not rich working for me but they are ok. I believe they are hard workers because they were never a part of a welfare system given to them from family in the states. I also believe that the civil war has created a massive divide between the wealthy and the poor. Maybe this already existed but chatting with enough people you can put 2 and 2 together. The socioeconomic divides between the wealthy and the poor. Certain families growing incredibly rich over the suffering of the lower class. People have lost trust, they’ve lost hope. Their views on money and rich people are shaped by past experiences of being taken advantage of. People are sick and tired of making $75 per pay period in the farms of El Salvador. I know that’s a whole other discussion. How do we fix this? I don’t know but I know my mission with casa conejo is to inspire others to work their asses off and to get paid by the sweat of their brows. I want to create a micro economy that allows the poor of the poor to grow! To break the cycle of poverty. To shatter the idea of “we can’t make it in El Salvador” We can and we will by working our asses off and getting paid what we deserve. Once we’re open a percentage of profits will go towards these workers. The rest back into our projects of building schools, running our women’s shelters, feeding the elderly. Let’s do this

Unpopular opinion about El Salvador. A TON of workers here are lazy as hell and i do hope this message reaches many Salvadoreños in the United States. You leave the job site, little will get done and yes tools and materials will disappear. I said it. If you’re going to build a home, start a business, or just hire a few helping hands for that side project, get ready to fire fast. Put in systems of checks and balances, hire solid management, use cameras, and lock up materials. If you have the time or money you or someone you really trust must manage the project on SITE. I’ve hired thousands of people throughout the last few 6 years while personally living in 9 Latin countries and El Salvador has been one of the hardest to work in. El Salvador also happens to be my favorite country at the moment with my favorite people. It’s beautiful, small, has a Chuck E cheese for my daughter but most important, it’s safe for my family. So why is it so damn hard to work with people here? I think it’s because of the civil war. This is going to sound crazy coming from a president of a non profit but free money destroys people. It enables them. It ruins their will to work ultimately creating a lazy and slothful person Over 2.5 million people from El Salvador live in the United States. MANY of them send money every 2 weeks to their aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews to “help” them. This has turned into dependency. It has created a cycle of entitlement rather than self-sufficiency. “Why would I work for 10 hours in the sun when I can tell my aunt that I need money for medicine?” There are kids here with no desire to self educate, no desire to work, because they’re sucking the tit of their families in the United States or Canada. 2 of my hardest workers who show up early, never miss a day are these two men in this video. No arms, and an elderly who just wants to work. Their speed compared to a young healthy man is slow in comparison but their will and desire to work is unwavering. They’re inspiring. They are happy at work. They don’t complain. They’re not rich working for me but they are ok. I believe they are hard workers because they were never a part of a welfare system given to them from family in the states. I also believe that the civil war has created a massive divide between the wealthy and the poor. Maybe this already existed but chatting with enough people you can put 2 and 2 together. The socioeconomic divides between the wealthy and the poor. Certain families growing incredibly rich over the suffering of the lower class. People have lost trust, they’ve lost hope. Their views on money and rich people are shaped by past experiences of being taken advantage of. People are sick and tired of making $75 per pay period in the farms of El Salvador. I know that’s a whole other discussion. How do we fix this? I don’t know but I know my mission with casa conejo is to inspire others to work their asses off and to get paid by the sweat of their brows. I want to create a micro economy that allows the poor of the poor to grow! To break the cycle of poverty. To shatter the idea of “we can’t make it in El Salvador” We can and we will by working our asses off and getting paid what we deserve. Once we’re open a percentage of profits will go towards these workers. The rest back into our projects of building schools, running our women’s shelters, feeding the elderly. Let’s do this

MURPHSLIFE

196,024 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

HTML Artifacts are a big part of how I work with agents now. Artifacts can be more than just static files. When combined with agents, they can take action or help you take action. This unlocks all kinds of interesting ways to work with agents. This is clearly the future. Check out this writing and scheduler artifact I built in a few minutes. It uses a bit of HTML and JS. All the data is in markdown (Obsidian vaults), so the agent can access and modify it at any time. No DB needed. No sophisticated functionalities. The agent decides all that for me based on the skills, context, and memory it has access to. The best part about this simple stack is that all the important information stays with me. This has allowed me to build a recursive self-improving system and automations that can better tap into coding agents like Codex or Claude Code. I could have paid or built an entire app for scheduling posts, and there are so many of them out there. But I don't need to. I've realized a simple artifact does the job. And the simplicity of it is actually an advantage. Very little maintenance for very high returns on personalization, time, and efficiency. The other benefit of this is that I can add features as I please. That level of personalization feels magical, and we should all be pursuing more of it. All of this just keeps compounding. Of course, this example is just about writing. But I have similar artifacts for research, design, experimentation, evaluation, and so much more. And no, I didn't actually publish the post example I shared in the clip. It was just for demonstration purposes. I actually spend more time than this when writing together with agents. Lastly, having built my own agent orchestrator tool has made me realize that simplifying the tool stack is a superpower. If you are curious about how all this works, I will do a live session next week:

HTML Artifacts are a big part of how I work with agents now. Artifacts can be more than just static files. When combined with agents, they can take action or help you take action. This unlocks all kinds of interesting ways to work with agents. This is clearly the future. Check out this writing and scheduler artifact I built in a few minutes. It uses a bit of HTML and JS. All the data is in markdown (Obsidian vaults), so the agent can access and modify it at any time. No DB needed. No sophisticated functionalities. The agent decides all that for me based on the skills, context, and memory it has access to. The best part about this simple stack is that all the important information stays with me. This has allowed me to build a recursive self-improving system and automations that can better tap into coding agents like Codex or Claude Code. I could have paid or built an entire app for scheduling posts, and there are so many of them out there. But I don't need to. I've realized a simple artifact does the job. And the simplicity of it is actually an advantage. Very little maintenance for very high returns on personalization, time, and efficiency. The other benefit of this is that I can add features as I please. That level of personalization feels magical, and we should all be pursuing more of it. All of this just keeps compounding. Of course, this example is just about writing. But I have similar artifacts for research, design, experimentation, evaluation, and so much more. And no, I didn't actually publish the post example I shared in the clip. It was just for demonstration purposes. I actually spend more time than this when writing together with agents. Lastly, having built my own agent orchestrator tool has made me realize that simplifying the tool stack is a superpower. If you are curious about how all this works, I will do a live session next week:

elvis

18,374 Aufrufe • vor 3 Monaten

This scene shows the arrest of a young woman from the city of Fardis in Iran, the city where I grew up. There is no information about her fate after she was taken into custody by the security forces of the ruling government in Iran. But our message is not only about this crime. It is addressed to you, the leaders and officials of the world. Remember this: when we were suffering under the violence of this government, you remained silent. Your silence was not neutrality, but a deliberate turning away from human suffering. With or without you, we will bring down this system built on violence, because the will of a people cannot be suppressed forever. But history will not forget that in the test of conscience, morality, and human responsibility, you failed. #IranMassacre #IranRevoIution2026 #IranProtests2026

This scene shows the arrest of a young woman from the city of Fardis in Iran, the city where I grew up. There is no information about her fate after she was taken into custody by the security forces of the ruling government in Iran. But our message is not only about this crime. It is addressed to you, the leaders and officials of the world. Remember this: when we were suffering under the violence of this government, you remained silent. Your silence was not neutrality, but a deliberate turning away from human suffering. With or without you, we will bring down this system built on violence, because the will of a people cannot be suppressed forever. But history will not forget that in the test of conscience, morality, and human responsibility, you failed. #IranMassacre #IranRevoIution2026 #IranProtests2026

Ahmad Batebi 🛡️ 🇮🇷 🇺🇸

25,360 Aufrufe • vor 6 Monaten

I just watched a Ford pickup blow through a red light like the rules never applied to him… and he T-boned a family that was literally just living their life… hurting nobody… minding their own business. It’s always the same pattern… the same mindset… the same entitlement. The same people who scream about “fairness” are the first ones to wreck other people’s lives because they can’t follow the most basic laws of civilization. Why is it always these folks? Why is it always this Democrat mentality… this idea that their impulses matter more than your safety… your kids… your life? Why do innocent people always pay the price for someone else’s recklessness? Why do the rule-breakers get sympathy while the victims get a smashed-up car and a medical bill? Be honest… Have you noticed it too? Is this the culture you’re seeing on your streets? Or am I the only one tired of watching chaos slam into people who did nothing wrong? #SilentMajoritySpeaks #AStoneGroove

I just watched a Ford pickup blow through a red light like the rules never applied to him… and he T-boned a family that was literally just living their life… hurting nobody… minding their own business. It’s always the same pattern… the same mindset… the same entitlement. The same people who scream about “fairness” are the first ones to wreck other people’s lives because they can’t follow the most basic laws of civilization. Why is it always these folks? Why is it always this Democrat mentality… this idea that their impulses matter more than your safety… your kids… your life? Why do innocent people always pay the price for someone else’s recklessness? Why do the rule-breakers get sympathy while the victims get a smashed-up car and a medical bill? Be honest… Have you noticed it too? Is this the culture you’re seeing on your streets? Or am I the only one tired of watching chaos slam into people who did nothing wrong? #SilentMajoritySpeaks #AStoneGroove

A Gene Robinson

103,268 Aufrufe • vor 8 Monaten

She’s so precious 🥹 I honestly don’t understand how anyone could hate her. Catherine, Princess of Wales has never gone after anyone, even while vile, nasty people have attacked her, trolled her, and tried to smear her with lies and self serving narratives. She has stayed calm, dignified, and steady through it all in a way very few people could manage. What I respect is that she never made it about herself. Even when it was ugly, she didn’t drag anyone, didn’t whine, didn’t milk it. She held the line. She protects her kids, supports her husband, and carries herself properly. That’s a woman with real character. One in a billion.

She’s so precious 🥹 I honestly don’t understand how anyone could hate her. Catherine, Princess of Wales has never gone after anyone, even while vile, nasty people have attacked her, trolled her, and tried to smear her with lies and self serving narratives. She has stayed calm, dignified, and steady through it all in a way very few people could manage. What I respect is that she never made it about herself. Even when it was ugly, she didn’t drag anyone, didn’t whine, didn’t milk it. She held the line. She protects her kids, supports her husband, and carries herself properly. That’s a woman with real character. One in a billion.

Queen Esther

32,438 Aufrufe • vor 6 Monaten