I'd prefer a savings based economy with gold as legal tender. Inflation destroys our ability to save for the future.

And people out here mad at everything but this.

Elon, with his money, created trillions in value. Politicians, with your money, created trillions in debt.

I’ll take the trillionaire visionary who creates wealth for tens of millions of people, over the millionaire politicians who loot that wealth for themselves.

Dawg I went to London last summer. LOOK AT THIS BULLSHIT

How bad is the food in the UK to where Golden Corral is a revelation?

The Scots are assimilating well to American culture.

He raped a pregnant woman so he was beaten & shot then chained up and thrown into Pearl River. FAFO

Louisiana is its own country. Parishes instead of counties, the only state with a civil code thanks to Napoleon, streets that feel simultaneously more Old World and more Caribbean than anywhere else in America. Old people in the backwoods who speak French. Like truly alien

Are you a murderer for not donating all your savings to Africa? No. >You don’t kill someone by keeping your own money >Not giving someone your money isn’t the same as taking their life Same people who don’t know what a woman is obviously don’t understand murder either.

I don’t mean to be callous. But if the IPO fizzled yesterday, would your situation be any different today? Are you worse off because he’s a trillionaire? Were you better off on Thursday when he wasn’t?

They don’t care for the poor. They just envy the rich.

I've been added to the line-up of presenters at this year's Freedom Fest in Las Vegas. I'll be sharing an excerpt from my new solo play, "Radical," inspired by the life & work of Dr. Thomas Sowell.* Visit the site in the graphic for details and tickets. See you there.

Math is completely wrong and, as always, he thinks that destroying companies and firing their workers will somehow create prosperity for others.

Nice community note you got there.

Cute theory, let's play it out. A monkey hoards a trillion bananas. The troop, enraged, beats him to death. They gather around the pile to feast at last. But... oh wait, there is no pile. It turns out the "bananas" were shares in a banana-launching company the dead monkey founded. The shares were worth a trillion because he was alive to run it. Now he is dead and the stock is worth $0. The retarded monkeys have clubbed their way into a recession. But it gets worse. Half the "bananas" were tied up in a rocket that supplies bananas to monkeys on the far mountain who had no bananas at all. Another chunk was tied up in a little satellite dish that beamed banana coordinates to the troop after a flood took out their trees. So now they realized they beat to death the only monkey who knew how the dish worked. So the monkeys sit there. No bananas. No rockets. No coordinates to get more banananas. Just a dead body and a powerful sense of fairness as they all now became infinitely poorer. OH And somewhere a smaller monkey watches the whole thing and quietly decides he will never build anything in front of these animals again.

"You have no idea how much this "confounds" anything" Indeed. Which is why I asked a QUESTION, rather than making a STATEMENT. You ALSO have NO IDEA. Yet we both know IT HAPPENS and IS REAL and is OBVIOUSLY A CONFOUNDING FACTOR.

You don't understand because you have the foresight of a goldfish. Breaking up tesla and spacex to fuel the consumption of the American underclass for a few months is precisely the type of shortsighted horseshit that keeps you and your ilk from building anything.

USA. A breakfast counter. The waitress recommended the biscuits and gravy, and when the plate arrived, I thought something had gone wrong in the kitchen. I say this with shame. The dish looked like a construction site after rain. Pale mounds. Gray ladle-fall. Speckles I could not identify. In my land, the eye eats first. A meal is arranged like a garden. This meal was arranged like weather. "Is it… finished?" I asked, carefully. "Honey, that's what it looks like." The man beside me was already eating his. He did not look up. "Just try it." I am a man who has charged hillsides at dawn. I raised the fork. I tried it. I must now formally apologize to the biscuits, the gravy, the waitress, the kitchen, and the entire breakfast tradition of the American South. It was magnificent. Warm. Peppered. The biscuit drank the gravy the way a field drinks rain — THAT is why it is shaped like that, you fool — and every mound I had insulted was a soft fold of comfort that my homeland, in eight hundred years, never once thought to invent. "Well?" the waitress asked. "I judged it," I confessed. "By its appearance. I am ashamed." "Everybody does, hon." Everybody does. A national dish that forgives you for doubting it. It expects the doubt. It waits for you on the other side of it. Do not judge the gravy by its face. Judge yourself, for hesitating. I order it every Saturday now. I no longer see the construction site. I see only the garden. It was a garden the whole time. The eye must be trained.