"Shadows stir the pot—recipes to die for, laced with grim tales. Food feeds the soul; murder spices it up. Dig in, if you dare."

Bat cracks like thunder while sneakers squeak away. Diamond dust sparkles, hardwood gleams so bright, Home runs and alley-oops stealing the spotlight! Flip the remote quick, catch every high-five cheer, Pitcher’s duel raging, then a buzzer-beater near. Two games, one heartbeat, pure joy in the air— Baseball and basketball, the ultimate pair!

NOT VOTING IS DUMB You're Letting Others Decide Your Life Governments tax you, regulate your business, dictate school curricula, and even decide if your street gets potholes fixed. Not voting means you're cool with whoever shows up choosing that stuff for you. Dumb factor: It's like not showing up to a poker game but still losing your chips. Low turnout amplifies the voices of organized groups (lobbies, extremists), diluting yours to zero. PS In 2020 80 million eligible voters sat it out.

This thing with Candace Owens going after Erika Kirk (Charlie Kirk's widow) has long since crossed from "legitimate questions" or "investigative journalism" into straight-up sustained engagement farming. Candace built a massive following on bold, contrarian takes, and once she started dropping episodes hinting at conspiracies around Charlie's death, implying betrayal/cover-ups, grooming accusations, weird behavior post-loss, etc.—the outrage cycle kicked into overdrive. Views, subs, donations, merch, podcast spikes... It's the classic grift playbook. Controversy = attention = revenue. And when Erika (and allies) pushed back hard, calling it harassment of a grieving widow and her kids, that just poured more fuel on the fire—Candace gets to play victim/martyr while raking it in. The pattern is pretty clear at this point: Initial "just asking questions" phase gets clicks. Escalation to wilder claims (affair rumors, audio drops, "Bride of Kirk" series teases) keeps the algorithm happy. Backlash from other right-wing voices (even some Daily Wire-adjacent types) creates more drama → more engagement. She doubles down, cries "cancel culture" or "they're harassing ME now," and the cycle repeats. Does she actually care about "truth" anymore, or is it just the easiest path to staying relevant and bankable? The hate she's getting from parts of the right (calling her demonic, evil, obsessed) hasn't slowed her down—it's probably helping. Polarization pays, especially when your audience loves seeing someone torch sacred cows (or in this case, a fresh grave). It's grim, but yeah... money and clout seem to be the real drivers now. The personal beef (jealousy vibes, old friendships gone sour, TPUSA rivalry) might've lit the fuse, but the grift keeps it burning.

On August 17, 1980, 9-week-old Azaria vanished from her family's tent during a camping trip at Uluru (Ayers Rock). Her mother, Lindy Chamberlain, insisted she saw a dingo fleeing the scene and claimed the wild dog had taken her daughter. Despite eyewitness accounts and dingo tracks, authorities charged Lindy with murder, citing dubious forensic evidence like supposed blood in the family car (later debunked as sound-deadening material). In 1982, amid massive media hysteria and public mockery ("A dingo ate my baby!"), Lindy was convicted and sentenced to life in prison; her husband Michael was deemed an accessory. But in 1986, Azaria's matinee jacket was found near a dingo lair, leading to Lindy's release after over three years behind bars. A 1987 royal commission exposed forensic flaws and bias, exonerating the couple. Inquests dragged on: the first (1981) blamed a dingo, the third (1995) left it open, and the fourth (2012) finally confirmed Azaria died from a dingo attack. No body was ever recovered. This case highlights media sensationalism, flawed justice, and Australia's complex relationship with dingoes. What a nightmare for any parent. #TrueCrime #AzariaChamberlain

"In times like these, it's helpful to remember that there have always been times like these." ~Paul Harvey

On Feb 19, 1878, Thomas Edison patented the phonograph, kicking off the sound revolution! The 'Wizard of Menlo Park' (Thomas Edison's nickname) held 1,093 patents, lighting up the world (literally). Innovation icon! #ThomasEdison #History

In the shadowed streets where the gaslights flicker low, A silhouette slinks through the mist, a soul in woe. The rain-slicked cobblestones echo with footsteps' dread, Whispers of secrets buried with the dead. Beneath the veil of night, where vices freely roam, A detective's heart, encased in iron tome, Pursues the phantom thief of dreams long turned to dust, In alleys choked with fog, where betrayal breeds mistrust. Oh, the raven's cry that pierces through the gloom, A harbinger of fate, sealing eternal doom. Her eyes, like opals drowned in midnight's cruel sea, Lure him to the abyss, where madness sets him free. The clock strikes twelve in towers lost to time, Each toll a knell for innocence, a heinous crime. He clutches at the locket, stained with crimson hue, A token of the love that death alone could rue. Yet in the web of lies, spun fine as spider's thread, He finds the truth entombed, where angels fear to tread. The final shot rings out, a symphony of despair, And silence claims the night, forever foul and fair. Quoth the shadow, "Nevermore." #NOIR #poetry

In the quiet hours, when shadows whisper secrets, remember: the monsters under your bed are just jealous of the ones in your head.

Did you know... On Michelle Obama's maternal side, her family tree traces back to an enslaved girl named Melvinia Shields (born around 1844 in South Carolina), who was valued at $475 in her owner's 1852 will and later moved to a Georgia farm. As a teenager, Melvinia gave birth to a biracial son, Dolphus T. Shields (Michelle's great-great-grandfather), fathered by an unidentified white man—likely through non-consensual circumstances common in slavery. Dolphus went on to become a skilled carpenter and property owner after emancipation, marking a pivotal shift in the family's trajectory. This ancestry was uncovered through detailed genealogical work in the late 2000s, revealing a complex mix of Black, white, and multiracial roots. #MichelleObama

Soles of Revenge #noir #shortstories The rain was coming down like it had a personal grudge against the city, hammering the tin marquee over the alley door of the Blue Lantern like a hundred tiny fists. I leaned against the bricks, cigarette forgotten between my fingers, watching her walk. She didn’t walk so much as glide through the wet neon like she was doing the pavement a favor by touching it. Every step made this small, expensive clink—glass on wet concrete. Diamonds. Not paste. Real ones. Set right into the soles of her shoes so every time her heel came down it caught the streetlight and threw little razors of white fire across the puddles. I’d seen money before. Money doesn’t walk like that. Money hires someone to walk for it. This girl was wearing half a million dollars on her feet and still looked like she was running from something. She stopped under the awning, maybe ten feet from me. Water slid off the brim of her hat in slow silver ropes. Her lipstick was the color of fresh arterial blood. She smelled like gardenias somebody left in a locked car all summer. “You the one they call Whiskey Jack?” Her voice had smoke in it, but not the kind you buy in packs. I flicked the dead cigarette into a puddle. It hissed like it was angry too. “Depends who’s asking.” She lifted one foot, slow, deliberate. The diamonds on the sole caught the blue from the sign and turned it violent. “I need someone who isn’t afraid to follow money when it’s bleeding.” I laughed once, the kind of laugh that tastes like bourbon and regret. “Sweetheart, money never bleeds. People do. Money just watches.” She smiled then—small, sharp, practiced. “Then watch with me.” She turned and started walking again, heels clicking little crystalline gunshots. I followed because I’m an idiot and because the bottle in my coat was almost empty and because sometimes the only thing worse than following trouble is wondering what happened after you didn’t. We went three blocks. She never looked back. The diamonds kept flashing like signals nobody else could read. Past the pawn shops with their sad guitars in the windows, past the diner that never closes, past the place where they still cut hair for two bucks if you don’t mind the straight razor trembling. She stopped at the mouth of an alley narrower than a priest’s conscience. A single bulb swung above a green metal door. The light made her diamonds scream. “He’s inside,” she said. “He thinks I’m still his. Thinks these shoes are still his gift.” I looked at the door. Looked at her. Looked at the shoes again. “And you want?” “I want him to see me walk out wearing them. One last time. And I want him to know I’m walking on everything he ever gave me.” I reached inside my coat, not for the flask—for the thing heavier than the flask. The .38 felt warm from being next to my ribs all night. “You don’t need me for that, doll.” She stepped closer. Close enough I could count the tiny diamonds—sixty-seven on the left shoe, sixty-eight on the right. Obsessive bastard, whoever bought them. “I need a witness,” she whispered. “Someone drunk enough to remember it the way it really happened. Not the way the papers will write it.” I looked down at those glittering soles one more time. Then I opened the door for her. She walked through first. Every step rang like a tiny champagne glass breaking. I followed her in, the door groaning shut behind us like it knew how this story ends. And somewhere behind me, the rain kept falling, washing the city clean of everything except the sound of diamonds hitting concrete like the last notes of a song nobody asked for.

On YouTube TPUSA live right now! Good music so far.

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Whoa! Based!

Our politicians don’t give two shits about us. Not really. Not in the way normal people care about other normal people. They care about us the way a rancher cares about cattle: enough to keep the herd alive and breeding enough to prevent mass die-offs that would tank the operation enough to make sure the beef keeps coming and the checks keep clearing. But they do not lose sleep wondering whether you’re lonely, whether your kid hates school, whether the $1,400 car repair just pushed you into a dark spiral, whether you’re slowly poisoning yourself with microplastics and seed oils because everything affordable is slowly killing you. That shit doesn’t even appear on their radar. Why? Because almost none of them live in the same reality as us anymore. They inhabit a parallel economy where $400,000 is entry-level staff money $4 million is “not wealthy” $60,000 in book deals is pocket change Insider stock trades are just Tuesday Lobbyist-funded “fact-finding” trips to five-star resorts are work Private-school tuition, concierge medicine, and armed private security are baseline They stopped being vulnerable to the same things that can destroy the rest of us roughly 15–20 years ago. Once you cross that line, empathy becomes optional. It’s not malice most of the time—it’s just physics. You literally can no longer feel what we feel. The feedback loop is broken. So they manage us instead. They manage optics. They manage headlines. They manage donor satisfaction scores. They manage the next primary, the next caucus, the next book tour, the next board seat. We are livestock that can tweet. That’s the entire relationship model now.

Me on X 😒🪱

Too cold for shorts too hot for pants... INTRODUCING: 'Shonts'!

🥱 The Trump 'mentions' in the Epstein files is so tiresome. So if we're ballparking based on the coverage: Neutral/benign mentions → Probably 90–98% (news clips, social history, Epstein's own snarky emails about Trump, etc.). Negative/"trying to get him" mentions (unverified allegations, salacious tips, misconduct claims) → Likely under 5–10%, and even those are flagged as unproven/false by the government. Many are just aggregated public tips, not core evidence. The files don't paint Trump as central to the crimes (no charges, no direct Epstein accusations of illegality against him), but his name pops up disproportionately because of the old friendship public fascination/tips flooding in over the years. Trump himself called it exonerating and said time to "move on."If someone does a full word-count sentiment analysis on the whole dump someday, we might get a sharper number—but right now it's more "mentioned a ridiculous amount, mostly innocuously, with a handful of ugly but unproven claims sprinkled in."

We Did Not Ask for This Room We did not ask for this room or this music. We were invited in. Therefore, because the dark surrounds us, Let us turn our faces toward the light. Let us endure hardship to be grateful for plenty. We have been given pain to be astounded by joy. We have been given life to deny death. We did not ask for this room or this music. But because we are here, let us dance. #poetry