DEC

Life long Conservative. MAGA, Computer geek. Entrepreneur. Family man. Believer. Married 44 years. No DM’s.

[The Husky @Mr_Husky1]

At 12:30 AM on July 11, 2022, Nick Bostic was twenty-five years old and driving through empty streets in Lafayette, Indiana, after an argument with his girlfriend — the kind of night where you need to move and think. Windows down, going nowhere in particular.
Then he saw a small flame coming from a house on Union Street.
He hit the brakes. Reversed. Pulled into the driveway. He had no phone with him. He tried to flag down a passing car. Nobody stopped. He ran to the back door and started yelling: is anybody home? Is anybody in there?
Halfway up the stairs he found them — four people: an eighteen-year-old woman named Seionna Barrett carrying a twenty-month-old baby, and two thirteen-year-old girls behind her, terrified and confused. He led them out the back door and into the yard.
Four people safe.
Then Seionna started looking around frantically. Her face went pale.
I can't find Kaylani. Her six-year-old sister. Still inside.
The fire had spread. Flames were visible from multiple windows. Black smoke poured out. Nick looked back at the house and ran back in.
He searched room by room, calling for Kaylani. The smoke was pitch black — he could not see his own hand. The heat was overwhelming. He considered jumping from a window while he still could.
Then he heard crying. A child. Downstairs. In the living room. The worst part of the fire.
He wrapped his shirt around his face and ran toward the sound. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled through the smoke until he found her. Kaylani Barrett. Six years old. Alone in the darkness.
Going back downstairs was no longer possible. His only option was up — back upstairs, find a window, jump. He carried Kaylani to a bedroom and punched through the glass with his bare fist. Blood ran down his arm. Her leg became tangled in the window blind cord. He forced himself to stay calm, carefully untangled her while the house burned around them.
He positioned Kaylani on his left side, himself on his right, and jumped from the second floor.
He hit the ground hard. A deep laceration on his right arm. Burns across his body. Smoke inhalation that would put him on a ventilator for three days. Lafayette police officers arrived just as he landed — their body cameras captured him stumbling forward, handing Kaylani to them, collapsing on the curb, asking one question over and over:
Is the baby OK? Please tell me the baby is OK.
Kaylani had a small cut on her foot from the glass. All five people were alive.
Nick was airlifted to Eskenazi Hospital in Indianapolis in critical condition. Doctors were not certain he would survive. Three days later he was released. His lungs were still damaged. His arm was heavily bandaged. He was alive.
He did not want to be called a hero. He told reporters he was just doing what anyone would do — that if he were the one trapped he would be hoping the driver passing by would consider doing the same.
In May 2024, nearly two years after the fire, Nick Bostic received the Carnegie Medal — the highest civilian honor for heroism in the United States and Canada, awarded since 1904 to those who enter extreme danger to save others. Of the more than 120 years the medal has been awarded, only 10,355 people have received it.
Kaylani Barrett is eight years old now. She calls Nick her guardian angel.
He still lives in Lafayette. Still drives past houses. When asked about that night, he always says the same thing: it was all worth it.

For those thinking about what Nick Bostic's decision — to go back inside when he had already done more than anyone could ask — shows about where genuine courage comes from: what does his question from the curb, is the baby OK, show you about what was actually driving him through that burning house?

[John M. Cameron @johnrockshomes]

I am a J6er.

My President tells MY story to the lying media trying to prosecute him and persecute me.

I was ushered into the capitol. There IS mountains of evidence.

I did nothing wrong.

Many "Assault" charges were J6er blocking cop's batons and shields with their faces or neing pushed into bike racks.

My illegal picketing plea was forced.

The media filmed crisis actors inciting peaceful protestors to riot while ANTIFA counter protesters caused more damage. That's all the fake media wanted you to see and that continues.

The propaganda media machine is the real enemy and the underlying cause of the stole 2020 election and the division in thia country.

If you hate Trump and J6ers its because you believe CNN and 60 minutes. 34% of the country still does. Theu know not what they do.

To those that do know and still follow hate and violence, Karma is a bitch.

My president has my back.

God Bless the J6ers.

[Voices of WW2 @VoicesofWW2]

They called them flying coffins. The men who volunteered to fly them knew exactly why.

The Allied gliders of D-Day were made of fabric stretched over a frame of wood and metal tubing. They had no engine. No armor. No weapons. No parachutes for the men inside. They were towed to France at 130 mph on the end of a 300-foot nylon rope attached to a C-47, and when the rope was cut, there was one chance to land.

One. No go-arounds. No second approach. Whatever was below you was where you were going.

What was below them was Normandy at night.

The Germans had spent weeks preparing. Under orders from Field Marshal Rommel, they had driven wooden stakes into every open field in the region, angled to impale gliders on landing. The French called them Rommelspargel. Rommel's asparagus. Thousands of poles, many with mines or artillery shells wired to the tips, packed into every field large enough to land on.

What the glider pilots had not been properly told was the scale of the Norman hedgerows. The bocage. These were not English garden hedges. They were ancient earthen walls, some dating back centuries, topped with dense root systems and trees, rising 50 feet in places, bordering fields barely 200 yards long. A Horsa glider coming in at 100 mph hitting a hedgerow did not survive it. Neither did most people inside.

Some fields were flooded. Some were mined. Many were both.

517 gliders went into Normandy. 97 percent were abandoned in the field by the end of the operation. Most were destroyed.

General Don Pratt, assistant commander of the 101st Airborne, was in the first glider wave. His pilot managed to find a field near Hiesville and brought the glider down. It slid across the wet grass without slowing and hit a hedgerow at speed. The co-pilot died instantly. The pilot, Lieutenant Colonel Mike Murphy, broke both legs. General Pratt suffered a broken neck. He became the first American general to die in the Battle of Normandy. His glider had landed in one piece.

Sergeant Eric Wilson's glider did not. It hit a building at high speed. Both of Wilson's legs were broken. He was trapped inside the wreckage, unable to move, in enemy-held Normandy, for two and a half days before anyone reached him.

Lieutenant Den Brotheridge had come in earlier than anyone, in the first glider to land in France, the silent coup de main assault on Pegasus Bridge just after midnight. His glider stopped 47 yards from its target. He led his men out at a run, reached the bridge, and was shot. He died within minutes, the first Allied soldier killed by enemy fire on D-Day.

The men who survived the landing did not get to stop. Glider pilots were not assigned to combat units. Once down, they were expected to fight as infantry, dig foxholes, guard prisoners, carry ammunition, do whatever was needed. Most of them had trained to fly, not to fight on the ground behind enemy lines in the dark.

They did it anyway.

Of the 517 gliders that went in, 222 were Horsa gliders. Most were destroyed either on landing or by German fire in the hours that followed. The Waco CG-4As fared slightly better but 97 percent of all gliders from the entire operation were eventually abandoned in Norman fields, broken and empty.

The men who flew them were not pilots in the traditional sense. They were soldiers who had been given just enough training to put an unarmed, engineless box of fabric and wood into a dark foreign field at 100 mph, full of men and equipment, with one attempt and no margin for error.

Many of them got it exactly right.

Many of them did not come home.

Today is June 6th.

Remember them too.

[Thrilla the Gorilla @ThrillaRilla369]

Property taxes on primary residences are a tax on unrealized gains, and the double standard around it is glaring.

You buy a house for $300k with your after-tax dollars. Years later the market rises and the assessor says it’s now worth $600k. Your tax bill goes up—even though you didn’t sell, didn’t refinance, didn’t pull out a dime of equity. You’re paying higher taxes every single year on “wealth” that exists only on paper. That is the literal definition of taxing unrealized appreciation.

Politicians and pundits scream bloody murder when anyone suggests doing the exact same thing to billionaires’ unrealized stock gains. “It’s unfair! They’ll be forced to sell assets!” Yet the same logic is applied to your family home without a second thought. If the principle is wrong for Elon Musk’s Tesla shares, it’s wrong for grandma’s paid-off house.

The common defense—“It pays for schools and roads”—doesn’t hold up as justification for this specific mechanism. Those services are valuable, but tying their funding to the fluctuating paper value of your home creates a system where success (a nicer neighborhood, inflation, or simple supply and demand) is punished with a higher bill. Once the mortgage is gone, you still don’t truly own it. You’re a tenant with extra paperwork, paying annual rent to the government based on an assessment you don’t control.

This isn’t about hating government services. It’s about honest funding. Tax actual economic activity—consumption via a broad sales tax, realized capital gains, or user fees for specific services. Shift the burden to people who are actively spending or transacting in the economy instead of penalizing ownership itself. Other countries and even some U.S. localities have shown you can fund local government without treating primary homes like perpetual leaseholds from the state.

Ownership should mean ownership. Not “you own it until the county decides your paper equity went up.” Abolish property taxes on primary residences. The current system is a wealth tax dressed up as a service fee, and it’s long past time we called it what it is.

[Dear Christian @DearXtian]

🏳️‍🌈 PRIDE MONTH?

For 20 years, I identified as transgender and lived a lifestyle filled with partying, substance abuse, and self-destructive choices. What I once called freedom nearly cost me my life.

Looking back, I see that rejection, low self-esteem, and past trauma influenced many of my decisions. Yet even while running from God, He never stopped pursuing me.

Today, I have found freedom through Jesus Christ. What once brought confusion and emptiness has been replaced with purpose, peace, and a calling to share the Gospel.

“For God is not the author of confusion, but of peace...” — 1 Corinthians 14:33

Freedom is attainable through Jesus Christ.

[Crazy Vibes @CrazyVibes_1]

When the President of France visited the United States in April 1960, he asked the FBI to help him find a man.
The man he was looking for was an American citizen. He was sixty-four years old. He had been awarded fifteen French military decorations and — six months earlier, in a ceremony in Paris — had been made a Knight of the Légion d'honneur, the highest civilian honor France can give. The medal had been pinned to his chest by the President himself, who had publicly called him un véritable héros français. A true French hero.
The FBI located the man within a few days.
He was operating an elevator at Rockefeller Center in New York City.
The elevator operator's name was Eugene Bullard. He had been born in Columbus, Georgia, in 1895, the son of a man whose own father had been a slave.

He had run away from Columbus at the age of eleven, after watching a white mob nearly lynch his father.
He spent the next several years drifting through the American South. At sixteen, he stowed away on a German freighter at Norfolk, Virginia. He landed in Aberdeen, Scotland. From there he made his way to London, where he learned to box. By 1913, at eighteen, he was prizefighting in Paris.
When Germany invaded France in August 1914, Bullard was nineteen years old. He had no legal obligation to fight. He had no French citizenship.
He went to the recruiting office on October 19, 1914, and signed up for the French Foreign Legion.
He spent the next eighteen months as an infantryman in some of the worst fighting of the war — at the Somme, at Champagne, at Verdun. He was wounded three times. The third wound, on March 5, 1916, tore open his thigh and left him with permanent damage to his leg.
He was twenty years old. The doctors told him he would not return to the infantry.
He decided he wanted to fly.

In a Paris café in the spring of 1916, while he was recovering, Bullard mentioned to three white American friends that he was thinking of joining the French air service. A Mississippian named Jeff Dickson laughed.
Gene, Dickson said, you know damn well there aren't any Negroes in aviation.
Bullard answered: Sure do. That's why I want to get into it. There has to be a first to everything, and I'm going to be the first.
Dickson bet him two thousand dollars he would not make it.
Bullard took the bet. He earned his pilot's license on May 5, 1917. He won the bet.
He reported to the front in August 1917 and flew approximately twenty combat missions over the next three months in a SPAD VII. The fuselage was painted with a bleeding heart pierced by a knife and the French phrase Tout le Sang qui Coule est Rouge — All Blood that Flows is Red.
He carried, on every combat flight, a small capuchin monkey named Jimmy in the front of his flight jacket.
The French press began calling him L'Hirondelle Noire — the Black Swallow.

When the United States entered the war in 1917, Bullard immediately applied to transfer to the U.S. Army Air Service.
His application was rejected.
The U.S. Army Air Service had a policy, in 1917, of not accepting Black pilots. The other American pilots flying for France in his unit, all of them white, were transferred to the U.S. Air Service.
He was the only one who was not.

For the next twenty years, he was one of the most familiar faces in the Montmartre nightlife of Paris between the wars. He owned a nightclub called L'Escadrille. He spoke fluent French, English, and German. Hemingway drank there. Fitzgerald drank there. Langston Hughes drank there. Josephine Baker performed there. Louis Armstrong was a personal friend.
When Germany invaded Poland in 1939, Bullard was forty-four. His fluent German and his ownership of a nightclub frequented by German officers made him useful to the French Resistance. He became an intelligence agent — eavesdropping in his own bar on conversations between German officers who did not know he understood every word.
When France fell in June 1940, friends in the Resistance smuggled him across the Spanish border before the Gestapo could arrest him.
He came back to the United States for the first time in twenty-eight years.
He arrived in New York with thirty dollars in his pocket and a permanent limp.

He did not return to a hero's welcome. He returned to a country that had no idea who he was.
He worked at a perfume counter. He worked as a security guard. He worked at the Staten Island shipyards. By the late 1940s, he had taken the job that he would hold for most of the rest of his life.
He operated the elevator at Rockefeller Center.
He was wearing the elevator uniform on the day a producer from NBC came down from the studios upstairs to ask if he was the man Charles de Gaulle had been looking for.
A few weeks later, NBC sent a film crew to interview him in the lobby. The studios where NBC produced The Today Show were on the floors above. He had operated the elevator that took the network executives up to those studios every morning for nearly ten years. He had not been recognized as he did it.
He went back to operating the elevator the following Monday.

He died of stomach cancer on October 12, 1961, three days after his sixty-sixth birthday.
He was buried in the French War Veterans' section of Flushing Cemetery, in Queens, in the uniform of the French Foreign Legion. The casket was draped with the French flag.
In 1994 — thirty-three years after his death — the United States Air Force formally commissioned Eugene Jacques Bullard as a Second Lieutenant, posthumously.
It was the first commission the U.S. military had ever offered him.
He had been the first Black combat pilot in American history.
The French had been calling him a hero since 1917.
The Americans got around to it in 1994.

[mike bski @BskiMike22802]

DAY 7 of National Gun Violence Awareness Month. And I need you to hear something over the noise.

She was screaming for her son.

That is the detail that stays with me. Not the blood. Not the chaos. Not the stampede of people pouring toward the exits of a Michigan Walmart on a Saturday afternoon in July. It is the sound of a mother somewhere in that store, screaming for her son, that tells you everything about what kind of moment this was.

It is July 26, 2025. Garfield Township, Michigan. 4:40 in the afternoon. A crowded Walmart on a summer Saturday — the kind of afternoon where the parking lot is full and the aisles are full and there are carts and kids and people checking their phones comparing grocery lists. Normal. Ordinary. The specific, unremarkable Saturday afternoon that most of us have lived a hundred times without thinking about it.

And then Bradford James Gille walks in.

He is 42 years old. He has been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia since 1999. Between 2015 and September of 2024 — just ten months before this day — he lived at the Center for Forensic Psychiatry in Saline, Michigan. His mother told a reporter years ago that her son was fine when he took his medication. The problem, she said, was that his illness told him he was fine and did not need it.

He brought a folding knife with a 3.5-inch blade. And he started stabbing people. Randomly. Employees. Shoppers. Anybody within reach. Eleven people in total — six of them critical, five serious — before he turned and walked toward the parking lot.

The store erupted. People stampeding. Carts overturning. A woman somewhere screaming for her son. The specific kind of sound that does not leave you, if you have ever heard it.

And then Derrick Perry moves.

He is a retired United States Marine. An off-duty employee of Munson Healthcare. A man who, by his own description, was in that store for the same reason everyone else was — because it was Saturday and he needed something. He sees Gille heading for the door. He does not run. He follows.

In the parking lot, on video that was seen by millions of people on X within hours, Perry draws his legally-carried concealed handgun. He plants himself between Gille and the rest of the world. He shouts at him to drop the knife. And while bystanders around him are calling for him to shoot — people yelling at him to just end it — Derrick Perry holds his ground and holds his fire.

Because he is not the judge. He is not the jury. He is not the executioner. He said so himself, on Good Morning America, two days later.

"The only thing that separated me from the other gentleman that had stepped in as well was what I was carrying in my hands."

Let that sentence sit for a moment. The other gentleman — Matt Kolakowski, also a Marine, who rammed Gille with a shopping cart — was willing but unarmed. Perry was willing AND armed. The gun is what made the difference. Not the willingness. The tool.

Gille dropped the knife.

Perry held him at gunpoint until law enforcement arrived. Not one additional person was stabbed after Perry drew his weapon. Not one.

Grand Traverse County Sheriff Michael Shea said it plainly at the press conference: "What they did was amazing. It's not very often that we have citizens that are willing to step up and take action."

The Traverse City Police Chief called Perry a hero. His daughter posted on Facebook that it was "a proud daughter moment." His daughter-in-law called him "a true hero." People suggested a Presidential Medal of Freedom. And then — as predictable as the sunrise — the national conversation moved on to the next thing, and Derrick Perry went back to his life, shaken in the ways that men who have seen real violence get shaken, and mostly quiet about it, the way Marines tend to be.

Bradford James Gille was charged with one count of terrorism and eleven counts of assault with intent to murder. That is what this was legally classified as. Terrorism.

And the man who stopped the terrorism? He was carrying a concealed handgun on a Saturday afternoon in Michigan because he has the right to do that. And because of that right — because of that specific, constitutionally protected, politically embattled, orange-ribbon-opposed RIGHT — eleven people were the last victims instead of more.

Now let me give you the number that the awareness campaign does not want you connecting to Derrick Perry's story.

Because there is a number. And it is extraordinary.

In 2025, the homicide rate in the United States dropped to approximately 4.0 per 100,000 people. The Council on Criminal Justice, analyzing data from 40 cities, found homicides fell 21 percent from 2024 alone. The FBI's own preliminary data showed an 18 percent drop in homicides between September 2024 and August 2025. Gun assaults specifically fell 22 percent. Robberies fell 23 percent.

If those final numbers hold, 2025 will have the lowest homicide rate ever recorded in law enforcement or public health data going back to 1900. One hundred and twenty-five years of records. And 2025 sits at the bottom.

Here is what happened simultaneously, in the same country, during the same years.

Since the Supreme Court struck down "may issue" carry laws in Bruen v. New York in June 2022, the number of states with constitutional carry — meaning no permit required to carry a legally-owned firearm — went from a handful to 29. Twenty-nine states. Forty-six point eight percent of the American population now lives in a constitutional carry state. Over 67 percent of the land mass of this country is now constitutional carry territory.

Everytown for Gun Safety predicted crime would soar after Bruen. They said it explicitly. More guns, more violence. The data they did not predict: homicides fell 14.9 percent in 2023, another 18 percent in 2024, and another estimated 21 percent in 2025. Three consecutive years of historic drops in violent crime, every single one of them occurring AFTER the largest expansion of legal carry rights in American history.

Meanwhile, gun ownership itself hit record highs. Tens of millions of firearms were purchased over the same period. More guns. In more hands. In more states with fewer restrictions.

Less crime.

Every single year. Three years running. By historic margins.

John Lott spent decades running the numbers. More Guns, Less Crime. That was not a talking point. That was 13,312 statistically controlled regressions across every county in America, now confirmed in real-time by the largest crime drop in 125 years happening simultaneously with the largest expansion of carry rights in American history.

Quinn's Law Number Six: facts are the enemy of liberalism.

And here is the fact that should end this particular argument permanently: the people who told you more armed citizens meant more violence were not just wrong. They were wrong in the most measurable, most documented, most empirically catastrophic way possible. The opposite happened. On the scale of an entire nation. For three straight years.

Derrick Perry is not a statistic. He is a Marine who was carrying a handgun on a Saturday afternoon because it is his right to do so, and who used that right to stop a terrorist from stabbing more people in a Michigan Walmart while a mother somewhere in that store screamed for her son.

He held his fire when he did not have to. He held his ground when everyone else ran. And then he went home. No congressional medal. No prime-time documentary. No awareness month.

Just a man. A gun. And eleven people who went to the hospital instead of the morgue.

I think about that mother a lot. The one screaming for her son. I hope she found him. I hope they sat in the parking lot afterward and held each other for a long time without saying anything, the way families do when they realize how close it was.

I hope she knows Derrick Perry's name.

But what do I know — I am only a combat medic who has heard that specific sound before and who has never once wished there were fewer armed, trained, willing people in the vicinity when it happens.

IF you agree:
LIKE this post so the algorithm shows it to people who need to read it.
SHARE this. Derrick Perry deserves more than three days and a GMA interview.
COMMENT below. You have seen the video. A Marine. A handgun. A terrorist who dropped his knife. What does that tell you? Tell me.

And if you want MORE of this -- the data, the history, the science, the stories -- JOIN Bski's Classroom community on X or YouTube.

#MAGA #Veterans #Trump
@JoJoFromJerz @GuntherEagleman @catturd2

[DEC @DEClarkII]

Trump is the best President in history. Past and probably future.

[ⁿᵉʷˢ Barron Trump 🇺🇸 @BarronTNews_]

🚨 TRIBUTE: What President Trump has endured while fighting for this country in his seventies and now eighties is something most people could never survive mentally, physically, or spiritually.
Most men his age would be enjoying retirement, sitting with their family, and staying far away from the ugliness of politics, but Trump chose nonstop battle instead.
He took every hit they threw at him, every lie, every courtroom ambush, every media smear, every threat against his life, his family, his business, and his legacy, and somehow he still kept standing in front of the American people with more energy than the people half his age trying to destroy him.
They impeached him twice, dragged him through years of Russia hoax garbage, weaponized the DOJ and FBI, buried him under bogus cases, tried to bankrupt him, tried to jail him, tried to humiliate his family, and still could not break him.
Then came the real darkness: assassination attempts, threats, and even a reported Iran-linked plot against Ivanka Trump that law enforcement had to stop before it became something horrific.
This is a man who risked everything, including his own life, because he refused to surrender America to the same corrupt machine that has been bleeding this country dry for decades. A simple “thank you” will never be enough.
President Trump deserves our prayers, our loyalty, our support, and our commitment to finish what he started. He never quit on us, so we should never quit on him.

🇺🇸 GOD BLESS PRESIDENT TRUMP

[Whiplash437 @MrWhiplash_]

FBI Director Kash Patel talks about what he’s proved Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama did

“It took me 2 years of my life to prove the following, that a political party in the United States of America in the 21st century would go overseas and hire some bogus intelligence asset to manufacture fraudulent, fake unverified information. Funnel that to not just the intelligence community, but the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and then take those package lies that they had paid for with campaign finance funds, and go into a secret surveillance court and illegally spy on your opponent to be the next president of the United States.

I think that was 45 seconds. That took two years of my life. And what did we find out?

The FISA court themselves came back and said these warrants were illegal, that the FBI did not provide evidence of exculpatory evidence and innocence, and that the FBI essentially lied in those applications.”

It was a coup. It was literally treason and not a single people has been held accountable.

Think about that ZERO accountability even when the FBI Director has proven evidence of treason

This is where we are….

[Gunther Eagleman™ @GuntherEagleman]

🚨 VANILLA ICE just BODIED the haters on Kayleigh 

While celebs like Martina McBride, The Commodores & more BAIL on America’s 250th Freedom Concert because “Trump’s involved”…

Ice says: “Who throws a better party than Trump? This is AMERICA’S party, not politics. Music brings people together. We’re celebrating 250 years of this country. Spread the love”

Real patriot vibes. “If Joe Biden was hosting, I’d still play.”

Ice gets it. The silent majority is DONE with the division.

[Mr PitBull Stories @MrPitbull07]

On Easter Sunday in 1987, the last California condor flying wild on Earth was captured in the mountains of California. When the net closed around the bird, the species officially disappeared from the wild. Only 27 condors remained, all living in captivity. For the first time in thousands of years, not a single California condor was flying free.

The bird was known as AC-9, a young male nicknamed Topa Topa. Scientists had tracked him for years, documenting his behavior, relationships, and early breeding attempts. He wasn't just another bird—every remaining condor was known individually because there were so few left.

The decision to capture the last wild condors sparked fierce controversy. Critics argued that a condor living behind fences had lost what made it truly wild. Supporters saw a harsher reality: lead poisoning, power lines, and shootings were wiping the species out. With only a handful left, conservationists faced a brutal choice—captivity or extinction.

The gamble worked. Breeding techniques like puppet-rearing and double-clutching helped increase the population, and in 1992 the first captive-bred condors returned to the sky. Early releases struggled, but scientists adapted, teaching young birds to avoid power lines and learn survival skills from experienced condors.

Today, more than 600 California condors exist, with most flying free across California, Arizona, and Mexico. The species is still threatened, especially by lead poisoning, but it has achieved one of the greatest wildlife recoveries in history.

AC-9 never returned to the wild. Yet his capture marked both the end of the California condor in nature—and the beginning of its comeback. The bird that helped make the species extinct in the wild also helped save it from extinction forever.

[Terrence K. Williams @w_terrence]

No word from Black Lives Matter or Al Sharpton.

Not one demand for answers. Not one national outrage campaign. Not even people saying her name.

This is Margaret Swan, a great-grandmother who was stabbed to death 20 times in a random attack in the middle of the day on Atlanta’s public transit.

Her murder was the second horrific attack on MARTA in just one week.

I want answers from Atlanta. The number of assaults, robberies, and rapes on MARTA trains is more than three times the national average.

[GRANDPA’s FREE ADVICE @GOP_is_Gutless]

🔥 BOLTON PLEADS GUILTY — Evidence Overwhelming

Gregg Jarrett: Bolton caved to avoid trial on 18 counts. He stored thousands of pages of classified/top-secret docs at home — clear Espionage Act violations — then shared them with uncleared family members.

Biden’s DOJ launched the probe after Iran hacked his computer and damaged national security.

He blamed Trump.

Schiff & Raskin echoed it.

Turns out it was Biden’s team all along.

What do you think? 👇
#JohnBolton #EspionageAct #BidenDOJ #DeepState #AmericaFirst

[Eric Daugherty @EricLDaugh]

🚨 WOW! JD Vance reveals after Charlie Kirk's death, his wife Usha moved from being done with having children to wanting more ❤️🙏🏻

"As my wife held Charlie Kirk's widow on the first day of her terrible sorrow, Erika told Usha between sobs that she regretted having only two kids with Charlie."

"For years, I'd asked Usha to have another baby, and for years, she told me she was done, especially now that public service had elevated us into the national spotlight."

"But something changed for Usha, and not long after we buried my friend, she became pregnant with our fourth child, a boy."

"I don't know why God does things like this, but I am grateful to him that there will soon be another source of joy in our lives, another beautiful soul to wonder at and fall in love with, God's beautiful creation."

[Right Scope 🇺🇸 @RightScopee]

🚨 BREAKING: President Trump just dropped the hammer on every Governor — demanding PAPER BALLOTS, SAME-DAY VOTING, VOTER ID, and PROOF OF CITIZENSHIP NOW!

No more excuses. No more games. Secure elections or get left behind.

👍 Smash that Thumbs Up if you BACK President Trump 100% on this!

MAKE IT GO VIRAL ON 𝕏 — Let’s force real election integrity! 🔥🇺🇸

[Kayleigh McEnany @kayleighmcenany]

🚨 NEW: The church that Don Lemon and other agitators stormed is STILL being harassed EVERY, SINGLE Sunday and St. Paul announced it will NOT pursue charges❗️

@jonathanparnell, the Lead Pastor of Cities Church, told me, that "Every Sunday, since January 18th, a group of agitators come and stand in front of our church building, and they harass people on their way to worship."

"They are trying to incite violence just like the people who invaded our church and desecrated our worship."

"They want to shut us down."

"But here's the thing, they picked the wrong church."

"We're not leaving. We're going to keep worshiping Jesus. We're going to keep spreading the Gospel."

@SatAmericaFNC ⬇️

[Wall Street Apes @WallStreetApes]

Here we go, the Los Angeles Times is admitting that yes, tens of thousands of mail in ballots did get processed for only Mayor Karen Bass and Nithya Raman but it was “a glitch”

They say the system just “glitched” for a minute and didn’t process any ballots for Spencer Pratt but really there were ballots for Spencer, they just didn’t get processed during the “glitch”

No, we don’t believe you. This is fraud and Democrats are cheating

“It was the result of a lag in an automated collection of the data in which there was one data collection that captured votes in a single batch of votes for Bass and Raman, and then about 1 minute later, the collection of the rest of that same batch of votes — Folks I spoke to also said there is no fraud. But again, there was no batch of votes without any Pratt votes. There was sort of a 1-minute variation between the upload of Bass and Raman votes and Pratt votes on some media websites.

Officials and others who have reviewed the data say that is not any proof of fraud. There was no fraud.”

Again, yeah right. We need a federal audit into California elections

[DEC @DEClarkII]

Every bit of this is true.

[John Ʌ Konrad V @johnkonrad]

All the posts yesterday: my great uncle’s roommate’s brother stormed Normandy, and Hegseth would have disgusted him.

Fine. Name one thing on this Democrat agenda list that a landing craft full of 18-year-olds from the Greatest Generation would have supported in 1944:

COVID vaccine mandates

Mass immigration

Non-citizens voting

Gay marriage

Abortion on demand

Migrant hotel spending

Transgender athletes in women’s sports

Gender transitions for minors

Defunding the police

Fentanyl flooding over open borders

Cashless bail

Sanctuary cities

The Afghanistan withdrawal

FBI coordination with social media platforms

A press that carries water for one party
DEI hiring and admissions

Stripping parents of a say in their kids’ schools

Soft-on-crime prosecutors

Anti-Christian contempt dressed up as tolerance

Pregnant women and their unborn babies in combat

LGBTQ+ flags flying in churches

Soft woke generals and admirals

Decriminalized retail theft

Massive foreign aid while Americans are starving

They crossed an ocean to defend a country. Ask yourself if it was this one.

Anyone thinking your great uncle’s roommate’s brother who fought on D-Day would be disgusted by MAGA is projecting.

It’s FAR more likely they would be disgusted by support for the chemical castration of young boys.

[Voices of WW2 @VoicesofWW2]

June 5, 1944. You've been awake for 40 hours.

Yesterday, the operation was called off. Eisenhower stood in a muddy airfield in England, stared at the forecast, and postponed the largest invasion in human history by 24 hours because of weather. So 156,000 men sat on ships, in ports, crammed into LSTs and Higgins boats, trying not to think about what tomorrow meant.

You're 19 years old. You're from a town so small your whole graduating class fit in one room. You've been in the Army 14 months and you've never fired a weapon at a person. None of that prepared you for tonight.

The chaplain holds a service on deck. It's dark and the ship is rocking. Half your platoon shows up. The other half write letters. The guy next to you, Kowalski from Cleveland, keeps folding and unfolding the same piece of paper. You ask if he's going to send it. He says he doesn't know who to send it to.

At 0100, the order comes down. You climb the rope net over the side of the ship in the pitch dark, down into the Higgins boat bucking in the swells below. 35 men in a steel box 36 feet long. The smell of diesel and seawater and vomit hits you before you're even seated.

The English Channel in early June is not kind.

Eight-foot swells. The bow punches up and crashes down, again and again, spraying ice-cold seawater over everyone. Within 20 minutes, the guy across from you is sick. Then the guy next to him. Then the guy next to you. Then you. There's nowhere to go. Nowhere to look. You're soaked through your wool uniform and the wind is in the low 50s and you've been awake so long the fear has almost become boring.

One sergeant keeps whispering the Hail Mary. Not loud, not for anyone, just to himself, over and over, like a machine that can't stop. A kid from Georgia named Willis is crying and doesn't seem to know it. Nobody says anything to him. Nobody has the energy.

Then the battleships open up.

USS Texas. 14-inch guns. The shockwave from a single salvo is so violent it physically moves the air in your chest. The noise is past sound. It's concussive, it's physical, it rewires something deep in your brain. The sky over Normandy turns orange. Then red. Then orange again. B-17s roll over in formations so vast they blot out the stars, 1,000 planes heading for the coastal batteries, the bunkers, the gun emplacements.

You think: nothing on that beach is still alive. Nothing could be.

You are wrong, and you don't know it yet.

What you don't know: the Air Force bombers delayed their drop by 30 seconds to avoid hitting the fleet. Thirty seconds at bombing speed puts 13,000 bombs 3 miles inland. Into French farmland. Into empty fields. Not one bomb lands on Omaha Beach. The German 352nd Infantry Division, dug into concrete bunkers along the bluffs, is untouched. Alert. Waiting.

You also don't know about the tanks.

Command planned to send 64 amphibious Sherman DD tanks ahead of the infantry to provide cover on the beach. They were supposed to float. In calm water, they could. But this is not calm water. The 741st Tank Battalion launches their tanks from 6,000 yards out. The swells hit the inflatable canvas screens. The screens collapse. Twenty-seven of 32 tanks sink straight to the bottom of the Channel, 100 feet down. The crews inside most of them never get out. The infantry landing in the first wave will hit the beach with almost no armor. They just don't know that yet either.

H-Hour. 0630. June 6, 1944.

Your ramp drops.

The lieutenant in front of you steps off and is dead before he hits the water. Not wounded. Dead. You don't stop. There's no stopping. 35 men are behind you in a boat with nowhere to go but forward.

You jump left. The man to your right jumps right. You never see him again.

The water is chest deep and 50 degrees and you have 70 pounds of gear on your back. German MG-42 machine guns are firing 1,200 rounds per minute from the bluffs 300 yards ahead, and the sound is not like the movies. It's mechanical. Industrial. Like a factory running at full speed. The rounds hit the water around you so fast you can't track individual splashes, just a constant disturbed surface in every direction.

You cannot run. You can barely walk. The beach is still 80 yards away.

The soldiers from Company A, 116th Infantry made it to shore first. They were from Bedford, Virginia, a town of 3,200 people. There were 35 men from Bedford in that company. The German guns had been pre-sighted on the waterline. Before most of them could clear the ramp, before they could even get wet, the machine guns hit them. Nineteen of the Bedford boys died in the first 15 minutes. Bedford, Virginia lost more men per capita that morning than any community in America. The town wouldn't know for weeks.

You make the shingle. A narrow strip of gravel at the base of the bluffs. You press yourself into it so hard you feel the rocks through your jacket. The guy beside you is a technical sergeant you've never met, from a different unit entirely, blown here by chaos. He's got blood on his sleeve and he is absolutely furious. He looks at you and says what Colonel George Taylor will say to everyone still pinned on this beach:

"Two kinds of people are staying on this beach. The dead and those who are going to die. Now let's get the hell out of here."

You get up.

It takes six hours to clear 300 yards of sand.

Not with a charge. Not with anything glorious. In tiny groups, one gap in the wire at a time. Sergeant Philip Streczyk crawls through the smoke near the E-1 draw and finds a seam the Germans left in the defenses. He takes six men through it. Another cluster flanks a machine gun nest from an angle the Germans didn't fully cover. A corporal nobody has heard of stands up in the open and throws two grenades into a bunker aperture and clears it by himself. Acts of individual, unrepeatable courage happening in the smoke all across a 6-mile front, uncoordinated, unrecorded, unwitnessed.

Meanwhile, half a mile off the beach, USS Frankford sees the infantry getting slaughtered and makes a decision that violates every piece of common sense a naval officer has. She drives her destroyer to within 800 yards of the beach, so close she's bouncing her keel off sandbars, and opens up direct fire on the bunkers at point-blank range. They can't miss at that distance. Three other destroyers follow her in. The crews know they are one lucky German shell from being sunk in 15 feet of water. They do it anyway.

By noon, small groups are on the bluff.

By early afternoon, you can stand on the high ground and see the entire beach below. The tide came in. The men who were wounded and couldn't crawl fast enough are gone. The obstacles are still there, draped with things you don't look at directly. You eat half a K-ration because it's the first food since yesterday and your hands are shaking too much to open the other half.

By nightfall, 2,000 Americans are dead, wounded, or missing. On this one beach. In one day. It is the single costliest day in American military history.

You sleep in a shell crater in French soil. Still wet. No sleeping bag. 40-something degrees now that the sun is down. The man a crater over is crying softly. You don't check on him. You need him to be fine. He probably is. You tell yourself he probably is.

Tomorrow the hedgerows start. Weeks of fighting through walls of vegetation 10 feet thick, every field a potential ambush, every sunken lane its own kill zone. The Germans mastered it. The terrain was not on the maps. Nobody had planned for it.

But tonight you're alive.

You think about Kowalski and his unfolded letter. You think about the Bedford boys. You think about the tanks on the bottom of the Channel with their hatches sealed.

You get out your paper and you write your own letter.

This time you address it.

82 years ago today. Most of them were teenagers. Most had never left their home states. They were seasick and soaked and terrified and they went anyway.

The youngest survivors are over 100 now. Most are gone.

Remember them today, not as marble statues. As kids who threw up over the side of a boat at 3 AM and climbed a cliff at dawn anyway.

That is what courage actually looks like.

[Sassafrass84 @Sassafrass_84]

It was never supposed to be a career.