Olivia
Online
Russell Working
@ElephantJingo
Author/freelancer. X locked me out @byworking. Rebuilding while fending off big-lipped bot lady followers.
Illinois, USA
Joined February 2026
182 Following
21 Followers
304 Posts
@Resmed
You sent a no-reply email asking about my CPAP.
IT. FEELS. TERRIBLE.
It interferes with my sleep.
But no-reply means you're really not interested in feedback, despite the question in your subject line.
Striving to make it work, but it's done nothing 2 weeks in.
NO white person alive today owned slaves. Teach your kids that.
NO black person alive today was born a slave. Teach your kids that.
Not all white people owned slaves back then. Teach your kids that.
Millions of white people fought and died to end slavery. Teach your kids that.
People should not inherit guilt from their ancestors. Teach your kids that.
People should not inherit victimhood from their ancestors. Teach your kids that.
You are responsible for your own actions, not the actions of people who lived 200 years ago. Teach your kids that.
America is not perfect, but it is not uniquely evil. Teach your kids that.
The West is responsible for some of humanity's greatest advances in freedom, science, medicine, and prosperity. Teach your kids that.
Loving your country is not racism. Teach your kids that.
Wanting secure borders is not racism. Teach your kids that.
Wanting safe communities is not racism. Teach your kids that.
Wanting merit over quotas is not racism. Teach your kids that.
Questioning political narratives is not racism. Teach your kids that.
People should be judged by their character, not their skin color. Teach your kids that.
History should be taught honestly, not used as a weapon. Teach your kids that.
A nation that teaches its children to hate their heritage will not survive. Teach your kids that.
Your country is your home. Protecting it is not something to be ashamed of. Teach your kids that.
You do not owe an apology for being born. Teach your kids that.
Never let fear of being called names stop you from speaking the truth as you see it. Teach your kids that.
امیدوارم یه روزی انقدر پاسپورتمون قدرتمند بشه
که بتونیم بدون ویزا بریم سوئیس
سر در سازمان حقوق بشر برینیم و برگردیم
@UN
Fun celebration of manhood and dangerous jobs.
Never forget who you are, American boy.
May you win this war.
I heard the 40 day war above my head.
Jets. Bombs. Missiles. Explosions tearing the night open.
But I was not afraid the way I was afraid in January.
Because I knew those bombs were not looking for me.
They were not hunting my mother. They were not hunting my friends. They were not hunting children in the streets. They were not hunting Iran.
On January 8 and 9, the bullets were.
That was when we were the target.
The terrorist Islamic Regime occupying Iran came at our people with Kalashnikovs, G3s, snipers, Winchesters, pistols, DShKs, daggers, machetes, and axes.
Women. Men. Children. The old. The young. Families who came together and were killed together.
Not one. Not ten. Not a hundred.
Tens of thousands.
Now ask yourselves something simple.
Why did the regime cut our internet in January, then cut it again during the 40 day war?
Why did it go so far in January that even basic signals were swallowed?
A regime does not bury a nation in silence to protect it.
It does it so you cannot count the bodies.
During the 40 day war, reported deaths inside Iran were in the thousands, including civilians.
Every civilian life matters.
But in January, when the regime’s guns were pointed at us, Iranians speak of more than 40,000 killed in the streets.
And in 2026 alone, the same gallows have taken at least 43 political and conscience prisoners.
So do the math they pray you never do.
Who kills Iranians at scale? Who cuts the signal before the bullets? Who needs blackout before massacre? Who needs silence before the rope?
That was the war against Iran.
Not the 40 day war.
The 40 day war struck the same machine that planted bullets in our chests. The same occupier that massacred our people, buried the truth under blackout, dragged foreign militias into our streets, and then dared to wear Iran’s name like a stolen flag.
So understand this clearly:
Our enemy is the Islamic Republic.
Our war is with the Islamic Republic.
When America and Israel strike the regime, we do not see a war against Iran and its people.
We see help against the force that has been waging war on Iran for 47 years.
The regime wants the world to confuse our prison with our country.
We will not.
Iran is the nation.
The Islamic Republic is the gun pointed at its heart.
۵ ماه از شبی که همه با هم رفتیم بیرون ولی ۴۰ هزار نفرمون دیگه برنگشتن گذشت
فراموش نکنید.
They could still stop this, the French, but they won’t, because it means voting for people willing to crack down on this crap.
Anonyme : Je suis pompier et ce que j’ai vu hier dans les rues de Paris m’a brisé le cœur.
On est intervenus vers 22h, après l’appel pour un feu de poubelles qui dégénérait. On pensait à un simple incident de soirée. On est arrivés sur place et c’était l’enfer. Paris, ma ville, celle où j’ai grandi, où j’ai fait mes premières gardes, était devenue une zone de guerre. Des fumées noires partout, des cris, des explosions de mortiers. Des groupes de jeunes, souvent issus de l’immigration, cagoulés, organisés, qui chargeaient les forces de l’ordre comme sur un champ de bataille.
J’ai vu des collègues policiers se faire lyncher à coups de barre de fer. J’ai vu une voiture de police caillassée alors qu’on sortait juste pour éteindre un feu qui menaçait des familles. On a été pris à partie par des émeutiers qui nous hurlaient dessus, nous traitant de “chiens”. On essayait juste de sauver des vies, et on devenait des cibles.
J’ai ramassé un gamin de 14 ans, le visage en sang, qui pleurait en disant qu’il avait suivi “les grands” pour “s’amuser”. J’ai vu une mère de famille, volets fermés, qui nous suppliait de protéger ses enfants pendant que ça cassait tout en bas. Les vitrines défoncées, les commerces pillés, les voitures brûlées… tout ça sous prétexte de “fêter” quelque chose.
Fêter, ce n’est pas casser.
C’est ça, la France en 2026 ? Un pays où on ne peut plus sortir le soir sans risquer sa vie ? Un pays où des quartiers entiers sont livrés à des clans qui ne respectent ni nos lois, ni notre histoire, ni nos pompiers, ni nos policiers ? Où on regarde impuissant notre capitale, symbole de lumière et de culture, transformée en terrain de jeu pour des barbares qui crachent sur la main qui les nourrit ?
Cette nuit, en rentrant chez moi à 6h du matin, encore couvert de suie et de sueur, j’ai pleuré comme un gosse. Pas de fatigue. De rage et de tristesse. Pour mes enfants. Pour mes collègues blessés. Pour ce pays que j’aime et qui se laisse mourir.
Réveillez-vous. S’il vous plaît. Avant qu’il ne reste plus rien à sauver.
@grapefruit_blvd @ByWorking Hey, @grapefruit_blvd, just a reminder that I'm now @ElephantJingo. X locked me out of my old account and offers no recourse for restoring it.
Problems in Paris
🇫🇷 Paris is burning tonight.
PSG won the Champions League and their own fans are setting the city on fire to celebrate.
The shops on the Champs-Élysées boarded up yesterday. Turns out they absolutely needed to.
🇺🇸 Most Badass Presidents: Combat Veteran Edition #1 George Washington
George Washington, our 1st President, was one badass President.
Was the Father of our country under the miraculous care of divine Providence?
You tell me.
We all know his stories. But these will leave you absolutely awestruck.
Born February 22, 1732, in Westmoreland County, Virginia.
At age 21, Washington volunteered for a 500-mile winter expedition through the frozen wilderness to deliver a warning to the French near Lake Erie.
On the return trip, the deep snow crippled their horses. He and his guide went out on foot and followed an Indian on a treacherous shortcut. When they reached a clearing, the Indian stepped ahead, turned, and fired at him point blank.
The bullet passed harmlessly by him.
In 1755, during the Battle of the Monongahela, Washington rode straight into a French and Indian ambush as aide to Gen. Braddock.
He was suffering from severe dysentery but dragged himself onto his saddle.
The slaughter was horrifying, and every other mounted officer was targeted and killed around him.
Two horses were shot out from under him.
Four bullets ripped through his coat and one his hat.
He emerged completely unscathed.
He later wrote in awe that “I was saved by the miraculous care of Providence.”
Fifteen years later in 1770, an old Native American chief traveled a long path just to look upon Washington’s face again.
The chief revealed that during that bloody battle, he had personally fired at Washington 17 times with a rifle that never missed.
He ordered his warriors to target him exclusively, but every single musket ball failed to pierce him.
Awed and terrified, the chief commanded his men to stop firing, declaring that Washington was under the special guardianship of the Great Spirit and could never die in battle.
In 1758 near Fort Duquesne, his own troops, mistaking the other for enemy, began firing wildly at each other in the darkness and smoke.
Washington charged between the two lines.
He desperately used his sword to knock up the presented muskets of his own men.
Bullets flew all around him.
14 men were killed and 26 wounded, but he came away untouched.
At the Battle of Kip’s Bay in September 1776, he galloped alone toward the British lines when his militia troops broke and ran without firing a shot.
He faced about fifty redcoats at close range as they leveled their muskets.
His aides seized his horse’s bridle and dragged him to safety at the very last second.
At the Battle of Princeton in January 1777, Washington rode his white horse directly between the British and American lines to rally his wavering troops.
He was 30 yards from the British front line.
He then ordered his men to fire.
An aide covered his eyes with a handkerchief, certain the commander would meet his death.
When the smoke cleared, Washington then chased the fleeing British alone shouting, “It’s a fine fox chase, my boys!”
At the Battle of Brandywine in September 1777, Washington was secretly scouted in the woods by British Captain Patrick Ferguson, the inventor of a revolutionary, rapid fire rifle.
Ferguson crept close, leveled his lethal weapon, and had him directly in his crosshairs.
As Washington turned to ride away, Ferguson’s gentlemanly code of honor stopped him from shooting an unsuspecting man in the back.
The sniper lowered his rifle and let him ride on, completely unaware that he could have ended the American Revolution.
Ferguson later wrote that he could have easily lodged half a dozen balls in him, but admitted, “I let him alone.”
Time after time he emerged from battle without a single scratch.
Did I mention this man also defeated the greatest empire on earth?
When King George III learned that Washington planned to surrender his military commission and return to farming at wars end, he said, “If he does that, he will be the greatest man in the world.”
Yes, he was.
And we were blessed to have him.
Thank you, Mr. President! 🇺🇸🫡
What does James talarico call women?
"neighbors with a uterus"
And thanks for Elon, who saved the First Amendment.
Thank Heaven for the First Amendment in America!
A very sad announcement.
I have just been convicted a second time for 'hate speech' and it is only due to a technicality that I could not immediately be sent to jail —to the judge's frustration.
In an ironic turn of events it's actually thanks to my previous prison sentence (for memes in a private group chat) that I am now still free —in a physical sense, at least.
Call me naive but I didn't think they would take it this far, given that this precedent criminalises many of the arguments used by even the most moderate politicians critical of mass migration.
In February 2024 I gave a lecture at Catholic University Leuven wherein I linked mass migration to crime and a deterioration of our quality of life. Every single point I made was 100% the truth and based on scientific evidence.
Cynically, even the judge that convicted me admits as much by writing in his verdict: “Even if all of the statements made by Van Langenhove are based on scientific evidence and statistics, it makes no difference to the criminal intent. Van Langenhove is not charged with spreading false information. He is charged with presenting facts in a way that incites hatred against persons on the grounds of one or more of the protected criteria in the Anti-Racism Law.”
That's a lot of words just to say he wants to send me to prison for speaking the truth.
Even the regime media write: "It did not matter to the court that Van Langenhove was quoting scientific sources. The judge argued that Van Langenhove's main message was that a big part of the societal problems like insecurity, housing shortages and lowering educational standards are due to mass migration."
You may think the regime media are being sympathetic to me in the first sentence, but in reality they are warning people: even if you speak the truth, if you go against our narrative, we will crush you in every way possible.
Both the public prosecutor and the judge did not present a single real argument as to how or against whom I would have incited hatred. So even if I would accept their crazy, dystopic law, I still did not break it.
The only argument they present is that I created a "hostile atmosphere of us versus them” in regards to migrants. But even this silly argument (which is not even a punishable offence) is not true. To me, the deadly disease is self-hatred and one of its worst symptoms is replacement migration. My enemy is thus NOT the migrants themselves but those orchestrating the mass migration.
Sadly, in Belgium, evidence is not needed and ‘vibes’ are enough to put someone in jail.
Given the fact that I have another court case coming up in September and that I have a dozen active criminal investigations for hate speech, time is running out for me. I have already paid more than €420,000 in legal fees and there is no ending in sight. I have been in an intense battle of attrition for eight years and must now regroup to make sure I can still win.
If you want to help me, you can do so via the links below. If you can help in other ways, please contact me via DM.
If you live in a country that still has free speech, never let them touch it, however noble they make the motives sound, because this is where it leads to.
Barbara Walters writes:
Unfortunately, many have forgotten and still countless others have never known how Ms. Fonda betrayed not only the idea of our country, but specific men who served and sacrificed during the Vietnam War.
The first part of this is from an F-4E pilot. The pilot's name is Jerry Driscoll, a River Rat. In 1968, the former Commandant of the USAF Survival School was a POW in Ho LoPrison, the "Hanoi Hilton."
Dragged from a stinking cesspit of a cell, cleaned, fed, and dressed in clean PJ's, he was ordered to describe for a visiting American "peace activist" the "lenient and humane treatment" he'd received.
He spat at Ms. Fonda, was clubbed, and was dragged away. During the subsequent beating, he fell forward onto the camp commandant 's feet, which sent that officer berserk.
In 1978, the Air Force Colonel still suffered from double vision (which permanently ended his flying career) from the Commandant's frenzied application of a wooden baton.
From 1963-65, Col. Larry Carrigan was in the 47FW/DO (F-4E's). He spent 6 years in the "Hanoi Hilton". . . The first three of which his family only knew he was "missing in action." His wife lived on faith that he was still alive. His group, too, got the cleaned-up, fed and clothed routine in preparation for a "peace delegation" visit.
They, however, had time and devised a plan to get word to the world that they were alive and still survived. Each man secreted a tiny piece of paper, with his Social Security Number on it, in the palm of his hand. When paraded before Ms. Fonda and a cameraman, she walked the line, shaking each man's hand and asking little encouraging snippets like: "Aren't you sorry you bombed babies?" and "Are you grateful for the humane treatment from your benevolent captors?" Believing this HAD to be an act, they each palmed her their sliver of paper.
She took them all without missing a beat. . . At the end of the line and once the camera stopped rolling, to the shocked disbelief of the POWs, she turned to the officer in charge and handed him all the little pieces of paper...
Three men died from the subsequent beatings. Colonel Carrigan was almost number four but he survived, which is the only reason we know of her actions that day.
I was a civilian economic development adviser in Vietnam, and was captured by the North Vietnamese communists in South Vietnam in 1968, and held prisoner for over 5 years.
I spent 27 months in solitary confinement; one year in a cage in Cambodia; and one year in a 'black box' in Hanoi. My North Vietnamese captors deliberately poisoned and murdered a female missionary, a nurse in a leprosarium in Banme Thuot, South Vietnam, whom I buried in the jungle near the Cambodian border. At one time, I weighed only about 90 lbs. (My normal weight is 170 lbs.)
We were Jane Fonda's "war criminals."
When Jane Fonda was in Hanoi, I was asked by the camp communist political officer if I would be willing to meet with her. I said yes, for I wanted to tell her about the real treatment we POWs received. . . and how different it was from the treatment purported by the North Vietnamese, and parroted by her as "humane and lenient."
Because of this, I spent three days on a rocky floor on my knees, with my arms outstretched with a large steel weight placed on my hands, and beaten with a bamboo cane.
I had the opportunity to meet with Jane Fonda soon after I was released. I asked her if she would be willing to debate me on TV. She never did answer me.
These first-hand experiences do not exemplify someone who should be honored as part of "100 Years of Great Women." Lest we forget. . . "100 Years of Great Women" should never include a traitor whose hands are covered with the blood of so many patriots.
There are few things I have strong visceral reactions to, but Hanoi Jane's participation in blatant treason, is one of them. Please take the time to forward to as many people as you possibly can. It will eventually end up on her computer, and she needs to know that we will never forget. See less
“Those poor souls. They didn’t have their fathers here”
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Marine Colonel Francis Fenton kneels beside his son, Private First Class Mike Fenton, near Shuri, Okinawa, May 1945.
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They had met once during the fighting when their paths crossed at a partially destroyed Okinawan farmhouse. After exchanging news the two family members returned to their work. They would never talk again. On May 7, 1945, while beating back a Japanese counterattack the younger Fenton, 19, was killed.
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When his father received the bitter news, he traveled to the site of his son’s death and knelt down to pray over the flag-draped body.
-
Upon arising, Colonel Fenton stared at the bodies of other Marine dead and said: ‘Those poor souls. They didn’t have their fathers here’
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If you’ll remember in the past, I posted a photo of Captain Ike Fenton of 1/5 in Korea, 1950. Ike Fenton was another son of Col Fenton.
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This Memorial Day, and every day, remember those who paid the ultimate sacrifice and spend the day how you feel best honors their memory.
NOW: VP Vance pays tribute to America's fallen heroes:
"Today is for those veterans who put on the uniform, who went overseas and who never came home."
"When I think about the debt that we owe them, I think about all the things that they gave, which can't be measured in dollars or in the things of this world..."
"They traded every moment from the moment where they gave their lives to the moment where they would ultimately meet their natural end. Every single one of those moments, they gave up that the United States might remain the freest and best country in the entire world."
In 1977, Jorge Luis Borges — already blind, already legendary — sat across from William F. Buckley on Firing Line & explained why English is the greatest language in the world & why he respected it too much to write his poetry in it.
Incredible. Stories like this are why I am researching Shoah survivor stories for a novel I’m writing. The world must remember.
In Auschwitz, my mother taught me three rules.
Not stories. Not prayers. Rules. The kind that kept you alive.
Rule one: Never make eye contact with a guard.
Rule two: Never show that you are sick.
Rule three: Never, ever, lose your bowl.
I was five years old. I memorized them the way other children memorize nursery rhymes.
The bowl was a small tin thing. Dented. Scratched. It held whatever thin soup they gave us once a day. If you lost your bowl, you had no bowl. If you had no bowl, you had no ration. If you had no ration, you understand.
I guarded that bowl with everything I had. I slept with it. I held it against my chest during roll call. I knew where it was every second of every day.
Then one morning, I fell into the latrine.
There is no delicate way to say this. The latrines in Auschwitz were wooden boards with holes cut into them over a pit. The holes were large. I was very small. I was in a hurry. I slipped.
I went in up to my neck.
The smell. The cold. The rats. I do not need to describe it. Your mind already knows.
My mother tried to pull me out. She could not. I was slippery and she had no strength. None of us had strength. We had not eaten properly in months. She called out. Other women came. Together they pulled me free. Someone found a hose. They sprayed me down in the cold air while I stood there shaking.
I did not cry. Rule number one in Auschwitz was the same rule everywhere, do not attract attention.
But I got sick. Very sick. The kind of sick that comes from rats and filth and cold water and a body that has nothing left to fight with.
And I remembered Rule Two, never show that you are sick.
I hid it from everyone. From the guards. From the other children. Even from my mother, because I knew if she knew, she would do something. And doing something in Auschwitz got you killed.
But someone saw. I do not know who. I do not know why they helped me instead of reporting me. I never knew.
They took me to a room, a makeshift hospital. I lay in a bed, a real bed, not a wooden bunk, for the first time since we had arrived.
I do not remember much of what happened next. The fever blurred everything. Days passed like smoke.
When I came out, I still had my bowl.
I had held it even in the latrine. Even in the fever. Even in the dark when I did not know where I was or what day it was.
My mother looked at me when I came back. She looked at the bowl. She did not say anything. She just nodded, the way she nodded when something had gone the way it needed to go.
People ask me what survival looks like.
I tell them, sometimes it looks like a five year old girl climbing out of a latrine in a death camp, covered in filth, shaking with cold, still holding her tin bowl.
Because she knew that the bowl was the difference between eating and not eating. Between living and not.
Because her mother had told her. And she had listened.
I am Tova Friedman. I fell into a latrine in Auschwitz at five years old.
I came out still holding my bowl.
Tova.
#NeverForget #Survival #DaughterOfAuschwitz #ShesStillHere #TheirNamesLiveOn
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