FlippidyDippidy

please don’t scroll down for your own sake

[FlippidyDippidy @FDippidy]

Look at this. See what they do to children. How much longer will we stand idle letting them torture and sacrifice our future generations before we finally say enough? Make no peace with evil. Destroy it.

[aapayés @aapayes]

Archivos Epstein

La publicación de más de 3,000,000 de páginas y documentos 2,000 vídeos y 180,000 imágenes por el departamento de justicia de Estados Unidos. a finales de enero y principios de febrero de 2026 trae profundos detalles sobre la red de Contactos de jeffrey Epstein

[The Woolshire @thewoolshire]

This is what happens if you don’t shear a sheep.

The Lord gave us this great creature for the best performing bedding and clothing, and yet the modern world chooses petrochemical slop.

We must return.

[VIPER ZERO @VIPERZE52330752]

おお！いっぱい貼れるの便利すぎ😁
#戦場まんがシリーズ

[🚀conspiracy_slayer🌕 @conspiracyslyr]

Finally a good update!
(you can add 20 images to one post now)

Here's a panorama from Apollo 17

[Samurai Shiba @SamuraiShibaJP]

My nephew's teacher played a game with her class of thirty 10-year-olds.

Describe America. One rule. You can't say "big," "hamburger," or "cowboy."

Thirty Japanese children. Completely stuck.

"...Large?"

Disqualified.

"A country where milk comes in a bucket." (It's a gallon jug. He saw it on YouTube. He is still upset.)

"A place where your dog can go shopping with you."

"Where strangers say 'Good morning' and they're not selling anything."

"Where people walked on the moon, came home, and mowed the lawn like it was nothing."

"Where there's a holiday that is only eating."

"Where people wave at a car even if they don't know the car."

"...Not small?"

Disqualified. Same boy.

"...Medium-large?"

The teacher put her head down on the desk.

Then Mitsuki put her hand up. Halfway. She's the shyest kid in the room. When she was eight, she lived for a year in a town of 9,000 in Ohio. Her dad's company sent him.

"A place where 24 kids practice your name before they meet you."

The class didn't understand.

On her first morning at school in Ohio, she was so scared she couldn't eat breakfast. She knew about ten English words. At the classroom door, she wouldn't let go of her mother's hand.

She walked in. Twenty-four third graders stood up.

"Good morning, Mitsuki!"

Perfect. Every syllable. In unison.

Their teacher, Mrs. Dombrowski, had found a video of a Japanese woman saying the name, and drilled the class for a week. One boy practiced so much his mother emailed the school. He was saying it in his sleep.

Mitsuki found out why on her last day.

In 1949, Mrs. Dombrowski's grandmother came to Ohio from Poland at nine years old. For her whole first year of school, nobody learned her name. They just called her "the new girl."

So every year, before a new kid arrives, Mrs. Dombrowski's class practices.

"Every family in America was the new kid once," she told Mitsuki. "Some of us remember."

On Mitsuki's last day, they said goodbye in Japanese. Mrs. Dombrowski cried harder than anyone.

"In Japan, everybody already knows how to say my name," Mitsuki told our class. "Nobody has to practice."

Thirty 10-year-olds went very quiet.

The boy who kept saying "large" put his hand up.

"Is anyone new coming? We could practice."

Nobody was new. So the teacher told them about the six women who cook lunch for 600 kids every day, in a kitchen the kids never see. Mrs. Kurihara has worked there for 26 years. Not one child has ever said her name.

The next morning, thirty kids lined up at the kitchen door.

"Good morning, Mrs. Kurihara!"

Perfect. Every syllable.

She covered her face with her apron. So did the other five.

America, thirty Japanese kids tried to describe you and weren't allowed to call you big.

So they called you kind.

Then they went and did it.

[Sybil ੯‧̀͡⬮ @midtowncowboys]

Average uk censorship board member

[Samurai Shiba @SamuraiShibaJP]

My friend Yasuko teaches an English class for adults in Tokyo. Tuesday nights.

Her students are salarymen, two nurses, a bus driver, and Mrs. Oda. Mrs. Oda is 81. She sits in the front row with three sharpened pencils, in case two of them fail.

Last month, Yasuko gave them a writing assignment:

"Apply for the job of American. List your qualifications."

Then she read me the applications. Twice, she had to stop and wipe her eyes. The first time, from laughing.

"I have no qualifications. But I have confidence. I am told in America this is enough." (Software engineer, 34)

"I have strong opinions about barbecue. I have never eaten barbecue. The opinions are still very strong." (Salaryman, 41)

"I can eat a steak the size of my shoe. In theory. I have not tried. But I believe." (Accountant, 52)

"I have watched every Rocky movie. When I climb the stairs at my train station, I hear the music. I raise my arms at the top. Commuters move away from me." (Salaryman, 47)

"In 2019, I waved at a stranger's car. He waved back. I still think about it." (Bus driver, 58)

"I want to tip. Nobody in Japan will let me. I have been carrying this money since 1998." (Taxi dispatcher, 61)

"At parties, Japanese people leave early so the host can rest. I am ready to stay until the host is begging." (Nurse, 29)

"I once returned a broken toaster and said 'No problem' even though there was a problem. I would like to stop doing this." (Nurse, 33)

Then Yasuko got to Mrs. Oda's.

Three pages. In pencil. Very neat.

"Qualification: I am 81 years old. I started learning English at 76.

In Japan, at my age, you are supposed to be finishing things. Everyone tells me I am too late.

I hear that in America, nobody is too late. People go back to school at 60. They run marathons at 80 and everybody claps. One man started selling fried chicken at 62. Now all of Japan eats it on Christmas.

If this is true, I am qualified."

Yasuko asked her after class why she started.

Mrs. Oda's granddaughter married a man from Idaho. They have a little boy. Emmett. He's four. He only speaks English.

"I wanted to read him a story," she said. "Myself. Not with someone translating."

It took her five years. For the last one, she practiced reading "The Three Little Pigs" out loud every night. To her cat. The cat fell asleep every time. She took this as a good sign.

Last month, on a video call, she finally read it to Emmett. All of it. Every word. Slowly. With her finger under each line.

When the wolf came, she huffed and puffed so hard her glasses slid down her nose. Emmett laughed so hard he made her do it three more times.

He fell asleep before the third pig.

Then, just as his mother was about to hang up, he opened one eye and said something into the phone.

"Oyasumi, Baba."

Goodnight, Grandma. In Japanese.

He had been practicing too. His mother had been teaching him one Japanese word a night, for weeks. He didn't want Great-Grandma doing all the work.

Mrs. Oda went completely silent. Later, very calmly, she told Yasuko that she considers this a complete success.

In April, she's flying to Idaho. Alone. Fourteen hours. Her first plane since 1970. Her granddaughter's in-laws have already told her she's sitting at the head of the table.

Yasuko graded every application. Red pen. Same word at the top of all of them.

"HIRED."

On Mrs. Oda's, she added one more line.

"Start immediately."

The whole class clapped. Japanese adults do not clap in class. They clapped anyway. The bus driver clapped the loudest.

America, a woman of 81 in Tokyo heard that in your country, nobody is too late.

Please make sure it stays true.

She's counting on it.

[Dr. Maalouf ‏ @realMaalouf]

Muslims killed him for burning the Quran to prove that Islam is a peaceful religion.

[Disclose.tv @disclosetv]

JUST IN - A "network update" reportedly crashed a private system operated by defense contractor L3Harris, taking down U.S. air traffic control communications that caused the nationwide FAA ground stop.

[Alex Hollings @AlexHollings52]

According to Japanese intel reports, China’s Liaoning and Shandong carriers launched an average of just 27 and 30 sorties per day during in exercises held last May/June. At peak, it was 90 and 63.

Nimitz crews are known to launch 240 per day in bursts, 120 per day in sustained operations.

[Mary M @Marym02_]

Can barely read but is worried about a ‘streamer award’. This new generation is cooked.

[飛鷹隼 @junhiyoh]

これ、廃車のスクラップを再生したんじゃねぇよ
最初から現地で再組立する前提で足が付き難いように切り刻んでスクラップに偽装した上でパーツ単位で分散させて密輸出した盗難車だぞ

[໊ @i23yvi3]

this is what i mean when i say adults invade childrens spaces by the way. they think its funny and tricking children to read porn is really gross.

[ぴーたん@消防団@skeb依頼受付中 @piitan2_mokotan]

#絵柄が好みって人にフォローされたいㅤㅤ

航空機をかいてます

[Samurai Shiba @SamuraiShibaJP]

If you're new here: hello. 🙇

A lot of you showed up over the last few weeks, and you brought your own jokes with you.

One man wrote that he's stuck in a Wawa parking lot, because he can't drive while crying. (I'm very sorry. Wawa, please let him in.)

One woman asked if I own stock in a tissue company. (I don't. I'm starting to think I should.)

One reader said I make his cereal wet with tears. Another described himself as "a big refrigerator who gets weepy."

So, a proper introduction, before anyone else's cereal gets ruined.

I'm a Japanese office worker in Tokyo. 41. Married to a high school English teacher who corrects my posts with a red pen. Most of them get a B-minus. She has cried at three of them. She says that doesn't affect the grade.

One more thing. Not once in my life have I been to America.

That last part surprises people.

When I was 13, I was the shortest kid in my grade. The one teachers forgot to call on. A farmer in Iowa, a man I had never met, sent me a letter that began, "DEAR BROTHER."

He wrote to me for twenty-eight years. In pencil. In capital letters. He signed every one "MR. IOWA."

He died in August. He never saw this account.

I think he would have liked you. You write back.

This account is my reply to him. Twenty-eight years late, and to a lot more people than I planned.

What happens here:

→ Real moments between Americans and Japanese people. Names and details changed to protect the kind.

→ Japanese people trying to figure you out. (Applause on landing: solved. Ranch dressing: still under investigation.)

→ Questions for you. Once, 6,939 of you answered one question about long drives. I read them on the train for a week. I missed my stop twice.

→ A Japanese word now and then, when English runs out.

Today's word is "en."

English doesn't have it. It's the invisible thread between people who were always going to meet. When something brings two strangers together, we don't say "small world." We say, "There was en."

A farmer in Iowa and the smallest boy in a Tokyo classroom. That was en.

You, reading this right now, wherever you are. I think that's en too.

Some of you found this at 3 a.m. Some of you found it in a hospital waiting room. A few of you wrote that being an American feels heavy lately.

Whatever is happening on your end of the thread, I want you to know something.

Somebody in Tokyo has this end.

So tell me where the thread found you.

Your state, and what you were doing when this account showed up.

(Wawa parking lot counts.)

[Samurai Shiba @SamuraiShibaJP]

In 2010, at sixteen, my friend Mizuho was sent to Kansas for a school year. Population 2,400. One stoplight.

Her host family gave her their son's room.

His name was Kolby. He was 20. He was in Afghanistan.

The room was exactly as he left it. Football trophies. A poster of a truck. A dent in the wall at about fist height that nobody would explain.

On her first night, Mizuho's host mom, Debbie, stood in the doorway and asked her for a favor.

"Would you write to him, honey? He doesn't get much mail but mine."

Mizuho's English was very bad. She wrote the letter with a dictionary. It took her three hours.

"Dear Kolby. I am Mizuho. I am sleeping in your bed. It is very comfortable. Your mother says you are brave. Please do not die. Mizuho."

Six weeks went by. Then a letter came with a military address.

"Dear Mizuho. Glad somebody's using it. Don't touch the trophies. I'll do my best on the other thing. K."

She dusted the trophies the next day. His next letter said, "I know you touched the trophies. I can feel it from here."

They wrote all year.

She told him about Kansas. He'd lived there twenty years. He said Kansas had never sounded so interesting.

He taught her English. Real English. "Fixin' to." "Y'all." "Bless his heart," and what it actually means. She taught him one Japanese word per letter. He used them wrong, on purpose, to make her laugh. One letter was signed, "Sayonara. I am a potato. K."

She wrote "Please do not die" at the bottom of every letter. Every single one. She had no idea it was an unusual way to sign off. Nobody told her.

There was one bad week. He has never said what happened. When he got back to base, there was a letter waiting on his cot. Same handwriting. Same last line.

He read it eleven times.

After that, his unit started reading her letters out loud.

By Christmas, the whole platoon was saying it. Before patrols. Over the radio. Big men from Georgia and Ohio, saying "Please do not die" to each other in a 16-year-old's grammar.

Mizuho found out later. She was horrified. Debbie told her it was the best thing that had happened to that unit all year.

One night that winter, Mizuho woke up around two and saw a light under the door. Debbie was sitting at the kitchen table with her coffee, looking at nothing. Mizuho went back to bed and pretended she hadn't seen.

Then Mizuho wrote it in Japanese, on a small square of paper. 死なないで. Kolby taped it inside his helmet.

In April, he came home.

The whole town was at the airport. Signs. Flags. His grandmother in a wheelchair, crying before the plane even landed.

Mizuho had made a sign too. She checked the English with her dictionary twice.

"YOU DID NOT DIE. GOOD JOB."

Kolby walked out, found his mother, and wouldn't let go. Over her shoulder, he spotted the sign.

He laughed until his knees gave out, and he ended up on the floor of the arrivals hall. In uniform. In front of half of Kansas.

When he could stand again, he walked over and lifted a Japanese girl he had never met right off the ground.

"Kid," he said. "You're the reason I kept my head down."

That night, after everyone had gone home, Debbie found Mizuho in the kitchen.

"I need to tell you something," she said. "Every night this year, I said it. 'Please don't die.' To the ceiling. At that table. I never once wrote it in a letter. I was afraid if I wrote it down, he'd think I thought he might."

She took both of Mizuho's hands.

"You wrote it for me. Every single time."

That was fifteen years ago.

Two years ago, Mizuho got married in Tokyo. Kolby flew over. So did Debbie, who cried through an entire ceremony she didn't understand one word of. Kolby gave a toast. He held up a piece of paper so soft and creased it looked like cloth.

Her first letter.

He read it to the room. "Please do not die."

"I didn't," he told eighty Japanese wedding guests. "Seemed rude, after she asked so nicely."

Kolby is a firefighter now, back in Kansas.

Every time they talk, Mizuho ends the call the same way. In English. In her 16-year-old grammar, on purpose.

"Please do not die."

He says it's still the best advice he gets.

And on every shift, that little square of paper is still inside his helmet.

[Department Of Deportations @DoDeportations]

“It’s not lying, it’s our culture to lie”

Huh?

[DAKKADAKKA @DAKKADAKKA1]

>unkempt
>attacking street pastors
>untucked shirt
>mask

Yeah. Buddy isn’t Christian.

[Samurai Shiba @SamuraiShibaJP]

In July, a package arrived at my friend Shinji's apartment in Osaka. From Kansas.

Inside was a bright orange T-shirt. Size XXL.

Shinji is five-foot-four.

A note was taped to it: "Thought you might be still growing."

Shinji is 51.

Back in 1994, Shinji spent one year on the Brandt family's wheat farm. Nineteen. An agriculture student. He was afraid of the pigs. He bowed to a bull on his first day. The bull did not bow back.

Mr. Brandt taught him to drive the combine. Shinji drove it into the pond. Once. The family still calls it Shinji Pond. Two generations of Brandt kids have learned to swim in it.

In the first week, he called Mrs. Brandt "Mother" by accident.

His own mother had died two years before. Mrs. Brandt figured that out on the second day. She never once let him take it back.

At the airport in 1995, she held his face and said, "You call me if anything happens. Anything at all. I'm your mother."

He never called. Not once. Calling would have been a bother. That's how we're raised. For 31 years, the Brandts sent a Christmas card. He sent one back. That was it.

Then the shirt.

On the front: BRANDT FAMILY REUNION 2026. FIVE GENERATIONS.

On the back, the family tree.

At the very top, a couple who came from Germany in 1885 with one trunk and a Bible. Under them, the branches. Grandparents. Uncles. Cousins. Second cousins. Babies born this spring. 146 names, in tiny letters.

Shinji read every one.

Halfway down, on the branch under Mother Brandt, between her oldest son and her daughter:

SHINJI (OSAKA) — SINCE 1994

He put the shirt down on his kitchen table and sat there until the tea went cold.

That's when he found the second thing in the box. A photo.

The reunion. A park in Kansas. 146 people in orange shirts, squinting into the sun. Three dogs. A grill the size of a car. Two coolers the size of coffins.

And in the front row, right in the middle, next to Mother Brandt, who is 88 now:

A life-size cardboard cutout of Shinji. Nineteen years old. Mullet. Holding a piglet, looking terrified.

They had blown up an old photo from 1994, glued it to foam board, and given it the best spot in the picture.

Written across the bottom, in shaky handwriting:

"You were on the shirt, so you had to be in the picture. Come next year. We'll save the real chair. — Mother"

That night, for the first time in 31 years, Shinji called Kansas.

She answered before it finished ringing once.

"Well," she said. "It's about time."

He tried to apologize for never calling. In Japanese, then in English. It came out as both, mixed together, and not very well.

She let him finish.

"Honey, I didn't need you to call," she said. "I just needed you to know you could."

Shinji is going next summer.

He has already bought the ticket. He's been practicing softball in the park by his apartment, alone, with a glove he ordered online. The neighbors don't know what's happening. He has also been practicing swimming. He says it's for the pond.

He wears the shirt to bed. He says he's growing into it.

America, I've seen a lot of family trees.

Yours are the only ones I've ever seen grow sideways.

[GB Politics @GBPolitcs]

🚨BREAKING: The government has admitted that the asylum camp next to Piddington will pose a risk to women and girls living nearby, documents show

The planning document also revealed concerns from local police chiefs about the "increased risk of crime"

[@Telegraph]