Catgirl

I solve problems for money. Also one of @Dastmalchian 's #Murdocminions and #MacgyverCBS fan. I love video games, cats, dogs and have taken up ice skating.

[Just Jen ℞ 🫡🇺🇸 @JustJenRX]

I woke up to this on 9/11/2001, at just 21 years old.

I never forgotten.

NYC retards did.

[TheDude @Psykotiq325]

@mattvanswol @FM_NoAlgos

[ThePersistence @ScottPresler]

Here’s our message from the American people:

If the Senate votes to take a 37-day vacation — without passing the SAVE America Act —

we are more than happy to give you a permanent vacation from the Senate.

Peacefully.

[Catgirl @Felinefemale]

@schmooToo3 @nickshirleyy @Cernovich Because their TV and/or friends told them to…

[Catgirl @Felinefemale]

@catturd2 That’s a nice fish!

[Catgirl @Felinefemale]

@CattardSlim @catturd2 you got a fan.

[Tony Seruga @TonySeruga]

They Killed Cursive So You’d Need a Translator to Read Your Own History

Two generations now. That’s what we’ve manufactured.

You Can Thank Progressive Ideologue Randi Weingarten and the American Federation of Teachers

In 2010, cursive was quietly stripped from Common Core. No debate. No vote. Just gone — replaced by keyboarding and test prep. Fast forward to today, and the results are exactly what any thinking person would have predicted.

Drew Gilpin Faust — former Harvard president, not exactly a conspiracy theorist — walked into her Civil War seminar and discovered two-thirds of her Harvard undergraduates couldn’t read cursive. Two-thirds. At Harvard. One student admitted he’d reshaped his entire senior thesis to avoid sources with handwriting. Another abandoned Virginia Woolf because she couldn’t read Woolf’s letters.

Let that sink in. The elite are being graduated illiterate in their own language’s written form.

What’s actually been accomplished here?

- The Declaration of Independence is now a foreign document to most Americans under 30. They can’t read it. They depend on someone else’s transcription — someone else’s framing.

- Grandma’s letters from the war. Mom has to translate the birthday card. The direct, unmediated connection to your own bloodline? Severed.

- Original manuscripts, land deeds, family Bibles, journals, contracts. All of it now requires a credentialed interpreter — a new priesthood of specialists who tell you what your history says.

Faust herself spelled out the implication with brutal clarity: “Just imagine if you had some contract that you had signed and you couldn’t read it and someone told you, well, this is what’s in the contract. And then later you might find that it was something else.”

That’s not a bug. That’s the feature.

When a population can’t independently access primary sources, history becomes whatever the gatekeepers decide it is. The past isn’t discovered — it’s assigned. And a person who needs permission to read their own inheritance is a person who’s been quietly, thoroughly disempowered.

The technocrats will tell you it was just pragmatic modernization. Nothing to see here. Just optimizing the curriculum for the 21st-century economy.

Funny how the “optimizations” always seem to produce citizens more dependent, more disconnected, and easier to manage.

Teach your kids cursive. Buy the workbook. Spend twenty minutes a day. Not because it’s charming or vintage — but because a people who can’t read their own founding documents in the original hand are no longer a free people. They’re tenants in their own civilization, renting access to a past that was stolen from them one curriculum meeting at a time.

[Catgirl @Felinefemale]

@ClifLewis3 Yes I’d approach you. I’d probably ask for an autograph and ask how you and your family are doing. Then if you wanted to discuss more I’m sure we’d talk about facts, not feelings.

[Catgirl @Felinefemale]

@Gooboberti I’ve tried the Star Trek chess and that was kind of hard. This does look interesting though.

[Catgirl @Felinefemale]

@ClifLewis3 Ok Unc! Love the truth you speak. You’re a good man.

[Catgirl @Felinefemale]

@mattvanswol @RitaMiller2001 You forgot can’t stop billions of dollars in fraud. I’m still mad that there is so much fraud that still hasn’t been found and that tax money is being spent on the fraud. We could pay a lot less in taxes if there wasn’t so much fraud, waste and abuse of taxpayer money.

[ThePersistence @ScottPresler]

🚨🚨You Can Help Find Non-Citizens On the Voter Rolls🚨🚨

The Department of Homeland Security has a website called the “Worst of the Worst.”

These are all criminal illegal aliens that have committed heinous crimes.

You can filter the illegal aliens by state.

So, I thought to myself, “What if some of these criminal illegal aliens are voting?”

We plugged the illegal aliens into the Pennsylvania voter rolls & — sure enough —

we are finding that many are not only ACTIVELY registered to vote, but that they have also voted in federal elections.

Imagine if a legion of Americans across the country used the DHS WOW website to find illegal aliens on the voter rolls.

‼️This is a game-changer & I have no doubt that the powers that be DON’T want you to see this information‼️

[Catgirl @Felinefemale]

@__0HOUR1_ Now I can’t unsee that.

[Catgirl @Felinefemale]

@ScottPresler @MiaBadalati Thank you for all your hard work

[NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依 @japan_nobunaga]

In Texas I was taken to a grocery store called H-E-B.

I asked what the letters stand for. My friend said, "Howard Edward Butt."

I waited for the rest of the name. There was no rest. The man built an empire on his actual name, and the empire did not flinch.

Inside, a woman in a red apron said, "Welcome! Finding everything okay?"

I had been inside for eleven seconds. I had found nothing. I had not begun to look.

"...I have only just arrived."

"Well, let me know if you need anything, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. From a stranger with a price gun. I held the cart handle with both hands and tried to proceed as a man who had not just been loved at the produce section.

The store was clean in a way that suggested someone cared about it the way my grandmother cared about her kitchen floor. Not for the guests. For the floor.

A man named Dale in the meat department was cutting brisket behind glass. I watched him work. He held the knife the way a calligrapher holds a brush. Each cut landed in the same place twice.

I bowed slightly. I could not help it.

Dale looked up. "You want a sample, boss?"

"...I was paying respects to your blade work."

He paused. Then he cut a piece, put it on a toothpick, and handed it over the counter.

"Well, that's a first. Most folks just ask if I got any ribs left."

I ate it. It was perfect. I told him it was perfect.

"Appreciate that. Twenty-six years behind this counter."

Twenty-six years. The same counter. The same knife. In my country we would call this man a living national treasure and put him on television. Here he wore a red apron and asked if I wanted it wrapped.

Then the storm came.

I do not mean this as a metaphor. A hurricane was approaching the coast, and I learned something about this grocery store that I did not believe until I saw it with my own eyes.

H-E-B has mobile kitchens. Disaster relief trucks. A full-time Director of Emergency Preparedness. Over a hundred and fifty thousand employees they call Partners, and when the wind starts to build, the Partners do not go home.

They drive toward it.

During Hurricane Harvey, this grocery store fed thousands. They sent trucks into flooded towns before the government arrived. Before the Red Cross set up. Before anyone asked.

A grocery store. With a meat counter and a bakery and a sign that says HERE EVERYTHING'S BETTER.

Texans have a name for H-E-B during hurricanes. They call it the FEMA of Texas. I have confirmed this. Multiple Texans said it to me without smiling, the way you state the name of a general who does not lose.

I asked Dale if he had worked during Harvey.

He stopped cutting. He set the knife down, which I had not seen him do.

"Drove in at four in the morning. Water was up to my truck doors. Store was the only thing open for nine miles. We made sandwiches till we ran out of bread. Then corporate sent more bread. Then we ran out again."

"...How long?"

"Sixteen days."

I stood there holding a package of brisket in both hands and tried to find the word.

"...You are not a butcher, Dale."

He picked up his knife. "Sure I am."

In my country, a man who feeds his village through a disaster is honored for the rest of his life. In Texas, he is called a butcher, and he goes back to the counter on Monday, and he does not mention it unless you ask, and even then he picks up his knife before he finishes the story, because the brisket is not going to cut itself.

The store was founded in 1905 by a woman named Florence Butt, who put sixty dollars' worth of groceries on a shelf on the ground floor of her family's home in a town called Kerrville. That was the whole store. One shelf. One room. Sixty dollars.

A hundred and twenty years later, the family still owns it.

I walked out with four bags. A boy in a red apron carried two of them to my car. I told him I could carry my own bags. He said, "I know you can. But I'm already here, so."

I did not tip him. He would not let me.

I drove home past the highway where the flood line was still visible on the guardrail, three feet up, and I thought about Dale, and the bread, and the knife, and the name Howard Edward Butt, who was not embarrassed by it, because the name is not the point.

The shelf is the point.

Florence Butt put sixty dollars on a shelf in 1905. A hundred and twenty years later, when the water rose and the power died, the shelf was still standing, and there was bread on it.

A store is not its name. A store is whether the bread is there when you need it.

The bread was there.

[Dirty Jarry @dirty_jarry]

@RealJamesWoods Then the Canadians respect the pronouns, basically giving the green light to all the other psychos. They will forever be remembered as ‘whatever fantasy they believe’ this is some Mickey Mouse bullshit.

[Catgirl @Felinefemale]

@__0HOUR1_ He should never get out.