America has a super-bad case of cultural indigestion. All these non-Westerners and America-haters are so entitled and empowered by unchecked propaganda. Shut the doors and give it time. Maybe 2 generations. Thanks radical left lunatics and ineffectual repubs!
My dad on Mt. Kennedy. The Canadian government named the highest unclimbed peak in North America after my uncle following his assassination. My father became part of the first team to summit the 13,944-foot mountain in March 1965. #GetOutside#LiveRealLife
.@SECWAR “Europe was NOT supposed to be a dependency of the United States...
Europe was supposed to be a military power allied with a STRONG AMERICA—this is the essence of NATO 1.0.”
🚨 JUST IN: The Attorney General of Florida is now launching an investigation into the MLB after they WARNED 3 Giants pitchers simply because they wore BIBLE VERSES on their "Pride Night" caps
GOOD!
JD VANCE: "Trump won we don’t have to do this anymore."
AG UTHMEIER: "Do you practice religious discrimination in Florida, MLB? You’ll be hearing from my office soon."
The verse says that the rainbow is a symbol of a covenant between God and all living creatures.
WHY would they discipline that? Cut the BS! Christians can be Christians!
Ils veulent m’envoyer en prison.
En France, il vaut mieux être un migrant agresseur de femmes qu’une identitaire qui aime son pays.
Lien YouTube : https://t.co/I4kuHHpGeb
Partagez cette vidéo que cette histoire fasse du bruit 🙏🏻
The Left wants the White House to feel like an untouchable institution reserved for political elites. They hate seeing it used for events that remind Americans it belongs to them.
Turning the White House into a place of celebration, culture, and public engagement, especially as we approach America’s 250th, strips away the myth that government is something distant and above the American people.
No surprise the Democrats despised last night’s UFC event, but what truly frustrates them is what it represents: a White House that feels like the people’s house again.
The left hates this because they could never build anything like it.
An ideology that seeks to desecrate and demoralize will always hate unique displays of Americana.
USA. A Mexican restaurant. We had not yet ordered anything, and the food was already arriving.
Chips. Salsa. Unrequested. Free.
I stopped the waiter. "We have not earned these."
"They just come with the table, man."
They come with the TABLE. In my land, hospitality is a debt. Every gift creates an obligation, weighed carefully, returned in the proper season with interest of feeling. Here, the gift arrives before you have even proven you can pay for dinner.
This is not an appetizer. This is a declaration: we trust you. Eat.
I ate with the gravity the moment deserved. And then — I must report this calmly — the basket emptied, and a new one appeared.
"Did we…?"
"Refill," the waiter said. "It's bottomless."
Bottomless. They have wells of salsa. The supply lines of this nation are beyond anything my ancestors imagined.
My friend warned me. "Don't fill up on chips, dude."
Too late. I had accepted three baskets. Honor demanded each one be finished — an unfinished gift is an insult. By the time my actual food arrived, I was a ruined man.
I was not hungry. I was not comfortable. I had been defeated by a courtesy.
Generosity that arrives before the request cannot be repaid. It can only be survived.
I know the rule now. I have made my peace with the basket. One basket. Two at the most.
Who am I deceiving. There is no number of baskets I would refuse. The trust of a nation is in that salsa, and I intend to honor all of it.
USA. A breakfast counter. The waitress recommended the biscuits and gravy, and when the plate arrived, I thought something had gone wrong in the kitchen.
I say this with shame. The dish looked like a construction site after rain. Pale mounds. Gray ladle-fall. Speckles I could not identify.
In my land, the eye eats first. A meal is arranged like a garden. This meal was arranged like weather.
"Is it… finished?" I asked, carefully.
"Honey, that's what it looks like."
The man beside me was already eating his. He did not look up. "Just try it."
I am a man who has charged hillsides at dawn. I raised the fork. I tried it.
I must now formally apologize to the biscuits, the gravy, the waitress, the kitchen, and the entire breakfast tradition of the American South.
It was magnificent. Warm. Peppered. The biscuit drank the gravy the way a field drinks rain — THAT is why it is shaped like that, you fool — and every mound I had insulted was a soft fold of comfort that my homeland, in eight hundred years, never once thought to invent.
"Well?" the waitress asked.
"I judged it," I confessed. "By its appearance. I am ashamed."
"Everybody does, hon."
Everybody does. A national dish that forgives you for doubting it. It expects the doubt. It waits for you on the other side of it.
Do not judge the gravy by its face. Judge yourself, for hesitating.
I order it every Saturday now. I no longer see the construction site. I see only the garden.
It was a garden the whole time. The eye must be trained.