Floyd Bolton

I'm 80! I'm not a computer guy! I might be a slow typer, but I eventually finish. I live in the mountains. I retired 4 years ago. Can't do "selfies"!

[Floyd Bolton @FloydFlopat]

@TRobinsonNewEra WOW! I wonder how many people who had to listen to her rantings wish they knew that then?

[Floyd Bolton @FloydFlopat]

@TonyLaneNV I would have felt warm, squishy stuff in my pants!

[Capt Kyle @CaptKylePatriot]

OMG here is another one from the UK😆

Cowboys 🤠 anywhere?
This is for you💥

[John McAfee 🇺🇸 News @mcafeenew]

🚨MAXINE WATERS THE BRAIN-DEAD INCAPACITATED CUNT HAS BEEN ILLEGALLY VOTING BY PROXY FOR MONTHS WHILE SOMEONE USES HER HOUSE ID TO CAST VOTES FOR HER — JIM JORDAN JUST MOVED TO EXPEL HER FROM CONGRESS FOR GOOD!

Follow @RedLivesMatterQ

This is insane even for Democrats.

Congressman Jim Jordan just filed a motion for a full floor vote to kick Maxine Waters out of the House after it was revealed she hasn’t set foot in the chamber in months — yet her votes are still being cast every single time using her House ID.

Jordan didn’t hold back: “The gentlewoman from California hasn’t set foot in this chamber in months… I don’t believe Ms. Waters is coming back. It’s time for this body to move on.”

Someone has been illegally voting on her behalf while she’s apparently incapacitated from a medical crisis. This isn’t proxy voting anymore — this is straight-up fraud.

Maxine Waters has been a complete embarrassment for years, and now it turns out she’s been “Weekend at Bernie's” style in Congress while someone else pulls the strings and casts her votes.

Jim Jordan is done letting this slide.

It’s time to remove her from Congress and expose whoever has been illegally voting in her place.

Share this everywhere and let every American see how corrupt and broken the Democrat side of the House really is!

Follow @mcafeenew for more drops.

[Mike Lee @BasedMikeLee]

Socialist poverty is never for the socialist leader

That’s for everyone else

[Wall Street Apes @WallStreetApes]

The police are again having to come remove the homeless from living in the bathrooms at Venice Beach in Los Angeles, California

There are about 600 homeless that live in these bathrooms and around the Venice Beach boardwalk area

Imagine trying to enjoy a day at the beach and having to deal with 600 homeless occupying the bathrooms and harassing beach goers

No one would ever vote to continue this, Democrats are rigging the elections

[Buzz Patterson @BuzzPatterson]

German fans join Dutch fans in “Left, Right.”

“Don’t come to America,” they said.
“You’ll hate it, Trump’s a fascist,” they said.
“Nobody will go,” they said.

Ladies and gentlemen, World Cup 2026 courtesy of the Red, White, & Blue!” 🇺🇸🔥🇩🇪🇳🇱

[NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依 @japan_nobunaga]

A California Fish Grill in a strip mall off Slauson Avenue. Glass door. Inside, a counter, a menu board, and a line of about eight people. I joined the line.

The menu board said:

WILD-CAUGHT SUSTAINABLE SEAFOOD SINCE 1998

I read it three times.

A country that has had to put the word "sustainable" on its own seafood is a country that has, at some point, lost its seafood. We had a similar problem in my country, in the seventeenth century, with our forests. It took us two hundred years to fix. They still had time.

The line moved.

A young woman behind the counter, name tag MARISOL, looked up.

"Hi, what can I get for you?"

"...What is the most honorable fish in this kitchen today."

"...Sorry?"

"The fish that has, today, been most carefully prepared."

"They're all prepared the same way, sir. We have salmon, tilapia, swai, branzino, barramundi, rockfish, and tuna."

"...Then the rockfish."

"Fillet or whole?"

I stopped.

"...Fillet."

"Yeah. We sell it boneless. Or we can do the whole fish."

"...Boneless."

"Yeah. The bones are taken out."

"...You remove the bones."

"That's right."

In my country, the bone is where the soul rests. You learn to eat around it. The bone teaches you patience. The bone teaches you that the body is not a meal — it is a story, and the story has structure, and the structure is what tells you when to stop. To remove the bone is to remove the story.

Marisol did not need to know this.

"...Boneless," I said.

"Cool. Sauce?"

"...You have a choice of sauces."

"Garlic butter, Cajun, olive oil, or sweet chili glaze."

"...Cajun."

I had eaten the salt of the Cajun once, on a fry, in a different building, in a different city. We had been introduced. I would not be rude.

"Sides?"

"...What are the choices."

"White rice, brown rice, cauliflower rice, fire-roasted corn, Brussels sprouts, or sweet potato fries."

"...Brussels sprouts."

"It's a couple bucks extra."

"Then they are the most honorable."

"...Most people say that, sir."

A small pause.

I had not expected Marisol to have heard that line before. I had assumed it was, at minimum, an unusual thing to say. I was not the first samurai to come to America. I would have to update my files.

"And what do you want to drink?"

"...Water."

"Cool. That's twelve forty-two. You'll get a number. Wait for it to be called."

She handed me a small plastic stand with the number 47 on it. I bowed to the number 47. I carried it, with both hands, to a small table by the window.

A man at the next table, late sixties, alone, reading a newspaper, looked up at me for one second, did not change his expression, and went back to the newspaper. He had seen everything. He had seen, in particular, me. He had decided that I was inside the range of normal. I was, in his presence, calmer than I had been all morning.

The number 47 sat on the table between us, holding the seat for a fish that did not yet exist.

I waited.

A young mother at the table behind me was feeding a small boy a piece of grilled salmon, cut into squares. The boy was eating it the way American children eat fish: with no hesitation, no caution, no learned skill. There was no bone. There was no need.

I thought, for one moment, about the children of my own country, and how long it had taken them to learn to read the bones of a small mackerel. Then I thought how long it had not taken these children to learn anything, because there was nothing left to learn. Then I thought about which of those two things I was supposed to be sad about, and I could not tell.

"Forty-seven."

I rose. I walked to the counter. A young man with a name tag that read DIEGO was holding a wooden tray.

"Rockfish Cajun, Brussels sprouts."

"...Yes."

He set the tray down in front of me.

On the tray:

- A piece of rockfish, the length of my hand, sitting on a small bed of white rice.
- A small mound of Brussels sprouts, halved, with a balsamic glaze on them, and parmesan, and small diced tomatoes.
- A pile of french fries, which I had not ordered, towering over and beside the rockfish like a small mountain.
- A wedge of lemon.

"...I did not order the fries."

"They come with it, sir."

"...The mountain comes with it."

"Yeah. Sauce station is over there. Help yourself."

I bowed to the tray. Diego had already turned, calling number 48.

I carried the tray, with both hands, to the sauce station. The sauce station was a small counter against the wall, with eight glass jars of sauce in a row, each with a small spoon sticking out of it, each with a label.

I read each label, in order, with the seriousness one reads the names of the dead.

GARLIC BUTTER. The medicine of the warrior.
CAJUN. The salt of an old friend.
SWEET CHILI GLAZE. A sweet trial.
TARTAR. The white shield of the sea.
DYNAMITE. A weapon named after itself.
CHIPOTLE AIOLI. A trial whose name I do not yet know.
COCKTAIL SAUCE. A drink dressed as food.
HOUSE GREEN. A council I have not been introduced to.

I took a small paper cup. I put a small portion of each, in order, into the tray of cups Diego had stacked beside the station. By the time I was done, I had a small infantry of eight cups, each one approximately a thumb-tall, lined up at the head of my tray.

The elderly man at the next table looked up from his newspaper again. His eyes went to the eight cups. His eyes returned to the newspaper. He did not smile. He did not frown. He turned the page.

I sat. I bowed to the tray. I took my first bite of the rockfish.

It was clean and soft and required no teeth, and no work, and no patience.

In my country, the first bite of a fish always involves a small private negotiation with the bone. Here, there was no negotiation. The fish had been settled, by someone, in a building I would never see, in a process I would never watch, before I had walked through the glass door.

I was, for one second, lonely for the bone.

Then the Brussels sprout.

It was hot, crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. The balsamic had reduced into something thick and sweet and bitter all at once. The parmesan held its salt. The tomato held its acid. The Brussels sprout itself held its small green soul.

I had not, since I had left my country, eaten anything that had been allowed to keep its soul this completely.

I made a small involuntary sound.

The elderly man at the next table looked up. He did not say anything. He pointed, with one finger, very briefly, at the Brussels sprouts. He nodded once. He returned to the paper.

It was, in its way, the strongest review of a vegetable I had ever received from a stranger.

I bowed slightly, from my seat, in his direction. He did not see. He had already turned the page.

The little boy at the table behind me dropped a piece of salmon on the floor. His mother said, "no, sweetheart, that's the floor's now." The boy said, very clearly, "the floor can have it." The mother laughed once. I bowed, in the privacy of my mind, to whichever ancestor of that boy had taught him, by direct genetic transmission, how to give up gracefully on a piece of salmon. I would not say so out loud. I have learned, in this country, that things stay better when I do not say them.

I tried the sauces.

The garlic butter was kind to the fish. The Cajun was familiar — the same salt I had met before, in a paper boat, beside a different building, beside a man who had told me to help myself. The sweet chili glaze was a kind opponent. The tartar was a faithful shield. The chipotle aioli surprised me. The dynamite was, in fact, very hot, and required a small private apology to my own face. The cocktail sauce I left alone, out of respect for shrimp I had not ordered. The green sauce was, as I had suspected, a council.

I ate the rockfish. I ate the Brussels sprouts. I ate the rice. I did not eat the fries. The mountain remained.

I sat for a moment, looking at the mountain.

The elderly man at the next table glanced up. He saw the mountain. He saw me. He saw the eight little cups. He understood. He said, very quietly, without looking at me:

"You don't have to finish the fries, you know."

"...I do not?"

"They give you too many."

"...Yes."

"Just take them home."

"...Take them home."

"Yeah. Ask for a box."

A small silence between us, across the four feet of laminate floor that separated our tables.

"...Thank you."

"Don't bow at me, son."

"...How did you know I was going to bow."

"You've been bowing at every single thing in this restaurant for fifteen minutes."

A small silence again.

"...I have."

"Eat your fish."

"...The fish is finished."

"Then eat your sprouts."

"...The sprouts are finished."

"Then go home."

"...Yes."

I rose. I gathered the small empty cups into one, slowly, the way one gathers spent candles after a ceremony. I carried the tray to the trash bin. I scraped the mountain of fries into the bin. I did not finish them. The old man had said it was permitted. I had been given a pardon.

The boy behind me said, "where is the samurai going."

His mother said, "home, sweetheart."

"How do you know."

"He looks done."

I turned, from the trash bin, and bowed to the boy. The boy bowed back. He did not have his mother's permission, but he did it anyway. His mother did not stop him. She had, by some calculation I will never have access to, decided that he was old enough to bow at strangers, but only the ones who had bowed first.

I walked to the door. The elderly man did not look up from his newspaper. I did not need him to. We had said what we needed to say, on the subject of fries, and on no other subject.

Outside, the strip mall was hot. The sun came off the asphalt the way it comes off a beach in late summer. The traffic on Slauson moved, paused, moved.

A country that takes the bones out of its fish, in advance, for everyone, is a country that has decided, on behalf of all of us, that the bones are not worth the trouble. In my country we have not yet decided that. We may decide it eventually. We may not.

But I will tell you, honestly, that the Brussels sprout was correct. The balsamic was correct. The parmesan was correct. The tomato was correct. The small green soul of the sprout was completely intact. Whoever, in 1998, in Gardena, California, had decided that small green souls were worth the trouble, had decided correctly.

I will think about that man tonight.

The fish has no bones. The country has no patience for them.

I am not, perhaps, the man to argue with that.

I am only, perhaps, the man who bowed at the sprouts.

[Thomas Sowell Daily @DailySowell]

“One of the miracles of faith is the liberals’ belief that criminals will stop being armed if we ban guns. We have already banned crime and that doesn’t stop them from committing it.”

— Thomas Sowell

[Wolf of X @WolfofX]

In July 2013, five-year-old Jocelyn Rojas vanished while playing near her home in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, triggering an urgent community search.

Among the volunteers were 15-year-old Temar Boggs and his friend Chris Garcia, who decided they couldn't just stand by.

The two teenagers grabbed their bicycles and joined the effort, riding through nearby streets while keeping an eye out for anything unusual.

Not long into their search, they noticed a young girl matching Jocelyn's description sitting inside a vehicle.

Convinced they had found her, the boys began pursuing the car on their bikes, staying behind it for roughly 15 minutes and refusing to give up despite being vastly outmatched.

Realizing he was being followed, the driver eventually stopped and let the little girl out of the vehicle before fleeing the scene.

Jocelyn was found unharmed and safely reunited with her family.

Police later arrested 73-year-old Troyer Robert Glass in connection with the abduction.

Temar Boggs' determination and quick thinking transformed an ordinary summer afternoon into an extraordinary act of courage, proving that sometimes heroes are simply teenagers who choose to act when others might hesitate.

[Proud Elephant 🇺🇸🦅 @ProudElephant]

NO LIES DETECTED. 👇🏼💯

[Massimo @Rainmaker1973]

The fine line between male and female intelligence.

[Floyd Bolton @FloydFlopat]

@VigilantFox Hey Stephen! It's called "greasy palms"!

[Crazy Moments @Crazymoments01]

Twelve Years Apart — The Dog Still Recognized Him Through Airport Glass.

[NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依 @japan_nobunaga]

A small blue-roofed building on a corner in Inglewood, California. A walk-up window. A sign above it:

CALIFORNIA'S ORIGINAL SOFT SERVE — SINCE 1946

I read it three times.

A small cartoon ice cream cone in a chef's hat smiled at me from the sign. He had been smiling at the same corner for eighty years.

I bowed to him.

A man walking a small dog passed behind me, paused, and looked at the sign for one second too long, as if he had also just decided that the sign deserved something.

I walked up to the window. A young woman leaned out. Name tag MAVIS, ponytail, summer job.

"Hi, welcome to Foster's. What can I get for you?"

"...The eldest item on your menu."

"...Sorry?"

"The dish that has been here since 1946."

"Oh. The soft serve cone."

"Then the soft serve cone."

"You want it dipped?"

"...Dipped."

"Yeah. We flip the cone upside down into chocolate. Hardens around it."

"...You take the offering. You turn it upside down. The chocolate seals around it."

"...So that's a yes?"

"That is a yes."

In my country, a man entering a new house washes his hands and his face at the gate. The water shocks him. The shock cleanses him. This was the same thing. Mavis did not need to know.

She turned to the machine. An older man at the back, white hair, apron, name tag BERT, walked up and took the cone from her. He carried it three steps to a small metal vat, turned it upside down, lowered it into the chocolate, held it for one second, lifted it. The dip slid down the sides and hardened almost instantly. A small dark roof over the white inside.

He handed it through the window.

"Three minutes, sir."

"...Three minutes."

"It melts. Eat it under three."

"...The dip lasts three minutes."

"After three, it goes."

In my country, we have a word for things that last only three minutes. We have the same word for things that last only one season, and for things that last only one life. It is the same word. Bert did not need to know.

I bowed to the cone before I touched it.

A man behind me in line, in a Dodgers cap, holding his daughter's hand, said quietly, "did he just bow to the ice cream."

His daughter, maybe six, said, "yeah."

"...Why."

"Because."

The man removed his cap and held it against his chest. He did not look at me. He looked at the window.

I took my first bite.

The chocolate cracked, thin and clean, the way pottery breaks when it is meant to. Underneath, the soft serve was cold and gentle, the way a small kindness is gentle. The cone, when I bit through it, made the soft folded-paper sound a folded paper makes when you finally open it.

I made a small involuntary sound.

The girl behind me laughed once.

I bowed to her, from the window, with the cone in my hand.

She did not say anything. She just bowed back, deeply, the way only a six-year-old bows, with the whole upper body, because she does not yet know that adults bow only with the head.

At one minute thirty, the chocolate roof was gone and most of the swirl with it. The cone had gone soft at the rim. I was a man eating against a clock that had been set, not by Bert, but by the chocolate itself, by the temperature of an afternoon, by the eighty years.

At two minutes, an elderly woman walked up to the window. She was holding the hand of a small boy.

She looked, for one full second, at the soft-serve machine through the window. Then she said, quietly:

"Mavis, baby."

"Hi, Grandma."

"...You started this week."

"Yeah."

"You know this machine."

"It's a Taylor."

"...That is the same machine I stood behind, when I was your age."

Mavis blinked once. She did not say anything. She turned to the machine and pulled the lever. The same low, contented mechanical sound. The same swirl rising into the cone.

The grandmother turned, saw me with my half-eaten dip in my hand, and bowed. One inch. Not deep. The way one veteran bows to another in a parking lot, when neither of them expected to be recognized that day.

I bowed back. The same inch. No deeper.

She turned to her grandson. "Tell the lady what you want."

The boy said, "dipped." Just the one word.

I had thirty seconds left on mine. I ate the rest. I bit through the waffle. I tasted, at the very bottom of the cone, the small pocket of soft serve that always hides at the bottom of these things, the way the kindest part of a kind person hides at the bottom of them, and is found only by people who finish.

I swallowed.

There was no bell. There was only the machine, going back to silence, and the line behind me, moving forward by one.

I bowed to the window. Mavis waved without turning her head. Bert nodded without lifting his eyes from the cone he was now dipping for the boy. The grandmother did not turn back to me, but lifted her free hand once, a small backward wave, the way a person waves who does not need to look to know.

I stepped away from the window. I did not stagger.

A man who has eaten an eighty-year-old cone must walk away straight, out of respect for the machine that did not refuse to keep going.

In the parking lot, the small blue roof caught the late afternoon light and looked, for one moment, exactly the way it had looked in 1946, in a black-and-white photograph that I had not seen, and that I now somehow remembered.

A country that keeps its own name on its own corner, for eighty years, is a country.

A samurai does not dip his sword in chocolate.

But he bows, in his head, to a man who has dipped ten thousand cones, kindly, for forty-five years, in the same window, in the same blue building, on the same corner.

The cone melts. The custom does not.

I am not on the wall.

I am in the line.

[James Woods @RealJamesWoods]

To all the blubbering liberal idiots bemoaning the convictions and sentencing of Antifa terrorists, Andy Ngo delivers the facts of the case.

[American Nightmare 🇺🇸 @thewakeninq]

A German fan said it best:

“If you want to hate America, watch the news. If you want to love America, drive through it.”

Over 3.6 million fans packed stadiums for the World Cup, breaking attendance records. Millions came from every corner of the globe and experienced what the headlines never show: welcoming people, incredible hospitality, and a country unlike any other.

The media sells outrage. America sells itself.

[Floyd Bolton @FloydFlopat]

@USLaborIG Thanks, Gav!