Happy birthday, President Donald J. Trump!
Everybody, let’s show President Trump some love today. So many people on the left will spend his birthday spreading hate, lies, and negativity, trying to tear him down and ruin his spirit.
Let’s drown out that hate by reminding him how deeply he is loved and appreciated.
Thank you, President Trump, for everything you have done for this country. Thank you for fighting for us, standing strong, and never giving up on the American people, even when the attacks never stop.
May God continue to protect you, strengthen you, and bless you with many more years.
Happy birthday, President Trump! America loves you!
You know what I’ve been thinking about? There are far more racist people in this country than I ever realized.
I have been blown away watching people celebrate the death of a White teenage boy simply because the person who killed him was Black.
This teenager was not on drugs. He was not a troublemaker.
He had never committed a crime.
He played sports, made good grades, respected his parents, and was loved by so many people.
Yet some people have found joy in his death because they care more about race than right and wrong.
That is not justice. That is racism, hatred, and pure evil.
A teenage boy lost his life. Anyone celebrating that should be ashamed.
Steve Hilton is asking @ChadBianco to drop out of the race, since he's only polling at (12%)
Bianco is tagged... he'll see this if we get enough of a response... let him know folks
I’m 68 years old, a biker with more miles on my boots than most men dream of, and three years after losing my wife, I never thought life had any big surprises left for me. Then, by pure accident, I met Maya.
She was four months old, lying in the NICU, crying like the world had already given up on her. Born with Down syndrome, a serious heart defect, and addicted to methamphetamine from birth, she had been turned down by twelve families. Too many complications. Too much risk. Too expensive. They were preparing to send her to institutional care.
I had wandered onto the wrong floor while visiting a buddy when a nurse saw me standing there in my leather vest and said, “That baby’s been crying for hours. Nothing calms her. You want to try?”
I picked her up, held her against my chest, and started humming a low, rumbling note—the same way I used to calm my Harley on cold mornings. Maya stopped crying instantly. Her tiny hand wrapped around my finger, and something in my chest that had been frozen since my wife passed came roaring back to life.
I came back every single day for two weeks. When the social worker said they had no choice but to move her to a group home, I looked her in the eye and said, “No. I’ll take her.”
They laid out every reason I shouldn’t: my age, my lifestyle, the surgeries ahead, the years of therapy and special care. I listened to all of it, then told them the only thing that mattered: “She deserves to grow up with someone who chooses her.”
My motorcycle brothers showed up like a cavalry. These rough, tattooed men spent a whole weekend painting her nursery a soft sunny yellow and wrestling with a crib that took four of us three hours to assemble. They brought diapers, clothes, and enough casseroles to feed a platoon. For the first time in years, my house felt alive.
At five months old, Maya went in for open-heart surgery with only a seventy percent chance of making it through. I sat in that waiting room for six long hours, making every promise to God I could think of. When the doctor finally came out smiling, I cried like a kid.
Today, Maya is nine months old and she is the brightest light in my world.
She smiles the moment I walk into the room, lighting up like I’m the best thing she’s ever seen. Her little laugh fills the house when I make silly faces or dance her around the living room to old rock ballads. She’s hitting her milestones with that stubborn fighter spirit I’ve come to love so much. The heart defect is behind us, and every day she grows stronger, happier, and more curious about the world.
I know I won’t be here for all of her life. I’m old, and the road I’ve traveled has been long. But I’ll be here for every single day I have left, and I’ve already made arrangements with my brothers and their families so Maya will never know a day without love and protection.
She was nobody’s baby once. Now she’s mine—completely, fiercely, and forever.
Every night I lay her down in her yellow nursery, kiss her forehead, and whisper the same thing: “You were chosen, little girl. You are wanted. You are loved beyond measure.”
And as she drifts off with my finger still in her tiny hand, I realize something beautiful: I didn’t just save Maya.
She saved me.
I’m the luckiest man who ever lived.