Let's face the facts: either Sikhs should not be allowed to carry kirpans — the very blades that killed Henry Nowak — or the public should be able to carry knives, since the current law is clearly not working.
Justice must be applied equally to all.
𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐀𝐇𝐔 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐑𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐂
A clip of an Iranian speaking directly into the camera — addressed to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu — is racing across X, and it is not the message the regime in Tehran wants the world to hear. “𝘈𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘐𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘯, 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤 𝘙𝘦𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰” he says.
His account of the recent war is blunt. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤 𝘙𝘦𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤” he says, and 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘹𝘪𝘦𝘴 — naming H∗mas, H∗zbollah, and the Houthis — before, in his telling, 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 pulled Israel back. He does not curse Israel for stopping. He thanks it: “𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘪𝘵”.
Then comes the part that should unsettle the mullahs most — the affection. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥” he tells Netanyahu, adding that 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡. “𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘉𝘪𝘣𝘪 𝘑𝘰𝘰𝘯. 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘉𝘪𝘣𝘪” he says of his own people’s nickname for the Israeli premier.
His closing is a plea, not a grievance. “𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤 𝘙𝘦𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤. 𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘣” he says. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤 𝘙𝘦𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘞𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤 𝘙𝘦𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦”.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐢𝐱 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐈𝐬𝐫𝐚𝐞𝐥 — 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝.
@dallasnews No bbq sauce on fingers or mouth, mostly clean napkins. He clearly looks to have just one bite in his mouth that he's ready to spit out in disgust.
𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐋𝐔 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊: 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏, 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍
Victor Davis Hanson pulled back the curtain on the Newark Delaney Hall protests — and what he describes is less a grassroots uprising than a 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (Victor Davis Hanson, Daily Signal).
The protests, he says, are subsidized — he points to ACLU money — and coordinated over encrypted Signal chats. Most telling is what he calls a “𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧” circulated to activists, coaching the exact words to use: say “𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥” not arrested, “𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴” not detainees, and call the facility a 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩. The outrage is manufactured word by word.
“𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘋𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘏𝘢𝘭𝘭... 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘦”, Hanson argues. Obama held more detainees there in a single year; New Jersey’s own health department inspected and found 𝐧𝐨 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 — even as that same state prison system left a body undiscovered for two days. The hunger strikes and torture claims, he says, simply are not real.
The goal, in his telling, is to run the cause “𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘎𝘦𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦 𝘍𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘥”. And the cruelest irony: the ICE force being smeared is heavily Hispanic — Mexican-American officers spit on and assaulted by affluent activists who claim to speak for the marginalized.
𝐎𝐮𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐯𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬.
Poster for the SAVE ACT, if ever there were one. A masked Antifa criminal stuffing a ballot box.
Who’s more of a traitor? This masked Democrat operative or Republican fraud John Thune for failing to stop the likes of her(him?)
That Pratt-Free LA Ballot Drop: 'It didn't happen!!!'
But it DID Happen
Bass: +12,853
Raman: +9,521
Miller: +1,227
Others: +1,233
Pratt: 0
@JBBlackClover
@DaddyWarpig Clearly this kid has never seen a picture of or heard of bison, water buffalo or cape buffalo, let alone the ancient auroch which led to our domestic cattle today.
USA. A potluck. Everyone brings one dish. I have never been so out of my depth in my life.
I was invited to a gathering. "Just bring a dish to share," they said. Simple words. I did not sleep for three days.
Because I understood instantly what this was. A summit. Every guest, a lord of their own house, arriving bearing tribute. And tribute is judged. Tribute is ranked. To bring the wrong dish to the wrong table is to fall in standing before your peers, possibly forever.
So I prepared. I made my finest dish. I carried it to the door with two hands and a straight back, braced for the weighing of my worth.
The first lord arrived with a bowl of orange powder noodles. Macaroni and cheese. The crowd roared. He set it down at the center of the table. The CENTER. I noted this. The center is the seat of power.
The second lord brought a tower of small brown meat orbs in red sauce. "Meatballs," he announced, like a man laying down a sword. They were placed beside the macaroni. A strong showing. An alliance, perhaps.
I studied the table like a battlefield map. Potato salad: defensive, reliable, old money. A vegetable tray, untouched, clearly a hostage offering no one expected to win. And then a woman walked in, raised a flat box overhead, and the entire room turned and CHEERED.
Pizza. She had brought pizza. Store-bought. Still in the box.
I was stunned. She had not even cooked it. And yet the people rejoiced as if a king had entered. I revised my entire understanding of the hierarchy on the spot. Effort means nothing here. Only the roar of the crowd decides rank.
I placed my dish down, humbly, near the napkins. A peasant's position. I accepted it.
And then a man tapped my shoulder, pointed at my dish, and said the words that changed everything.
"Whoa, did you make this? This is amazing. Everybody, you GOTTA try this guy's thing."
The room turned. The room came. The room ATE. My dish vanished in ninety seconds. The pizza woman herself took a second helping and looked at me with respect.
I had won the summit. By accident. With a dish I placed by the napkins.
I understand nothing about this country. I have never been happier. I am hosting the next one.
So tell me, America.
Is there a system to the potluck? A secret rank? A hidden law?
I have decided there is not.
You just bring the thing you love, and everyone eats it, and somehow everybody wins.
It is the most insane way to hold a war.
I will fight in every single one.
Never. And I must say that again, NEVER, if you value your life and have made something everyone enjoys, CHANGE IT IN THE SLIGHTEST.
If you make a 'popular' dish for potluck, you MUST by community law bring THAT DISH, ONLY THAT DISH, EXACTLY THE SAME, EVERY SINGLE TIME.
That is the only true rule to potluck.
Since my Grandmother passed away just before Christmas, I am now the only living bearer of THE Dutch Apple Pie Recipe, all others have failed to live up to its standards, only I may prepare it.