✿❤☆◦°♥

For great is your love, reaching to the heavens; your faithfulness reaches to the skies.Psalm 57:10 夢に向かって人生を送るための強さと回復力 REPUBLICAN WITH HONOR!❤️🇺🇸 愛と許し

[✿❤☆◦°♥ @mc3164ever]

@MAGAVoice UNDER HIS DESTRUCTION OF MY BEAUTIFUL AND BLESSED COUNTRY. TRUMP IS PURE EVIL AND #pedophile #trumpcorrupt #TrumpEpsteinCoverup

[Marlene Robertson🇨🇦 @marlene4719]

The biggest threat to America is not communism. It’s also not Iran

It’s the demise of human empathy and this malignant narcissistic motherfucker.

[✿❤☆◦°♥ @mc3164ever]

#fifainjustice #FIFACORRUPT #FIFA_is_unfair_and_racist #norway #mexico

[Crazy Vibes @CrazyVibes_1]

Kirk Douglas's mother could not read or write her own name in English. In 1958 he made sure that name was fifty feet tall over Times Square.

Her name was Bryna Sanglel.

She had come to America from a small village in what is now Belarus, a young Jewish woman with essentially nothing but a steamship ticket her husband had sent her from ahead. She had settled with him in Amsterdam, New York — a grey Mohawk Valley mill town where immigrant families bent their backs for pennies and where disappointment could not find them.

Her husband, Herschel Danielovitch, had been a respected horse trader in the old country. In America he became a ragman, pushing a cart through Amsterdam back alleys collecting scrap for a few cents a load. What little he earned largely disappeared into bottles and card games at the immigrant social clubs on East Main Street. At home he was distant, cold, and cruel in the specific way of people who have privately decided that someone in their household does not matter.

He never called Bryna by her name.

For their entire forty-year marriage, on the recorded testimony of every one of their seven children who lived to write about it, he addressed her only as Hey, you.

Bryna herself could not read or write. She could work.

She scrubbed floors until her hands bled. She took in other families' laundry. She cleaned other people's houses. She raised seven children on a household income that was, on the operating record of essentially every American immigrant family in Amsterdam in the specific 1920s and 1930s window, a household income of nothing.

Some days it was not enough.

On the worst days, she would send her young son Izzy to the Jewish butcher on East Main Street with a quiet, devastating request.

Please. Can we have the bones you were going to throw away.

She would take the discarded soup bones home. She would boil them for hours on the small stove until they gave up the last of their marrow. From what the butcher had already decided was worthless, she made a thin bone broth that fed the family for days.

Her son watched her do it.

He watched her through every part of it — through the hunger, through the cruelty at the kitchen table, through the specific invisibility of a woman in her own household whose own husband refused to speak her name.

He watched her never break.

When Izzy Danielovitch, the ragman's son from the poorest street in Amsterdam, told his mother when he was seventeen that he wanted to be an actor, Bryna did not laugh at him. She did not tell him to be realistic. She did not protect herself from hoping.

She believed him.

You can do it, Izzy, she told him, in the specific broken English she had learned over three decades in New York. You can be anything you want.

He believed her.

Issur Danielovitch left Amsterdam. He worked his way through St. Lawrence University wrestling for tuition. He got into the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York, where his classmates included Betty Bacall — later Lauren — who eventually recommended him to a Hollywood producer.

He changed his name to Kirk Douglas.

He made his film debut in The Strange Love of Martha Ivers in 1946. He earned three Academy Award nominations across the following decade — Champion in 1949, The Bad and the Beautiful in 1952, Lust for Life in 1956. He starred in Ace in the Hole, Paths of Glory, Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, Seven Days in May.

In 1960 he produced and starred in Spartacus. He insisted, over the direct objection of the still-active Hollywood blacklist apparatus, that the film's screenwriter Dalton Trumbo receive full public credit under his own name — the first blacklisted writer in a decade to receive one. That single specific decision, by the specific operating consensus of American film historians across the following six decades, was one of the individual acts that finally broke the blacklist.

He became a legend.

None of it made him forget the bones.

In 1949 he founded his own film production company. He did not name it after himself. He did not use his own face, his own famous chin, his own household-name credit line.

He named the company Bryna Productions.

For his mother.

The woman nobody had ever bothered to call by her name.

In the summer of 1958, Bryna Productions released a Viking epic starring Kirk, Tony Curtis, Janet Leigh, and Ernest Borgnine called The Vikings. It was one of the highest-grossing American films of the year. It played across Times Square theaters through the fall.

Kirk brought his mother to New York.

He put her in a car and drove her into midtown Manhattan and walked her, arm in arm, through the specific noise and light of the intersection where she had first stepped off a boat as a girl. He stopped her at the specific corner of Broadway and 46th Street.

He pointed up.

There, across the entire specific face of the Loew's State Theatre marquee above the theater district, spelled out in electric bulbs, was the specific single line the theater was running that week.

BRYNA PRESENTS THE VIKINGS.

Her name. In lights. Over New York.

The woman who could not write her own signature saw her name written larger than any building she had ever entered. The woman who had been called Hey, you for forty consecutive years of her own marriage had her name announced to every single person walking through Times Square that afternoon. The woman who had boiled soup bones on East Main Street in Amsterdam was now, in the specific institutional language of the American commercial-film industry, in the specific literal operating sense of the specific credit line running above the theater marquee, a producer.

Bryna wept.

Not from hardship, for once. Not from exhaustion. Not from the accumulated weight of a life lived invisible.

From joy.

Approximately three months later, on December 12, 1958, Bryna Danielovitch died at her home in Albany at seventy-four years old. Kirk was at her bedside. Her last words to him, in the specific broken English she had spoken to him his entire life, were exactly the person she had always been.

Izzie, my son. Don't be afraid. This happens to everybody.

Even at the end she was taking care of him.

Kirk Douglas lived to one hundred and three years old. He died on February 5, 2020. He became a philanthropist, a humanitarian, the father of Michael Douglas, a recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

Until the last extended interview he ever gave, he said essentially the same thing.

Everything I ever became. Everything I ever achieved. It was because of my mother.

Bryna Productions carried her name on more than thirty films across the following four decades. Spartacus. Lonely Are the Brave. Seven Days in May. Every one of them a specific single love letter from a specific son who never forgot the bones.

Bryna Sanglel came from a village in Belarus with nothing but a ticket and a hope. She raised a legend on bone soup and unconditional faith. She was erased, daily, by the man who shared her table.

Her son made sure the whole world learned her name instead.

If her story stayed with you, drop one word in the comments — Bryna, Izzie, Times Square, anything that comes to mind. Tap the like button so more people find this story. The page is small. Every reaction helps us keep telling stories like this one.

[Machine Pun Kelly 🇺🇦 @KellyScaletta]

Today I was debating a MAGA, and I was certain I was going to win. I had facts on my side. I had receipts. I had video evidence.

And then, they reached deep and found the most remarkable comeback I've ever heard.

"TDS!" they said. "You have Trump Derangement Syndrome."

Apparently, TDS is this disease where you disagree just because Donald Trump bombs boats on the high seas, commits war crimes, starts random wars, bombs schools with little girls, protects rapists and pedophiles, was best friends with Jeffrey Epstein, was convicted of 34 felonies, was found liable for sexual assault, posted racist pictures of the Obamas as apes, tore down half the White House, startd a trade war with the entire world (including an island of penguins), supported genocide, started a war that drove up inflation, cut health care for poor Americans, took the food from hngry children both in America and around the world, sold pardons to cartel leaders and people who laundered money for them and human traffickers, tried to ammend the Constitution with an Executive Order, called soldiers who died in war "suckers and losers," quoted Hitler on multiple occasions, made a man who cuddles with severed racoon road kill peises in charge of our health, said he loves inflation, threatend to invade Greenland mulitple times, pissed off Canada (how do you piss of Canada?), literally turned Washinton DC into a swamp, made billions of dollars off of being President, ran around naming things after himself, made the 250th Anniversary of the country about himself, violated the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th, 14th, 15th, 19th, 24th, and 26th Amendments, as well as Articles I, II, III, and IV of the Constitution in many and varied ways, has had more judicial rulings against him than any President in history, tried to overthrow the contry, tried to make it illegal to charge him with a crime while prosecuting people for such infractions as posting pictures of seashells, humiliated us on the world front numerous times, including a fantasy AI shot of the Prime Minister of Italy giving him googly eyes, ruind the World Cup by trying to rig it, and spawned the likes of Donald Jr. and Eric.

But incredibly. With just three letters, all of that just MAGICALLY goes away. Poof. Like it never happened.
Apparently, this is caused by a combination of immersing oneself in something called "objective reality" and reading things called "books."

If you do those things, you might wanna get yourself checked for this "TDS" thing. Fortunately, it's very easy to diagnose.

All you have to do is open your eyes. If you're not staring at the inside of your own colon, there's a very good chance you have it. The treatment is a steady diet of Fox News.

The treatment works better if you have the volume turned all the way up.

If you start realizing that colleges are teaching people to reject Starbucks cups that say "Merry Christmas" and that you should only accept the "Happy Holidays" ones, then the treatment is working.

If that doesn't work, slamming your head in the door multiple times might beat the sense out of it.

If you know someone affected by TDS, please share this post.

[Trump Girl 🇺🇲🦅🇺🇲 @MAGA__Patriot]

I had no idea..

"This man was born in 1809.
In 1816, at age 7, he was forced to work because his family was expelled.
In 1818, he lost his mother.
In 1828, he lost his sister.
In 1831, he opened his first business and went bankrupt.
In 1832, he stood in the legislative elections and lost.
In 1833, he borrowed money to open another business and went bankrupt again.
In 1835, he met a wonderful woman. He falls in love with her, they get engaged, and she dies.
In 1836, he entered a dark period of his life: deep depression.
He remains bedridden for 6 consecutive months. But he gets up.
He gets up and in that same year of 1836 he runs in the legislative elections and loses again.
In 1840 he presented himself as an elector; he loses.
In 1842, he met the woman he would end his life with.
They fall in love, get engaged, get married and she gives him 4 children and they lose 3 (three).
In 1843, he appeared at the congresses and lost.
In 1845, he appeared again at the congresses and lost again.
In 1850, his son died.
In 1854, he ran for the Senate and lost.
In 1856, he ran for Vice President, he didn't even have 100 votes.
In '58, he ran again for the Senate and lost again.

And in 1860 ABRAHAM LINCOLN was elected President of the United States of America 🇺🇸.
He was elected for two exceptional terms (he was assassinated in beginning of the second term.) He was one of the most respected and impactful Presidents in the history of the United States 🇺🇸.

It's important to tell this story of perseverance because we see the hero, but we don't see the backstage of the afflictions. "

Wow. ...
I think this is a great example of Never Never Never Give Up! 🇺🇸🇺🇸

[Crazy Vibes @CrazyVibes_1]

Clint Eastwood turned ninety-four the year he directed his fortieth film, and he told the audience at its premiere that he was not planning to stop.

The film was Juror #2. Warner Brothers released it in the fall of 2024. He directed the entire production sitting in his usual director's chair at Georgia soundstages, seven days a week. He wrapped principal photography two weeks before his ninety-fourth birthday.

The premiere audience gave him a five-minute standing ovation.

Eastwood stood up. He looked slightly embarrassed by the applause. Then he offered the room the specific line that, on his own recorded framing across the last decade of interviews, has become the single principle he has organized the rest of his life around.

"Don't let the old man in."

He is ninety-five years old.

He was born on May 31, 1930, in San Francisco. He learned to play piano in Oakland. He was drafted into the Army during the Korean War and survived a plane crash into the Pacific Ocean off Point Reyes in 1951 by swimming three miles to shore. He came home. He drove a truck. He dug swimming pools. He worked as a lifeguard.

In 1959 he was cast as Rowdy Yates on the CBS Western series Rawhide, which ran for eight seasons.

In 1964 an Italian director named Sergio Leone offered him fifteen thousand dollars to fly to Spain and star in a low-budget Western called A Fistful of Dollars. His agents told him not to take it. He took it anyway. He was thirty-four years old.

Over the next sixty-one consecutive years he became, on the operating record of the American commercial film industry, one of the most consistently working leading men and directors in the entire history of Hollywood.

He directed forty feature films. He starred in more than sixty.

He won four Academy Awards — Best Director and Best Picture for Unforgiven in 1993, Best Director and Best Picture for Million Dollar Baby in 2005. He received the American Film Institute Life Achievement Award in 1996. He directed Mystic River, Letters from Iwo Jima, Gran Torino, Sully, American Sniper. He acted in Dirty Harry, The Outlaw Josey Wales, In the Line of Fire, The Bridges of Madison County, Space Cowboys, The Mule.

At ninety-one, he starred in and directed Cry Macho. At ninety-four, he directed Juror #2.

He has now outworked essentially every other filmmaker of his generation still alive.

He has done it, by his own recorded testimony, on the specific principle contained in the seven-word line he learned from a rancher named Kyle Rote in Fredericksburg, Texas around 2010.

Eastwood tells the story in nearly every extended interview he has given in the last fifteen years. He had been visiting the Rote family ranch for a weekend hunting trip. Rote was in his eighties and still working the ranch. Eastwood asked him how he was doing.

Rote said he was doing fine. Every morning, when he got up, he made a specific decision.

"I don't let the old man in."

Eastwood was in his late seventies at the time. The line went straight through him. He wrote it down. He built a country song around it that Toby Keith later released. He organized what became the next fifteen years of his creative life around it.

The principle, as he has explained it repeatedly since, is not about pretending you are not aging. Aging is real. His knees hurt. His eyes are not what they were. He has outlived essentially every peer, every director he came up with, every actor he came up with, every love of his life except his current partner. His mother is gone. His father is gone. His siblings are gone. Sondra Locke died. Sergio Leone died forty years ago. Don Siegel died forty-four years ago.

The principle is about a specific mental discipline.

Every morning when Eastwood wakes up, he decides not to spend the day being ninety-five. He decides to be whoever he needs to be that day to do the specific work in front of him. If he is directing a film, he is a director. If he is playing piano at his own house in Carmel, he is a musician. If he is driving to visit one of his eight children or his grandchildren, he is a father and a grandfather. If he is at the ranch, he is at the ranch.

The old man — the slower, quieter, more painful, more sentimental version of himself who wants to sit in an armchair with the light off — is welcome to wait outside.

He does not get let in.

Eastwood has said in essentially every recent interview that the loneliness of extreme old age is genuine. He has said it directly. He has said the specific arithmetic is that the people who knew you when you were young disappear one at a time, over a period of years, and eventually the room is essentially empty. He has said the phone stops ringing. He has said he understands, from the inside, why very old people repeat the same stories to anyone who will still listen — not to persuade the listener of anything but to anchor themselves to a period of their own lives when they were fully in it.

He has also said, essentially every time the subject has come up, that his answer to the specific arithmetic is to keep working.

Sit in the director's chair. Make the shot list. Meet the actors. Read the script. Do the specific individual daily labor of the specific individual craft he has practiced for seventy consecutive years.

The old man does not run set.

He runs set.

At his ninety-fourth birthday, his eight children and thirteen grandchildren gathered at his ranch in Carmel-by-the-Sea. His youngest daughter Morgan gave a toast. His son Scott, who is a working actor himself, said a few words. Reporters were not present. Eastwood, per multiple accounts from family friends who spoke to the Los Angeles Times afterward, blew out the candles on the cake, thanked everyone for coming, and went back to bed at nine o'clock.

He was up at five-thirty the next morning.

He was still working on Juror #2 rewrites.

If his story stayed with you, drop one word in the comments — Clint, Carmel, ninety-five, anything that comes to mind. Tap the like button so more people find this story. The page is small. Every reaction helps us keep telling stories like this one.

[Occupy Democrats @OccupyDemocrats]

BREAKING: BOO HOO, LOSER! Trump throws THE MOTHER OF ALL TANTRUMS bitching and moaning about how the media won’t give him any credit in an absolutely PATHETIC giant-wall-of-text 450-word meltdown!

This is SO embarrassing…

The president of the United States issued a very lengthy screed this afternoon on Truth Social in which he wept, moaned, and gnashed teeth about never being able to earn the media’s respect, no matter what he “accomplishes:”

“It’s incredible! I win the Election IN A LANDSLIDE against the entire Dumocrat Party, and almost 100% negative news — I won 86% of the Counties in America, 2,750 to 525, won the Electoral College, 312 to 226, was the first Republican in decades to win the Popular Vote, and decisively won all seven Swing States, all 50 States shifted toward the Republican Party for the first time, EVER — and I had to run against not one Candidate, but two, Sleepy Joe and Kamala, which has never happened before, against almost 100% negative press and Fake News, all of them willing to do anything that I lose — and yet especially Maggot Hagerman, one of the most unattractive people in the News “Business,” and her lightweight assistant, Jonathan Swan, and The Failing New York Times itself, which spends all of its energy on negative stories about me. “

“All I do is WIN, often against all odds but, after the Big Election Success, there’s no, “Gee, he won, he did a great job!” There’s no saying, “Maybe we were wrong about him, the people were right” or, maybe, ‘Congratulations, we wish you Great Success for our Country’ No, but after I won the Election FOR THE THIRD TIME, the same people start immediately, all over again — The Failing New York Times, The LOST ITS WAY Wall Street Journal, MSDNC (They changed their name to MSNOW because nobody was watching!), Ignorant CNN, with some of the Worst No Name Anchors in History, and all three Fake Networks, ABC, CBS, NBC.

All of their Readership, Ratings, and Viewership, are “tanking” because the Public understands they are, as I have said right from the beginning, “FAKE NEWS!” They have no credibility, or it would have been impossible for me to win with only bad stories, especially in a Historic Landslide. Think of it, this was my opposition! If the Election was held again today, I would win by even more — Actually, much more! The Dumocrats don’t have what it takes, their Policies are wrong, and they are, generally, stupid people.”

“They are going COMMUNIST because they are a desperately “sinking ship,” and there’s not a thing they can do about it. Instead of writing inaccurate, false articles, for over 10 years now, shouldn’t it be time that they say, ‘We give up, we can’t beat him, there seems nothing we can do.’ Isn’t it time they say, “TRUMP IS THE BEST POLITICAL ATHLETE OF ALL TIME! CONGRATULATIONS, MR. PRESIDENT. YOU HAVE BEATEN US FOR 10 YEARS, AND WE ARE NOT GOING TO WASTE OUR TIME FIGHTING YOU ANY LONGER. WE CAN’T WIN. DO A GREAT JOB, SIR, RUNNING OUR COUNTRY. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!”

You could write an entire psychology thesis on just this post alone.

Donald Trump is clearly suffering from very serious insecurities stemming from an inability to get approval from his asshole Nazi father, because it is almost sad how desperately he needs to be validated by the public – while being so delusional and narcissistic he can’t see how his sadism, greed, and bigotry have turned the entire world against him.

He is at war with reality, at war with his insecurities, all to cover up what a sad, small little man he is that just needed to be loved by his father.

But now he’s made it our f*cking problem, and we’ll be paying the price for decades

[Luna 🌙 @LunaMusically]

Mexicanos apoyando a Norway 🇳🇴
👏🏻 👏🏻

[Enséñame de Ciencia @EnsedeCiencia]

🇳🇴😅 Un simple ”¿Y si sí?” bastó para que Erling Haaland encendiera las redes.

El delantero noruego respondió al comentario de un aficionado mexicano que le pedía “venganza” contra Inglaterra, y su breve mensaje se volvió viral en cuestión de horas. Miles de usuarios lo interpretaron como un simpático guiño hacia la afición mexicana, desatando todo tipo de reacciones y memes en redes sociales. ⚽🔥

[Gavin Newsom @GavinNewsom]

Can’t afford your rent or mortgage?

How selfish.

The President has a ballroom to build.

[Jo @JoJoFromJerz]

Fuck this and fuck him.

[Tim Hannan @TimHannan]

Not a day goes by that Donald Trump doesn’t remind us that he’s the shittiest person on the planet.

[Glenn Tunes @glenn_tunes]

I STILL FEEL THAT SINCE PRESIDENT OBAMA HAD TO RELEASE HIS BIRTH CERTIFICATE TO PROVE HE WAS AMERICAN..TRUMP SHOULD BE FORCED TO RELEASE THE EPSTEIN FILES TO PROVE HE'S NOT A PEDOPHILE 🤷🤔
AM I WRONG 🤔

[✿❤☆◦°♥ @mc3164ever]

@WhiteHouse PURE DEVIL #antichrist #pedophile #usa #Trumppedofile

[Anonymous @YourAnonNews]

Show no mercy

[imjus.Ke🧜🏽‍♀️✨ @ksdotlewis]

We don’t hate him cause he’s a republican. We hate him cause he’s a pedo, raping, bigoted ass idiot.

[BrooklynDad_Defiant!☮️ @mmpadellan]

HOLY SH*T, Iran is DRAGGING trump's delusional ass for saying "Islamic Republic of Japan" and confusing Zelensky with Putin.

"He's confusing Tehran with Tokyo, man...
The whole world laughing."

They're not wrong.

[Ed Krassenstein @EdKrassen]

Protesters in LA burn a Trump flag.

Is Trump going to try and have these people arrested?

[James Tate @JamesTate121]

TO ALL ICE AGENTS. WHEN TRUMP'S
GONE SO IS YOUR JOB AND YOUR IMMUNITY
AND WE THE PEOPLE WON'T FORGET WHAT YOU DID. TICK TOCK!