Old Head

All things in your life come from fear or love. Be sure what you do and say comes from love. If you hate someone, what is it that you fear?

[Old Head @pellju43]

@Anc_Aesthetics He certainly tries. His bills are constantly killed. 🤨

[Old Head @pellju43]

@ScottPresler I’ve been following you since you were cleaning up garbage in the urban plantations. You’re one of the greatest.

[ThePersistence @ScottPresler]

Since our movement is trending right now, let me introduce myself:

My name is Scott Presler.

I’m an Eagle Scout & son of a retired Navy Captain.

I moved to Pennsylvania in 2024 & launched an organization for the sole purpose of helping to re-elect President Trump.

I’ve spent the last decade of my life registering tens of thousands of voters, electing Republicans to all levels of office, & helping to build up Republican structures from the county & state levels.

I’ve traveled to over 40 states to grow the Republican Party.

For the last 6 months, I’ve met with members of Congress to pass the SAVE America Act — which would require photo voter ID & proof of citizenship to vote.

What I’m advocating for has overwhelming support from the American people.

Yet I was not allowed entry to a dinner last night in Rapid City, South Dakota, because Senate Majority Leader Thune was present.

When they go after me, they are really coming for you.

I will not be bullied, pressured, intimidated & I won’t stop pushing for the country-saving SAVE America Act.

Thank you for having my back — peacefully.

[FO𝕏 YOU @F0XYOU]

Scott Presler finding RINOs.

[Old Head @pellju43]

@PotatoHeadPotus @barstoolsports Yes

[Old Head @pellju43]

@SatireAP Pretty sad that a guy who has flipped entire districts to the GOP is treated like this. MAGA is gonna die because of 💩 like this. They will all be crying about some unprovable conspiracy when the DNC sweeps in 2028. This attitude will be forgotten.

[Old Head @pellju43]

@whitemoondave @midwestern_ope D is a special place. Most are completely unaware of it. I plan to retire there.

[Barstool Sports @barstoolsports]

All of Kansas City is ORANJE

[Matt Wilson @Falcontch]

@japan_nobunaga "To eat without style is to insult the cow."

[NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依 @japan_nobunaga]

A restaurant in Amarillo, Texas. Yellow building. Blue trim. Bull statue out front the size of a small house. Sign on the door:

72 OZ STEAK — FREE IF YOU FINISH IN ONE HOUR — $72 IF YOU DON'T

I read it three times.

A cowboy in a black hat was leaning on the door frame.

"Howdy, partner. Doin' the challenge?"

"...I have only just arrived."

"Yeah, but are you doin' the challenge?"

"You issue a duel to a man who has not yet removed his hat."

"...I don't follow."

"In my country a challenge is presented in a written letter, by a second, on horseback."

"Sir, where I'm from, it comes with a baked potato."

"...That is, I will admit, the better delivery."

"You doin' it?"

"I am."

He pushed open the door.

"Darla! We got one!"

A hostess in a denim shirt looked up from the gift shop, name tag DARLA. She came over with the warmth of a woman who has seen everything walk through that door at least twice.

"Aw, honey, you sure?"

"I have signed nothing yet. I am still, by my own laws, allowed to leave."

"Nobody's stoppin' you, sugar. You wanna leave?"

"...I do not."

"Then come on."

She led me past the gift shop, past the arcade, past a hundred families eating regular steaks at regular tables. In the middle of the dining room, on a raised wooden platform under a spotlight, a table for six sat empty.

"Up you go."

I bowed to the platform. I climbed the three steps. I sat.

Six hundred and fifty seats slowly noticed that the platform was occupied.

"You want me to read you the rules, hon?"

"Please."

"Rule one. Eat all of it in one hour."

"All."

"Rule two. Don't stand up."

"I am, then, chained to this seat by an honor I have only just discovered I have."

"Yep, that's rule two."

"Rule three."

"Nobody helps you."

"I would refuse help even if it were offered. Help is the death of the test."

"Rule four. You get sick, you lose."

"...I will not get sick."

"That's what they all say, sugar."

"I am, with respect, not them."

"...That's what they all say too."

Darla handed me the waiver. I signed it. She slid it into a binder that was, I noticed, already very full.

"Last rule. You get one bite of the steak first. If you say it's cooked right, we start the clock."

"...One bite to approve the opponent."

"To approve the opponent. I like that. I'm gonna use that."

A waiter arrived, a tall man with a clean apron and a stopwatch. Name tag MAVERICK.

"Sir. The challenge."

It was not a meal. It was a small landscape.

The steak was the length of my forearm. The baked potato was the size of my fist with butter pooled in its center. Four pink shrimp the size of a man's thumb stood around a glass of cocktail sauce. A salad in a wooden bowl. A roll. A small pat of butter, sitting off to the side with the patience of a junior officer.

"Take a bite of the steak, sir. Just to make sure."

I cut a piece. I ate it.

"...The opponent is worthy. Begin."

Maverick clicked the stopwatch.

Somewhere, a bell rang.

The dining room, all of it, turned its head.

For the first three minutes, no one spoke. I cut clean pieces. I chewed thoroughly. A man being watched by a room must eat as if the steak is also being watched.

Then Maverick, who was standing at the foot of the platform with both hands behind his back like a butler at a state dinner, said:

"Doin' good, sir."

"...I am only three minutes in."

"Yeah, but you're doin' it with style."

"A samurai cannot eat without style. To eat without style is to insult the cow."

"...I'm gonna write that down."

He did not write it down. He had no pen. He had a stopwatch.

At ten minutes, a small boy at a nearby table, maybe seven, stood on his chair and yelled across the dining room:

"GET HIM!"

His mother grabbed his sleeve.

"Get who, baby? It's a steak."

"GET HIM."

I lowered my fork. I rose, just slightly, in my chair, and bowed to the boy from the high seat.

The boy slammed both hands over his mouth.

His mother turned to her husband. "Did the samurai just bow at our son."

"He did."

"What do we do."

"I don't know."

The boy bowed back. He did not know how. He just bent at the waist as far as a seven-year-old can bend, which is most of the way, and held it.

I bowed deeper.

The boy bowed deeper.

His mother said, very quietly, "we're going to be here a while."

At twenty minutes, half the steak was gone. Maverick had moved from "both hands behind his back" to "one hand on the railing of the platform, leaning slightly forward."

"Sir."

"Yes."

"You're ahead of pace."

"Define pace."

"The average guy who finishes, he's about a third through right now."

"Then I am one third faster than the average successful man."

"Yeah."

"This is concerning."

"...Why?"

"In my country, when one is ahead in a duel, one is usually about to lose it. The man who is winning relaxes. The man who is relaxed, drops his guard."

"Sir, you're eating a steak."

"That is exactly what the relaxed man would say."

Maverick stared at the steak. Then at the stopwatch. Then back at the steak.

"...Just keep eating, sir."

"That is my plan."

At thirty minutes, the baked potato. Butter had gone into it the way salt goes into a wound, but in this case, making the wound delicious. A grandfather at the next table, in a cowboy hat, raised his beer at me.

"You got this, partner."

"...I have what."

"You got this. It's just a sayin'."

"You possess the situation."

"Yeah."

"Then I, also, possess the situation."

"Damn right."

He drank his beer. I ate my potato. We had reached, in twelve seconds, the kind of agreement that takes most countries treaties.

At forty minutes, the salad arrived in my path. The salad is the trick. It looks easy. It is not. It has volume but no weight. A man at minute forty has run out of room for things that do not pay for their space.

I ate the salad.

I ate it with the dignity of a man who has agreed, by treaty, to eat the side of his enemy that does not deserve to be eaten.

At forty-five minutes, the roll. The butter sealed something in my chest that had been threatening to open.

At fifty minutes, the last shrimp.

At fifty-three minutes, only the steak remained. About a quarter of it. Enough to be a meal in any country in the world that was not Texas.

The small crowd at the foot of the platform had grown. The boy who had yelled GET HIM was now standing as close as his mother would let him, which was approximately three feet, holding a balloon shaped like a longhorn.

"Sir."

It was Maverick.

"Yes."

"Six minutes left."

"I am aware."

"You're gonna make it."

"A samurai does not finish a duel by being told he is going to finish it. He finishes it by finishing it."

"...So can I stop saying you're gonna make it?"

"Please."

He stopped.

I ate. I did not hurry. A samurai accelerates the work, never the dignity.

At fifty-eight minutes, one final piece remained. A small triangle. The corner of the cutting board. The last of Texas.

I cut it in half. I ate one half. I ate the other.

I swallowed.

The bell rang.

The dining room rose.

Six hundred and fifty people, standing at their tables, clapping. The boy at the foot of the platform threw his longhorn balloon in the air. His mother did not stop him. His father took out his phone and started recording, four full minutes after he should have.

Maverick clicked the stopwatch. He looked at it. He looked at me.

"Two minutes, eleven seconds to spare."

"...The opponent yielded with margin. Honorable."

"Sir, the opponent was already dead."

"...Then I was eating, for the last hour, a memorial."

Maverick stared at me for a full second. Then he said:

"I am writing that one down, I just don't have a pen."

A man in an apron crossed the dining room. Bobby Lee, son of the founder. He climbed the platform with the calm of a man who has done this ten thousand times and still likes it.

"Sir. You finished."

"I finished."

"Your name goes on the wall."

He led me to it. It was longer than I had expected. Thousands of names. Joey Chestnut. Frank Pastore. Molly Schuyler, who had done three of these in twenty minutes and was prevented from a fourth by Bobby's brother calling "calf rope" across the dining room.

"How do you spell your name."

"...East."

"East."

"I came from there."

"All right, East it is."

He took a marker. In a free square between a man named Travis and a woman named Esther, he wrote, in black ink, in front of children:

EAST

The boy with the longhorn balloon read it out loud. "East."

"Correct."

"What's that mean."

"It means the morning. You will see me in it tomorrow, and so will everyone in this room."

The boy looked at his mother.

"Mom, the samurai is gonna be in the morning."

"...Okay, baby."

"He told me."

"...Okay."

Maverick handed me a t-shirt. It read: I FINISHED THE 72 OZ STEAK CHALLENGE AT THE BIG TEXAN.

"...I have not paid."

"You finished. It's free."

"...I have been given a meal worth the price of a duel, in exchange for the duel."

"That's how it works."

"Then I have been honored beyond the contract."

I bowed to Bobby Lee. I bowed to Maverick. I bowed to Darla. I bowed to the boy with the longhorn balloon. The boy bowed back. The dining room, all six hundred and fifty seats of it, bowed back, none of them sure why, all of them sure they should.

I walked to the door. The cowboy in the black hat was still there.

"How'd it go, partner."

"My name is on a wall in Texas."

"Hell yeah it is. Walk slow on the way out, you hear?"

"A man who has just won a duel does not run from the field."

"Damn right."

Outside, the Texas sky was the color of a baked potato split open. The bull statue stared at me without comment.

I drove east. Slowly. T-shirt in the passenger seat. Name on a wall behind me. A small boy somewhere in Amarillo telling his mother that the samurai is going to be in the morning.

In my country, when a man wins a duel, his name goes in a family register, in ink, by an elder who has watched him grow. Here, when a man finishes seventy-two ounces of beef, his name goes on a wall, in black marker, by the son of the man who started the wall, in front of a boy with a longhorn balloon.

It is the same ceremony.

A samurai does not eat seventy-two ounces of beef twice in one life. He does not have to. He has done it once, in front of a room, and the room remembers, and the wall remembers, and the boy with the balloon remembers, and the morning will arrive tomorrow with my name in it.

I am no longer a stranger.

I am on the wall.

https://t.co/cbJ9rBhbYU

[Massimo @Rainmaker1973]

These firefighters spent the day fighting wildfires in Spain when they found a deer stranded in the forest.

This is how they responded.

[CBS 58 News @CBS58]

SEVERE FLOODING: Mark Garza took this video of the insane flooding on the west side of Green Bay today!

[Ella Frei @EllaFrei17]

My name is Ella, I'm 17 years old.
I do long jump. I play volleyball. I go to school in New Richmond, Wisconsin.
When my school allowed a biological male into the girls' restroom without telling parents —
I went to the school board.
With my name attached.
In my own town.
I got bullied for it. Harassed online. Even some of my own teachers came after me.
I'm still here.
Because here's what I know:
The net in women's volleyball is set nearly a foot lower for a reason.
A biological male can hit a ball across that net at force that could seriously injure a girl.
And in track — all it takes is three biological males entering the girls' category
and not a single girl in this state stands on a podium.
I didn't speak up because it was easy.
I spoke up because somebody had to.
The Supreme Court is about to answer the question every girl in America is asking.
We're ready.
@JenniferSey
@xx_xyathletics

[Adam McCalvy @AdamMcCalvy]

Brewers probable starters for the Cubs series:

Friday: Jacob Misiorowski
Saturday: Kyle Harrison
Sunday: Brandon Woodruff

[Elsa @elsathora]

My life will never be the same

[Jennifer 🟥🔴🧙‍♀️🦉🐈‍⬛ 🦖 @babybeginner]

I analyzed this article so you don’t have to. We are all awaiting the latest Supreme Court ruling on women’s sports. Can a state decide that women’s sports are for…well… women?

It should come as no surprise to you that this article shudders at the thought. A thread. 1/

[NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依 @japan_nobunaga]

A sandwich shop in New Orleans. I ordered a fried shrimp po'boy. The man behind the counter, Marcus, asked me something gently.

"You want it dressed?"

I looked at the sandwich on the counter. Shrimp. Bread. Nothing else.

It was naked.

I understood at once. In this city, they do not let a sandwich go out into the world undressed. A people who give clothing even to their lunch. I was moved.

"It is not dressed now?" I asked, carefully.

"Nah, right now that's just the shrimp and the bread."

"Then yes. I cannot let it leave this counter naked."

Marcus nodded slowly. "...So, lettuce, tomato, mayo, pickle?"

"Whatever it needs to be decent."

He started building it. I watched each layer go on like a garment. The lettuce was its robe. The tomato, a sash. I bowed my head a little, out of respect for the dressing of a thing.

"You good?" Marcus asked. He had stopped, mid-mayo.

"Do the other sandwiches know," I said quietly, "that this one was almost sent out bare?"

"...They don't really, uh. Know things."

"You protect its honor anyway. You are a kind man."

He finished dressing it without another word. A patient man. He even laid the pickles on like he meant it.

I took a bite, and the shrimp were hot and crisp and the bread cracked and gave way, and the whole thing was, I will be honest with you, perfect. I ate the rest standing up, shrimp falling, mayo on my thumb, completely content.

A man, a blade, a sandwich.

None of the three should ever be sent into the world undressed.

So tell me, America.

You ask if the sandwich would like to be dressed, as if it could feel shame.

Who decided a sandwich had dignity worth protecting?

And when it sat there bare on the counter. Which of us looked away first?

[BenYount1130 @yount1130]

This!!! No one is going to sell their house in Wisconsin and move to Tennessee or Florida because gas is 15 cents more expensive Here. A 15% property tax increase (for the next 399 years) however, will drive people out of the state.

[Rand Paul @RandPaul]

For six months, I have been negotiating with Anthony Fauci's lawyers over a date to testify before my Homeland Security Committee. He finally agreed to appear this month. Then he backed out. So I subpoenaed him. He will testify in July.

https://t.co/w2599FJASz

[RevDisBro ♊️ @PsionEth]

@Asmon_Updates This is why I love Amson lol.

Especially his explanation on immigration from the 3rd world. "If you take a bunch of people from a PvP server and put them on a PvE server there is going to be trouble." 😂😂😂