sliders

cane's sauce

[sliders @sliders7x]

this is still the best tweet ever made, btw

[V @Vaarun_]

She shake on my steak till I 'n

[sliders @sliders7x]

@0nly1Melo @cowboy_postbop i think '08 bailouts and foreign policy over primary and you got it

[Nikki Morgen Comix @ducknuk_comic]

Playdate
(Repost)

[sliders @sliders7x]

@theoyo99 i lied it's 0.000188% since the last throw was a win

[sliders @sliders7x]

@theoyo99 0.0000627%, if each throw was truly random, lol

[pidge, the Super Jumper 🇨🇦 (Car Downloader) @pidgezero_one]

Smash Sisters has changed, from my perspective as a woman who played in the first one in 2016.

And I'm fed up.

Read on to find out if these two things are related: https://t.co/yE2gZ2c6Su

[do you feel like you’re a part of it? @NONBlNARY]

the reason this is one of the greatest pieces of humor our combined scenes have ever seen is that the real shit is mixed in w the slander entirely at random. truly a case study in jokes

[DiscussingFish @DiscussingFish]

This AI band I created is bringing in $300K a month.

Nearly reached 1 billion streams.

Though they have NO songs that go viral…

Nobody notices they’re AI.

If you want to learn how to create an AI band DM me.

[😈 @turtlekiosk]

the part about early internet experience they forget to mention is the part where you go outside and not use a computer for most of the day

[The Biblical Man @Biblicalman]

My father once told me the secret to a happy marriage.

“Stay out of the kitchen. Let her handle the holidays.”

I was 19. He was in his recliner.

My mother was cooking for 14 people.

She’d been up since 5 AM.

He’d been up since the football pregame.

I didn’t think anything of it.

That’s just how it was.

Fast forward 20 years.

I’m in the recliner.

My wife is in the kitchen.

She’s been up since 5 AM.

I’ve been up since the pregame.

My daughter walks by and I see her watching.

Not the TV.

Her mother.

Then me.

Then her mother again.

That’s when it hit me:

She’s taking notes.

My father taught me that holidays were for men to rest and women to work.

He didn’t say it.

He showed it.

Every Thanksgiving.
Every Christmas.
Every Easter.

The recliner passed from him to me like an inheritance I never asked for.

This morning I woke up at 4 AM.

Not for content.

For the turkey.

My wife found me in the kitchen at 6.

She didn’t say anything.

She just stood there.

Then she cried.

Your kids are taking notes.

Not on what you say.

On where you sit.

The recliner is an inheritance.

Be the generation that stands up.

[connor @ConnorEatsPants]

💥 Fortnite Friday is BACK 💥

🚨 Fortnite Friday's most requested non-deceased guest, Haliey "Hawk Tuah" Welch, finally tells all on the Battle Bus 🚨

🔥 6:00 EST / 3:00 PST 🔥

[Travis Akers 🇺🇸 @travisakers]

A message from a Kindergarten teacher:

After forty years in the classroom, my career ended with one small sentence from a six-year-old:

“My dad says people like you don’t matter anymore.”

No sneer. No malice. Just quiet honesty — the kind that cuts deeper because it’s innocent. He blinked, then added, “You don’t even have a TikTok.”

My name is Mrs. Clara Holt, and for four decades, I taught kindergarten in a small Denver suburb. Today, I stacked the last box on my desk and locked the door behind me.

When I started teaching in the early 1980s, it felt like a promise — a shared belief that what we did mattered. We weren’t rich, but we were valued. Parents brought warm cookies to parent nights. Kids gave you handmade cards with hearts that didn’t quite line up. Watching a child sound out their first sentence felt like magic.

But that world slowly slipped away. The job I once knew has been replaced by exhaustion, red tape, and a kind of loneliness I can’t quite describe.

My evenings used to be filled with construction paper, glitter, and glue sticks. Now they’re spent filling out digital reports to protect myself from angry emails or lawsuits. I’ve been yelled at by parents in front of twenty-five children — one filming me with his phone while I tried to calm another child mid-meltdown.

And the kids… they’ve changed too. Not by choice.

They arrive tired, anxious, overstimulated. Their tiny fingers know how to swipe a screen before they can hold a crayon. Some can’t make eye contact or wait in line. We’re expected to fix all of it — to patch the gaps, heal the trauma, teach the curriculum, and document every move — in six hours a day, with resources that barely fill a drawer.

The little reading corner I once built, full of soft beanbags and paper stars, was replaced by data charts and “learning metrics.” A young principal once told me, “Clara, maybe you’re too nurturing. The district wants measurable results.”

As if kindness were a weakness.

Still, I stayed. Because of the small, holy moments that no spreadsheet could measure —
a whisper of, “You remind me of my grandma.”
a shaky note that read, “I feel safe here.”
a quiet boy finally meeting my eyes and saying, “I read the whole page.”

Those tiny sparks were my reason to keep showing up.

But this last year broke something in me.

The aggression grew sharper. The laughter in the staff room turned to silence. The light went out of so many eyes. I watched brilliant teachers — my friends — vanish under the weight of burnout, their joy replaced by survival.

I felt myself fading too, like chalk on a board that’s been wiped one too many times.

So today, I began my goodbye. I pulled faded art off the walls and tucked thirty years of handmade cards into a single box. In the back of a drawer, I found a letter from a student from 1998:

“Thank you for loving me when I was hard to love.”

I sat on the floor and cried.

No party. No applause. Just a handshake from a young principal who called me “Ma’am” while checking his notifications.

I left my rocking chair behind, and my sticker box too. What I carried with me were the memories — the faces of hundreds of children who once trusted me enough to reach out their hands and learn. That can’t be uploaded. It can’t be measured. It can’t be replaced.

I miss when teachers were partners, not targets. When parents and educators worked side by side, not in opposition. When schools cared more about wonder than numbers.

So if you know a teacher — any teacher — thank them. Not with a mug or a gift card, but with your words. With your respect. With your understanding that behind every test score is a heart that cared enough to try.

Because in a world that often overlooks them, teachers are the ones who never forget our children.

[♰ @reeceollld]

ughhhhh i didn’t fix my entire life this weekend FUCK

[g @34rths]

I don't feel particularly proud of myself But I have a job and at least three friends so Girl whatever

[sliders @sliders7x]

@tobyfox Gaster

[sliders @sliders7x]

@jbnxb42 @BluebriarArts https://t.co/fELJGmZwjW

[sarina @sariverse]

my sister in response to me not wanting to write ‘swag’ on my nails

[sliders @sliders7x]

@hollyrogerbay who-wee (like "susie") mayhaps?

[sliders @sliders7x]

people pleaser

[nico 🦌 @gaydeer1225]

this section is so fucking funny to me like shes just standing there like "i hope they dont find anything embarrassing" GIRL ITS YOUR ROOM??? you can kick them out if you want 😭😭😭

[tobyfox @tobyfox]

DELTARUNE TOMORROW