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I’ve made contracts with every sort of lowlife. I’ve been to the crossroads. I’ve been down to Georgia. I’ve signed agreements with legions of lawyers, living, as I do, in the details, and ended up with the souls of everyone except Daniel Webster, that prig-tastic blowhole.
But Donald Trump? Not worth it.
Maybe you thought I already owned Trump’s soul. How else could someone so gob-smackingly incompetent fail upward all the way to a second presidential term? But social media, misogyny, and the ever-loving shit show known as the also gob-smackingly incompetent “Democratic Party”—that’s on you, humans. As folks in our Fifth Circle say about Trump, “Wow, does his shit stink.” And that place reeks so bad, the demons wear gas masks.
Across the West, corporate media have employed the same tactics of using the passive voice and not naming the perpetrator when describing U.S./Israeli aggression. A perfect encapsulation of this was the BBC’s headline, “At least 153 dead after reported strike on school, Iran says,” that made it sound as if the children died in a lightning strike or a labor dispute, rather than that they were bombed by hostile foreign powers.
The post Corporate Media Go All Out To Support The US-Israeli War on Iran appeared first on MintPress News.
The Central American nation never fully recovered from the loss of its megafauna
The post Restoring Panama to When Prehistoric Beasts Roamed the Jungle appeared first on Nautilus.
How to tackle a common kitchen problem with fluid dynamics
The post Physicists Uncover How Long It Takes to Get the Last Drop of Syrup appeared first on Nautilus.
“Looksmaxxing”—achieving the hottest, manliest version of yourself—can be intimidating. It’s hard to know where to start, but we recommend with your jaw. Crack that bad boy wide open.
A big, broad, shockingly vast jaw is the bedrock of masculinity. You’ve heard of the jaws of life—get ready for the “jaws of wife,” because the women will be flocking in short order. Plus, while your jaw’s wired shut and healing, nobody makes you talk about your feelings. You can sit in silence with your boys for six to eight weeks. Soon enough, you’ll be mewing in your newly minted maw.
Next, take a look at your legs. Those gotta get longer. A lot longer. You can surgically break and lengthen them at either the femur or the tibia, dealer’s choice. But for the record, breaking the femur hurts more, so men who choose the tibias are betas.
It takes a family to drive research for a rare disease forward
The post Saving the Girl with Dementia appeared first on Nautilus.
The FBI manufactured plots to convince Trump that Iran sought to kill him, while Israel and its administration allies exploited the president’s deepest fears to keep him on the war path. “I got him before he got me,” an ebullient President Donald Trump remarked to a reporter when asked about his motives for authorizing the killing of Iran’s Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, on February 28, 2026. With his off-the-cuff remark, Trump revealed that anxiety about his own assassination at the […]
The post How Israel and the FBI manipulated assassination plots to goad Trump into Iran war first appeared on The Grayzone.
The post How Israel and the FBI manipulated assassination plots to goad Trump into Iran war appeared first on The Grayzone.
Labour’s campaign in Gorton and Denton, following the familiar modus operandi of the Labour right, was one of the dirtiest and most shameless campaigns the Party has fought in its history. Islamophobic dog whistles, dishonest claims about tactical voting, lurid accusations, and the absence of any substantial political offer did little except convince already sceptical […]
Carrie Brownstein delivers a few sports-related tips and pointers.
Q: My partner is the captain of a coed dodgeball league and has started hinting that he wants me to attend more games. I went to one recently and found myself feeling secondhand embarrassment for him. The self-serious competition, the mock leadership, the flaring tempers, the matching uniforms (which he designed)—all this ado over a game we all played as twelve-year-olds. I’m not usually so judgmental, but something about watching him get so worked up about these games has brought out a new side of me. I truly don’t know if I can go to another game and keep the grimace off my face. How do I excuse myself from attending without hurting his feelings?
Dodging Mortification
Minneapolis, MN
For fifteen years or so, I’d been kicking around the idea of resurrecting the artist-apprentice model that reigned in the art world for hundreds of years.
Again and again, I’d heard from young people who lamented the astronomical and ever-rising cost of art school. For many college-level art programs, the total cost to undergraduates is now over $100,000 a year. I hope we can all agree that charging students $400,000 for a four-year degree in visual art is objectively absurd. And this prohibitive cost has priced tens of thousands of potential students out of even considering undertaking such an education.
For years, I mentioned this issue to friends in and out of the art world, and everyone, without exception, agreed that the system was broken. Even friends I know who teach at art schools agreed that the cost was out of control, and these spiraling costs were contributing to the implosion of many undergraduate and postgraduate art programs.
As a cisgender, white, bisexual second son of a viscount, and as a gentleman landowner of multiple estates on the unceded ancestral homeland of the Celts and Saxons, I don’t see race. Of late, many of my acquaintances have expressed very great wonder at this. I set down my lived experience here in the hopes that it may serve as an example.
On the eve of the 1815 season, I attended my mama’s masquerade ball at Bridgerton House. Even as I entered the ballroom, members of the Ton recognized me, despite my attempts at concealment—I am taller than my brothers and exceedingly well built, and also I wasn’t wearing a costume and my mask was small.
A young lady curtseyed to me and said she had heard I was a devotee of Thomas Lawrence, a great master of portraiture who had recently exhibited at the Royal Academy.
“Oh, you like Lawrence?” I said. “Name three of his group compositions.” The lady gaped at me.
“I thought not,” I said, chuckling and moving towards the table piled high with sweetmeats.