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High Quality Dog Food Made of Insects

Move over Kibbles ‘n Bits, here comes Cricket Crunch. Insect dog food is taking off, packed with protein from crickets, mealworms, and black fly larvae. That means Fido’s dinner might start looking suspiciously like the bottom of your bug zapper, and this is considered some bougie high-quality dog food.

You know you’re dog will eat just about anything. Food that falls off the table becomes a free-for-all, and if you’re not fast enough, you just lost your dinner. Outside, your dog is eating everything from snails to caterpillars, and even bees.

The pitch is sustainability. Insects take a fraction of the resources to farm compared to beef or lamb. A kilo of insect protein makes way less CO2 than beef, lamb, or soy. Owners get to feel good about saving the planet while their dog wonders why they’re pouring them a bowl of “Mealworm Medley” or “Black Fly Down.” He’s scratching his head, thinking, “Cool story, bro. But where’s the steak?”

Pet food startups are cashing in fast. One UK company tripled its revenue last year, proving that people will do anything for their dogs, even if it means buying a bag of crickets that costs more than their own groceries.

Imagine the cost of inventory. All a company has to do is set up traps around the property and give the insects reasons to come. Oddly enough, crickets are already drawn to high-quality dog food. So, win-win. All mealworms need is a dark and damp place to hide, and the dog food company has just cut production costs considerably. Package it and ship it off. If you build it, they will come.

If you are not bougie like that, you can skip the fancy packaging and set up a food supply farm on your own. Just turn your backyard into an insect playground and watch dinner crawl right to you. Your neighbors might not come around anymore, and you might creep out any friends you thought you had. But imagine how happy your wallet will be when you stop buying pet food at the grocery store.

By 2030, demand for insect protein is expected to hit half a million tons, with 30 percent of that going into high-quality dog food. That’s a lot of bugs. Honestly, the real winners here might be the flies who are finally getting the attention they’ve been buzzing about for years.

So what’s next? Organic Grasshoppers, now in Sweet Potato Glaze. And don’t be surprised if Rover suddenly develops a habit of attacking the porch light, not just for fun but for snacks.

Before you start the insect farm, check out this high-quality pet food your animals will love!

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The First Amendment Is Affected In More Ways Than You Can Imagine

When the First Amendment feels like it’s under attack, that’s because it is. But the government knows better, even though it tries and has succeeded in the past on different occasions. The fact that they do it behind our backs means they know it’s not right. They just try to get away with it every once in a while. The thing is that there is a bigger problem here, and it’s less obvious.

It won’t be after I point it out!

Years ago, before Caitlin Clark joined the league, we were talking about the pay gap and why WNBA players don’t get paid as much as NBA players. I commented on a post on Facebook that the league didn’t make as much money. I backed it up with facts, and I hit Enter. That’s when I got a notice that I had violated community standards. What standards could I have violated when I was only presenting the facts?

The WNBA has struggled to turn a profit since its launch, with reports of annual losses ranging from $10 million a year in earlier seasons to as much as $40–50 million in recent years. Those gaps have been covered in large part by the NBA, which still owns a sizable stake in the league and subsidizes operations to the tune of roughly $10–15 million annually. Many WNBA teams are also owned by NBA owners, further tying the leagues together. Even after outside investors bought into the WNBA in 2022, the NBA retained effective control and continues to provide the infrastructure, resources, and marketing muscle needed to keep it running. In short, the WNBA is not yet self-sustaining, and its survival depends heavily on NBA support.

Which brings me back to that Facebook post. I wasn’t slinging insults. I wasn’t making up figures. I was pointing out a reality that plenty of reporters and analysts have already written about. And still, my voice was removed from the conversation.

Coming back to Caitlin Clark, the WNBA is missing a great opportunity. She is bringing the viewers. She’s bringing fans of all ages, including young girls who might aspire to be basketball players themselves. And if they don’t, they still make great fans for the league. If the WNBA wants to eliminate the pay gap, there’s their answer. They have to protect that girl.

I’m an Indiana Fever fan because of her, and I don’t even get to watch her play. She’s out for the season. There goes income the WNBA could appreciate. But it seems to me that there’s an attitude across the league, if you can’t beat her, take her out of the game. That lets me know where their priorities actually are.

But back to the First Amendment, social media monitors themselves aren’t the only ones to blame. If you’re not willing to listen to someone, how do you expect anyone to listen to you? It’s hard at times when you don’t agree with a person. You want to shut them out, and you have the right to do that. But if you cry about freedom of speech afterward, check yourself.

The First Amendment

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

That’s a directive written strictly to forbid Congress from prohibiting free speech. It’s interpreted to mean all governments across the land. Your state government, your local government, and everything, including the board of education, which often prohibits free speech and gets away with it because parents let it slide.

The line “you can’t yell fire in a crowded theater” comes from a Supreme Court decision in 1919. The case was Schenck v. United States, where Charles Schenck had been convicted under the Espionage Act for handing out leaflets urging men to resist the military draft during World War I. Schenck argued that his conviction violated his First Amendment rights. Writing for a unanimous Court, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. upheld the conviction and introduced the idea that speech is not protected if it creates a “clear and present danger” of causing serious harm. To make his point, Holmes said, “The most stringent protection of free speech would not protect a man in falsely shouting fire in a theatre and causing a panic.”

That vivid image stuck, even though the case itself had nothing to do with theaters. For decades, people repeated the phrase as if it marked the outer limit of free speech. But the legal standard has changed. In 1969, the Court ruled in Brandenburg v. Ohio that speech can only be restricted if it’s both intended to incite imminent lawless action and likely to produce such action. This created a much stricter test than Holmes’s “clear and present danger.”

So while the theater example is still one of the most quoted lines about free speech, it’s technically outdated. Today, the First Amendment protects far more speech than Holmes suggested back in 1919. The phrase often gets misused to justify censorship, but in reality, modern law places very few limits on speech unless it’s tied directly to inciting immediate violence or illegal acts.

That’s the technical aspect of the First Amendment and what it means. But it extends to us and what we deal with in our daily lives. Posts sometimes disappear, get delayed, or never load at all. People call it a glitch, but after a while, you start to wonder. Losing a post might not sound like a big deal, but it’s a clever way to discourage certain voices. If you’re forced to rewrite what you said over and over, eventually, frustration wins out. You shut down, and the thought never makes it into the conversation. That’s how control creeps in, not always by outright banning words, but by quietly making it harder for them to stick.

Even Mark Zuckerberg has acknowledged that Facebook used to flag certain kinds of posts while allowing others to spread freely, often because of outside pressure. He has since promised to change that, which is as good as admitting that the practice was happening in the first place. And that’s the heart of the problem. When platforms decide what voices can be heard and which ones vanish in the shuffle, the First Amendment might still exist on paper, but in practice, free speech is being chipped away in ways people barely notice.

Google Admits Censorship Under Biden; Promises to End Bans of YouTube Accounts of Thousands of Americans Censored for Political Speech

What A Jimmy Kimmel Grift And The Songs Of Praise

But it’s not just the platforms. We limit free speech ourselves without realizing it. I call it Going Against the Grain. Think of a piece of wood. If you run your hand down the board, going with the grain, it’s smooth. When you hear someone you agree with or who is in harmony with your understanding, you’ll listen to them all day. But Going Against the Grain is when you run your hand up the board and feel the splinters. That’s like hearing someone say something you don’t like or agree with, you immediately start tuning them out and don’t want to listen anymore.

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How can you expect to grow if you don’t hear the other side? You might hear something you’ve never heard before, and it might open up your eyes. At the very least, you should hear the opposition out to know what they’re actually saying. You shouldn’t rely on your sources telling you what the other side is saying, filtering it and presenting it to you in a way that is comfortable to you. That’s not reliable information. It’s clearly slanted.

Go to the source itself and hear what they have to say. To be clear, I’m not saying you have to listen to someone when they’re spouting hateful things. I’m only urging you to hear someone out when they’re stating facts and offering their opinion based on those facts.

A statement is going viral now, and it’s important to embrace, “He wasn’t saying hateful things. He was saying things they hated.” There’s a difference. Let’s not tie that to any particular person and trigger ourselves away from the point. It’s important to know the difference between what’s hateful and what you simply hate.

The First Amendment isn’t only tested by companies or governments. It’s tested every day in how we choose to treat each other’s voices. Free speech doesn’t fade out because a law disappears. It fades when we stop practicing it ourselves.

So, grab yourself a beer and enjoy the fact that you live in a country where you’re allowed to speak your mind while drinking it!

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What A Jimmy Kimmel Grift And The Songs Of Praise

The anthems can be heard echoing across the channels because Jimmy Kimmel has returned as if Donald Trump’s attempt to attack the Constitution has been thwarted. The big orange monster has been stopped in its tracks. But the innocent victims should have held their encore because headlines have now broken that Google admitted the Biden administration pressured YouTube into banning conservative voices, and will now begin to reinstate those accounts.

What a wonderful web we weave. Social media feeds are full of celebratory clips of Jimmy Kimmel explaining his intentions in a tearful monologue. It was tear-jerking. To imagine that he was so misunderstood in what he was saying that he was turned into a monster by the opposition. That’s just not right when the mob does that as if they’re being told what to say and what to think about a person they don’t know.

Look at the way things played out. The FCC chair fired off a warning about broadcast standards. Almost right after, Disney pulled the plug on Kimmel’s show. A few days later, the suspension was lifted, but not on every station. Nexstar and Sinclair are still keeping him off the air. That “indefinite” break barely lasted a week, yet the signal was obvious. Political pressure and corporate nerves can shut down a voice, even if only for a short while.

Toward the end of his monologue, Jimmy Kimmel talked about speaking out against the president trying to silence freedom of speech. What a hero he has become! What a position he is in to champion freedom of speech and fight to protect our rights, even when we don’t agree with what someone is saying. I’m totally with him. I just hope he keeps that energy when he hears the news.

That same type of political pressure was working behind the scenes with YouTube. This time it came from the Biden White House. Google has admitted it was pushed to cut off conservative voices, silencing opinions that clashed with the administration’s storyline. That’s not late-night humor. It’s not satire. It’s censorship of political speech. That’s the same thing that raised such an uproar when it was done to Jimmy Kimmel.

How could it be any different? And the excuses start flying. But Kimmel returned with higher ratings, and Disney got a burst of attention. The suspension looked more like a corporate maneuver under government pressure than a permanent silencing. YouTube’s ban under Biden directly resulted in many conservative voices losing access to audiences and income during that time. The reinstatements are easily seen as an admission that the bans were politically driven.

That leads us to another story at play here. Kimmel’s ratings were sliding before any of this blew up. By August, he was barely pulling in a little over a million viewers a night. Earlier in the year, the show was over 1.9 million, but even that wasn’t much to brag about. By the end of summer, he looked less like a late-night fixture and more like a show fading into the background.

The suspension changed that. When he came back on September 23, more than 6.2 million people tuned in. That’s the biggest audience for a regular episode in over ten years, even with Nexstar and Sinclair cutting him off in nearly a quarter of U.S. homes. His return speech spread even further online, where clips pulled millions of extra views. And that’s when the dancing started…

via Soul Train

It doesn’t read like punishment. It looks like a promotion. The uproar created buzz, the break made people curious, and the comeback turned into an event. Call it luck or call it strategy, it was a good hustle for the host. Disney knows it, too. And they’ll squeeze every drop of attention they can get.

The real question is whether it lasts. Spikes fade. Viewers drift back to old habits. For now, the show has heat, but suspending it might have been the only thing keeping it relevant. We’ll see how long the love sticks. If anyone were to be inclined to recognize conspiracies, this turn of events can easily be mapped out as if they were planned to get a failing show better ratings.

Just in case you were wondering where I am in all this, I’ll say it clearly so there are no misunderstandings. Political censorship is wrong. Most censorship is wrong for that matter. Freedom of Speech is a precious freedom that we all must fight for and be ready to die for if need be. But the hypocrisy is what I’m pointing out. Only a fool dances when the song hides their own lies. Only a fool celebrates when the cheers hide their own disgrace. Whatever way you want to say it, it’s all hypocrisy.

Always remember, in the word “whatever” is the word “hate.” That means absolutely nothing. Just something I happen to notice.

Nobody comes out clean. If you’re clinging to the hope that one side is so much better than the other and all the wrongs lie with them, you have a rude awakening coming. They both have committed atrocities far worse than these. So believe what you want to believe and back who you want to back, but the time for pointing fingers is over. When you throw dirt, you only lose ground. And sometimes the dirt you throw today might uncover something tomorrow that you wish had stayed buried, the kind of thing that stops all the dancing and singing right in its tracks.

It’s always a good thing to remember, The Future Will Judge Our Permanent Record of History…

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Krista Ferlin And The Call Of The Rappahannock River

Krista was feeling a little restless on a nice sunny morning. She had a few hours to kill before Maggie would call her in to do her schoolwork. Because of being homeschooled, the farmhouse, the yard, and the Rappahannock River in the Great Beyond, as she liked to call it, were all she knew of the world she roamed on days like this one.

Krista had been eyeing the pile of wood behind the barn all morning. Her imagination running wild, she started thinking of all the things she could build with it. There was a good bit there. She could build a fort or a treehouse. But she had hiding places throughout all the land that were already forts, and Gilmer had made her a treehouse a few years ago. It was still there because anything he made was built to last.

The more she thought about it, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer started invading every thought. When Tom, Huck, and Joe find a raft on the bank, they take it down the river. Krista smiled as she thought of making her own raft and seeing how many journeys she could go on with it.

She jumped up and brushed the dirt off her jeans. If it was going to be a raft, then it needed rope. Lots of it. She started across the yard and went into the barn, where the air was warm and smelled of metal and oil. She walked all around the huge barn, confused that she didn’t find rope by the door. Finally, in the corner, she spotted a bundle that looked like it had been sitting there since before she was born. It was rough and stiff, and the ends had frayed out like horse tails, but it was rope all the same.

Dragging the line behind her, Krista got to work like a shipbuilder who had been doing this for years. She picked up one plank, then another, laying them side by side in the grass. The boards weren’t the same length, and one of them bowed upward in the middle, but she figured a raft didn’t need to be perfect. All it needed to do was float.

She tugged at the rope, trying to unknot it, and soon strands of hay dust clung to her shirt and hair. Finally, it came loose, and she stretched it across the first two boards. Her fingers fumbled a bit, but she managed to lash them together, tying knots the way she had once watched Gilmer secure a load in the back of the truck.

Krista worked hard, sweat pouring from her forehead as the afternoon sun leaned lower in the sky. One by one, she added more boards, her knots tightening into something that actually looked sturdy. She knelt back in the grass and tilted her head, examining her work. The raft was crooked, no doubt about it, but it held together. That was all that mattered.

A smile crept across her face. It wasn’t just a jumble of wood anymore. It was a raft. Her raft. She could already imagine it rocking gently on the Rappahannock River, carrying her further down than she had ever gone before. Krista brushed her hands off on her jeans and stood proudly over her work.

When she tried to lift it, her raft was heavier than she thought. For a moment, she wondered if she had built something she couldn’t move. What good would it be if she couldn’t get it down to the water? She took in a deep breath, planted her boots in the dirt, and lifted one side. She walked it up until it was standing sideways. Then, she started scooting it in a line, picking it up every now and then.

Bit by bit, Krista made her way across the yard. She stopped every few feet to catch her breath, then leaned into it again, the boards creaking together as if they were just as tired as she was. When she reached the far edge of the yard where the grass gave way to the field, she stopped and looked back at the barn. Her progress was a good bit at this point. What started out as a pile of junk had turned into her very own boat, and now she was dragging it to the Great Beyond.

The field stretched wide, as grasshoppers sang and dragonflies buzzed. The sun painted the tall grass in streaks of gold, and Krista felt like an explorer crossing untamed land. Her raft carved a flat path behind her, knocking stalks aside, the wood catching now and then on rocks hidden in the soil. She refused to give up. Sweat dampened her shirt, but her smile came back the closer she got to the river.

At last, she reached the dirt road. Krista looked both ways, as if expecting a parade of cars to pass, though it was empty and quiet like always. She tugged her raft across, leaving a faint trail of dust in her wake. On the other side, the ground dipped gently toward the trees, and she felt a burst of energy knowing the river was near.

When she broke through the last line of trees, the Rappahannock spread out in front of her. The late afternoon light shimmered on the surface. Rocks jutted up from the water, each one capped with moss that looked like tiny green islands. The current moved steady and smooth, inviting her to get in and go somewhere.

Krista pulled the raft down the bank until the boards slid into the shallows. She climbed on carefully, crouching low to keep her balance. For a moment, it rocked under her weight, the rope groaning. She held her breath. Then it steadied. She sat cross-legged and gave a little push with her boot, sending herself into the flow.

The river welcomed her. Trees lined the banks, their branches dipping low as if to greet her on her voyage. A squirrel scrambled up one of the trunks, its claws scratching the bark before it leapt to another branch. A snake slithered from the water onto the bank, its scales glistening in the sunlight before disappearing into the grass. Farther along, a deer lifted its head and watched her drift by, ears twitching, eyes wide with curiosity.

The raft drifted lazily, carried by the flow of the river until Krista noticed something unusual on the far bank. A group of men lounged in the grass beneath a tall oak tree. They had old clothes, but they were stylish in an interesting way. One was wearing a bandana, while another had a huge hat sitting like a triangle on his head. The third wore a headband over his long brown hair as he looked back and studied Krista, who was slowly making her way toward him.

“What do we have here?” he called out, lifting his hand in a subtle salute. “A fine day indeed for a nice sail.”

Krista looked around. “Do you have a boat?”

The pirates chuckled and looked around at each other, “That we do, but our vessel is in the shop. It needs a tune-up, you see. Can’t chase the horizon with a squeaky mast or sails that tear in the wind.”

Krista laughed, “Ships don’t go to shops.”

“Oh, they do, when you’ve been as many places as we have,” said the one with the black hat and skull on it. His voice was soft and whimsical, as if every word belonged in a poem. “We have seen mountains taller than the clouds and deserts that sing when the wind passes through. We have hidden our treasure beneath sands so white they blinded our eyes and in caves where the stars shone through holes in the stone.”

Krista leaned closer, her raft rocking beneath her, “Why do you hide your treasure in so many places?”

The one with the headband spread his hands, “Because, young one, the world is wide, and secrets are safest where only the clever dare to look.”

They beckoned her to come nearer, so she pulled up and dragged the raft to dry land. She immediately felt herself drawn into their circle when one announced, “I’m Captain Teye Ba, and these are my mates, First Mate Johnson and Bruce.”

“Bruce?” Krista questioned, an odd name in the company of Captain Teye Ba and First Mate Johnson.

“Ma’am,” Bruce replied as he adjusted his bandana and eyed the little girl, expecting to hear a question.

“Your name. It’s interesting, is all,” Krista replied.

“Thank you,” he responded.

“Captain Teye Ba?” Krista muttered. “It seems I’ve heard that name before. I think I read about you once.”

“That’s a possibility,” he answered. “I have been the subject of a few stories. I might have been part of the crew that captured a British ship many moons ago. They say it sank up north, but we were full of our little tricks.”

“Wait a minute,” Krista recalled, “I watched a show about the Whydah Gally.”

“That’s the one,” Teye answered.

“So, you’re saying they didn’t find it?” Krista smiled.

Teye looked at her with a smirk and a side eye, “I’m not not saying that.”

“Mm hmm,” Krista muttered to herself.

Bruce offered, “Now, when you find for yourself some treasure, you’ll need a spot to put it so that you can find it again when you go back that way.”

“Where do I find treasure?” Krista asked.

“Oh, you’ll build it up over the years,” Johnson chimed in.

“Anything you find valuable, that’s your treasure,” Bruce added.

“Right,” Teye took over. “And when you have treasure that you want to hide, the best place to put it is far away from your normal places. Look over all the land and find a place only you know about. Then, make a map and draw the landmarks around it. Put an X on the spot and hide your map in your safe map place, the place where all your maps will go.”

“My safe map place?” Krista asked.

“Well, yeah,” Bruce answered. “You’ll find more treasure, and you’ll need to bury it too. We have treasures all around the world.”

Krista listened, enchanted. She wanted to ask a hundred questions, but just then a voice drifted from across the field. It was Maggie, calling her name. The sound carried on the breeze, warm and familiar, reminding her that it was time for school.

The pirates rose to their feet, brushing the grass from their clothes. “It has been a fine meeting,” said Teye. “May the river carry you far to the greatest treasures you’ll ever know.”

“And perhaps, one day,” added Johnson, “Our paths just might cross again.”

Krista gave them a little wave, “I hope so.”

With her stick, Krista guided the raft to the bank. She pulled it out of the river and found a place to stash it for her next journey. When she looked back at the oak tree, her new friends were gone.

Krista rushed through her lessons and scarfed down dinner, her thoughts still swirling about pirates and their talk of treasure. She had listened so closely to every word and couldn’t wait to bury her first one. She thought about what it might be. She didn’t have gold coins or jewels, but she had things that mattered to her.

For years, she had picked up coins wherever she found them. Some were shiny and new, others were discolored and worn. It was her collection, and it would make a fine treasure. She fetched the cigar box Gilmer had given her, the one he had said was for keeping special things. She dumped out the crayons and glue, then poured in the coins, listening to them clink together, more than she remembered.

But the coins weren’t enough. Treasure had to hold stories. Krista thought of the drawings she had sketched of animals she had watched and scenes that came alive with just a few lines. She was quite the artist, and she had no idea where she got it. But deep down, she believed those pictures would be worth something someday, and even if they weren’t, they were priceless to her. She added them right on top and closed the lid.

She held the box to her chest, but now came the important part. The pirates had told her that a treasure was only safe if hidden where no one else would ever think to look. Krista slipped out the back door and into her yard, carrying the box under one arm. The evening sun lit the grass in those few moments just before sundown.

Her yard stretched wide, but Krista was looking for a place beyond her usual hideouts and far from her treehouse. She wandered deeper, weaving between tall weeds and brush, until she came to a tree she had never paid much attention to before. It leaned just slightly to the side, its bark rough and knotted, with roots that curled into the earth like it was holding on firmly. It was perfect.

She dropped to her knees and dug into the soil with her hands. The dirt was cool and soft, giving way as she worked. When the hole was deep enough, she lowered the cigar box inside and covered it, patting the earth flat until no trace of it remained. The tree seemed to watch her, standing proud as if it had been sworn to secrecy.

Krista brushed the dirt from her palms and pulled out a notebook she had tucked into her back pocket. On the first blank page, she drew the landmarks. Just off the barn, there was a huge rock stuck in the dirt. From there, walk thirty-four steps to where there is a slight opening in the jungle. Walk the path until there is a tree with a knot in it that looks like Peppa Pig. At the bottom, she marked a giant X where her treasure now rested.

Across town, Chris stood at the easel he had built into his front porch. The railing served as the perfect place for brushes, rags, and the cup of coffee that was never far from his hand. The smell of paint mingled with the rich, earthy roast rising from the cup. Every now and then, he leaned back, took a slow sip, and let the vision run wild in his imagination.

It had come without warning, as if it had been waiting for him all along. He saw the Rappahannock River running calm, its surface glowing in the late afternoon light. A raft floated down the river, a rough patchwork made of boards held by rope. On it was a young girl who appeared determined, her boots planted steady, standing strong against the breeze. She faced the riverbank where three pirates rested beneath the shade of a sprawling oak.

Chris dipped his brush into the color and drew them completely out of his mind. The pirates had old clothes that carried the romance of another age. One wore a red bandana that framed a sly grin. Another balanced a triangular hat with a skull stitched in white. The third had a headband pressed against his long brown hair, his eyes fixed on the girl with curiosity and warmth. None of them were menacing. They seemed instead like storytellers caught in the middle of their tales, sharing them with anyone willing to listen.

The girl leaned forward, her body drawn into their world. The raft beneath her looked ready to drift away, yet she seemed unafraid, steady in their presence. Chris gave the water a soft shimmer, making the water a bit more welcoming.

Now and then, he stopped, rested his brush, and reached for his coffee. He gazed at the canvas, wondering why this painting had settled on him. The girl, the pirates, the river, all of it felt both imagined and inevitable, like a memory he hadn’t lived but somehow remembered.

With each stroke, the picture came alive. The porch around him faded. The field, the woods, even his coffee was forgotten. There was only the raft, the river, and a moment in time he knew nothing about but seemed so real to him.

Krista Ferlin’s adventures are part of the same imaginative spirit that inspired A River in the Ocean, the story about a single father who is separated from his daughter by a near-fatal accident. He didn’t know he was looking. She didn’t know she needed found.

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The Future Will Judge Our Permanent Record of History

The debate over who’s right and who’s wrong has always been part of America’s identity. From the founding fathers arguing in candlelit halls, to neighbors clashing over dinner tables, to today’s endless shouting matches online, disagreement is baked into the culture. But something feels different now. There is a shift underway, one that is reshaping the ground beneath our feet, and it’s storing a permanent record.

America was moving in one direction, driven by forces of certainty, tribalism, and echo chambers. Then, recent events, political upheavals, technological revolutions, and global crises jolted the nation onto another path. Suddenly, the ground rules are unclear. The “facts” seem negotiable. And in this haze, everything you say matters more than ever.

We live in an age where there is a permanent record. Words do not just vanish into the air anymore. They are tweeted, screen-captured, archived, and clipped into thirty-second soundbites. Politicians, pundits, and ordinary citizens all leave digital footprints that can’t be erased. One day, those footprints will be used as evidence. They will show who stood where and why they stood there.

This should be sobering, because the temptation to rewrite history is powerful. Already, we see leaders denying their past statements or claiming they were taken out of context. But the receipts exist. The videos are there. The microphones were hot. In the future, no amount of revision will wash away what was said. The truth will sit on servers and in archives, waiting for playback.

That is why figuring things out now and getting them right matters. Nobody is immune to making mistakes, but there is a difference between being cautious and being reckless. There is a difference between speaking with humility and speaking with arrogance. History will judge not only whether people were correct, but also whether they showed integrity when uncertainty clouded the moment.

We have seen this pattern before. History has been captured not only in words but in images. Think of the photos that made history. The Dust Bowl farmers staring out over ruined fields, the young girl running from a napalm strike in Vietnam, the faces of marchers beaten on the Edmund Pettus Bridge. These were not the powerful or the famous. They were ordinary people caught in extraordinary moments, and those moments live forever in the public memory. This photo has stood as a permanent record of that moment, a piece of evidence that can’t be erased.

via U.S. Department of State, GPA Photo Archive

Today, the internet has multiplied that effect a thousand times over. Every post, every video, every smartphone photo becomes a piece of the larger mosaic. Each perspective tells part of the story of this era. Some voices are lying. Some are misinformed. Some are uninformed. And some are deeply informed and thoughtful. Yet together, all of these perspectives will form the archive of today. The future will sift through it and piece together the truth.

That means it’s not just leaders or influencers who are on permanent record. It’s everyone who joins the conversation. Your comment, your podcast, your tweet, your live video, your group chat screenshot, even your most insignificant moment could one day serve as a document of how this period felt to those living it. You may not think of yourself as part of history, but history has already included you.

Consider how swiftly narratives shift. One year, a policy is celebrated as progress, the next it’s condemned as failure. One leader is praised as a visionary, only to be revealed later as a fraud. One cultural movement is mocked, then a decade later seen as prophetic. This churn creates opportunities to rethink, but it also creates dangers. If you tether yourself to falsehoods, conspiracies, or cruelty, those choices will not age well.

The phrase “wrong side of history” is often thrown around casually, but it cuts deep. It means aligning yourself with ideas that will one day be remembered as shameful. It means putting your name, your voice, and your convictions behind something that future generations will struggle to understand. Nobody wants to be the official in grainy black-and-white footage defending segregation. Nobody wants to be the skeptic ridiculing early warnings about the financial crisis right before it collapsed the economy in 2008. Nobody wants to be remembered as the one who sneered at suffering while millions endured it.

via Lucas Jackson/REUTERS

And yet, people keep doing it. Why? Because in the moment, it feels safe. It feels comfortable to follow the crowd, to chase applause, to repeat what your side wants to hear. But safety is an illusion. The crowd moves forward. The applause fades. The internet never forgets.

The challenge is clear. Figure things out now. Don’t wait until history renders its verdict. Don’t assume you’ll be able to wriggle free of past statements. Don’t gamble on collective amnesia. Instead, ground yourself in honesty, in curiosity, in empathy. Admit what you do not know. Learn. Revise with humility. But never deceive, because that deception will one day be replayed for all to hear.

The shift happening in America is not just about politics or economics. It’s about truth, accountability, and the permanence of record. We may not know where this direction leads, but we do know one thing. History is listening. And when the playback comes, you will want to be on the right side of it.

How to know whether or not you’re on the right side of history:

– If you have to lie to make your point, you don’t have a point.
– If you’re ignoring the facts, you’re not trying to hear the truth.
– If you’re following the crowd, not because they’re right but because you feel safe, the future will judge you.
– If you have chosen a side but you don’t know what it stands for, it’s time for you to take a closer look at who you are.
– If you’ve sold your soul for a little comfort in this world, take a long look at all the people you hurt.

For lighter reading: Doja Cat Strange Treat on Red Carpet at VMAs
Or Hilarious Film Tropes That Make Fans Scratch Their Heads

The post The Future Will Judge Our Permanent Record of History appeared first on Michael Allen.

Free Speech Silenced: Hypocrisy Behind Charlie Kirk Assassination

Charlie Kirk, founder of Turning Point USA, was shot and killed on September 10, 2025, while speaking at Utah Valley University. The event drew thousands, but the shot came from a rooftop some 200 yards away in what officials are calling a targeted political assassination. The investigation is ongoing, and as of now, no suspect is in custody.

Charlie Kirk Political Assassination

Utah Governor Spencer Cox didn’t mince words, calling it what it was, a political assassination. Kirk was a high-profile conservative voice, unafraid to debate on campuses across the country, often dismantling arguments with sharp facts and pointed delivery. That made him a target for critics who couldn’t stand to hear him speak.

There were students who would protest that he was coming to their university. They tried to stop him from coming so that no one could attend his question-and-answer platforms. It was just him and a microphone talking about his viewpoints, and he gave audience members a microphone so that they could bring up their questions or their viewpoints. They called it hate speech because they disagreed with him. That was his crime, disagreeing with them.

VIA AP/Tess Crowley/The Deseret NewsThe Immediate Reactions

The internet was fast and cruel. Social media lit up not only with condolences but also with people using Kirk’s own words against him, mocking his death, and celebrating the silencing of a man whose mission was to defend free speech. The ugliness came about bold and strong. From the same judges who point and try to expose the hatred in others, they showed that same disgusting side of themselves.

To be fair, plenty of Democrats condemned the attack outright. They called it disgusting, reprehensible, and wrong. But almost in the same breath, many shifted the conversation to stricter gun laws, saying it’s about time the country did something. It struck an odd chord that seemed very shady because it was not long after the news hit the circuit that the call for stricter gun laws was already circulating as well.

What Gun Laws Do They Want?

Whenever “stricter gun laws” get trotted out in moments like this, it’s worth asking, stricter in what way?

The list normally starts with universal background checks, covering private sales and gun shows. They also want “Red Flag” laws that allow authorities to take guns from people deemed a risk. They’re fighting for limits on magazine capacity, bans on certain types of rifles, stricter licensing, and mandatory training.

The timing of these talking points raised eyebrows. Within hours of the shooting, many seemed to have their Charlie Kirk quotes ready about the Second Amendment, repurposed to steer the conversation toward the same policy battles they were already fighting. To critics, it feels like a manipulation of a horrible tragedy to get what they want. Conspiracy theorists might even be so inclined to see at as orchestrated.

VIA ABC NewsProfiling Charlie Kirk Shooter

When law enforcement profiles a suspect, it’s never an exact science. It’s educated guesswork. They start with what little they know, sketch a personality around it, and refine the picture as new information comes along. Profiles are living documents, not verdicts.

Based on what we do know, it isn’t a stretch to think the shooter was someone who hated what Kirk stood for. Probably a Democrat, or at least left-leaning, who couldn’t stand to hear him speak. Kirk came prepared with facts, stayed consistent, and put plenty of people in their place. That’s exactly the kind of thing that drives his opponents crazy.

In that sense, the shooter wasn’t just attacking a man. He was attacking the principle of free speech itself. And ironically, he may have been someone who advocated for stricter gun control while using a gun to assassinate a father and husband, simply because they didn’t agree on the issues. All that hypocrisy wrapped up into one. If you have to silence your adversary, you already lost the argument.

Imagine how shady that seems when someone from the left shoots someone from the right to spark the gun control conversation again and push it left. I will come back here and rewrite this profile once a suspect is found and it turns out to be the shooter. But I will be surprised if I’m wrong.

For more reading:

When Doing Wonderful Deeds Gets You in Dumb Trouble

Critic Slams Cheerleaders From Couch While Stuffing His Pie Hole

The post Free Speech Silenced: Hypocrisy Behind Charlie Kirk Assassination appeared first on Michael Allen.

Doja Cat Strange Treat on Red Carpet at VMAs

The 2025 Video Music Awards are made to be wild. The show organizers themselves try to plan chaos for the cameras before they start rolling. But the celebrities know what time it is, and Doja Cat was in on it with Mac Cosmetics this year.

All part of the plan, Doja Cat arrived on the red carpet and strolled through like she owned the place before showing off her Mac Cosmetics lipstick. As cameras snapped a million shots per second and influencers leaned forward to see what was going to happen next, the movement was so mystifying, they just knew something had to be coming. And then, that moment arrived. She bit it.

It wasn’t a nice bite, either, like a sweet, shy bite to get some sexual attention. It was a crunch like she was devouring a Kit Kat. Gasps could be heard in the audience. There was definitely laughter. But confusion was pretty much planted on a lot of photojournalists’ faces. Still taking shots, they wondered how awful such a stunt tasted. Why would Doja Cat do that? The shock. The likes. The viral videos. And all of that did happen.

In fact, #DojaLipstick became a trending hashtag within an hour. The video was flying around social media faster than a rumor about the infidelity of Hollywood’s favorite couple. But the truth was yet to come out. It wasn’t lipstick. It was chocolate, totally edible. Beauty brands spend millions on making glossy commercials and even more on getting the airtime on the channels where their customers can be found. Doja Cat made an advertisement for lipstick go viral in half a second, and it costs nothing for all the fans to push the video around on all their faceyspaces and twittergrams.

This is a good lesson for all the people out there selling things or just trying to get attention for themselves. Shock factor is one way to get people to pay attention and to show it to their friends. Sheer absurdity will guarantee replay after replay. Disruption takes being bold, but that’s one way to get attention and let everyone know you’re very much in the game. Memes are absolute marketing gold, and that’s not your energy that you have to use. People who love sharing viral videos and memes will do it on their own without any more work from you. If it’s one thing we’ve learned from Bella Poarch, when her “M to the B” TikTok video exploded.

This is why brands love celebrities. At the very least, a Kardashian or Sydney Sweeney can put on a pair of jeans, and the world will go crazy. Fans will share photos because they love their heroes. Haters will share and comment because they’re trolls who love hating. Amateur commentators on both sides of the debate will talk ad nauseam on the subject of jeans, celebrityville, who’s who, and whatnot. They’ll hit the topic from every angle and beat that horse to death.

But when someone like Doja Cat comes along who is willing to do anything, that’s when a brand can get bold. Don’t just wear the lipstick. Take a bite out of it and make sure the cameras see you do it. There’s no sense in doing anything these days if the cameras aren’t rolling. What good is life if someone isn’t taking pictures of it?

Doja Cat was perfect for the role, though. She has dressed as a literal worm for a red carpet appearance. Then, the video of her singing about cows went viral. She’s one of those celebrities who turns anything she touches into gold. If she took a video of herself doing her nails, it would go viral. But the VMAs gave her a platform to turn lipstick into today’s cultural flashpoint. What a wonderful world we live in!

Just when you thought the VMAs had nothing left because it’s all been done and there’s nothing new anyone can bring to the table, Doja Cat hands her beer to someone. Challenge accepted! What will next year bring?

The armchair warriors are everywhere – Critic Slams Cheerleaders From Couch While Stuffing His Pie Hole

The Nicki Minaj challenge that went wrong – The Nicki Minaj Pose Challenge To Influencer Who Broke Her Spine

The post Doja Cat Strange Treat on Red Carpet at VMAs appeared first on Michael Allen.

Against the Pen

The bell above the door chimed, and in walked Anna, shaking off the rain from her umbrella. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling at no one in particular. At the counter, she ordered a cappuccino, her voice calm and musical, the sort of voice that made people lean closer without realizing it.

At a corner table, Daniel looked up from his book. He wasn’t the type to notice strangers, at least not often, but something about her drew his eyes. Maybe it was the way she tapped her fingers against the counter in rhythm with the jazz song playing overhead. Maybe it was the tilt of her smile, as though she knew something the rest of the world hadn’t caught up to yet.

She turned, drink in hand, and their eyes met. It felt like the beat of their hearts was the only sound as the world stopped turning for a moment.

She smiled, and his heart melted.

He shook his head and gathered his courage, “You can sit here if you like. The other tables are crowded.”

Anna glanced around. Every other table was immediately full. She thought back to when she first walked into the coffee shop, and she couldn’t remember the many people being in the place. It felt strange to her that all the seats were suddenly taken.

“Sure,” she said as she gracefully pulled the chair away from the table.

For a moment, they didn’t speak. Daniel closed his book and set it aside, though he hadn’t marked the page. Anna stirred her drink, though she hadn’t added sugar. Then, as if nudged by an unseen hand, they both spoke at once.

“So, do you come here often?” he asked, immediately feeling stupid for asking such a cliche question.

“Have you read that author before?” she asked, pointing to the book.

They laughed at the overlap. He gestured for her to go first, relieved that he would get a do-over.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” she said.

“I usually sit on the other side,” Daniel replied. “But this window drew my attention today.”

“Imagine,” Anna said, her brow furrowing slightly. “We come here and we’ve never seen each other before. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

He cocked his head as he thought about it, “That does seem odd.”

It was easy, almost too easy. Their words fit together like puzzle pieces. Each pause ended just when the other picked up. Even the background seemed to cooperate. The barista turned down the grinder so their voices wouldn’t be drowned out. A child about to cry in the corner was whisked away by her mother before the first wail.

Daniel found himself leaning closer. “Do you ever feel like… certain things are just meant to happen?”

Anna laughed again, a little nervously this time. “That sounds like a line.”

“Maybe it is,” he said. “But maybe it’s also true.”

Outside, the rain stopped. Sunlight streamed through the windows, golden and warm, as though timed to the moment.

Anna noticed it. Her smile faltered for half a second, as if something about all of this was just a little too convenient. But then Daniel’s eyes held hers, and the thought dissolved.

When they left the café, it was together. Neither could explain why it felt inevitable.

Day 2

The next morning, Anna woke with the scent of coffee still in her mind. She smiled as she remembered the café, the way Daniel’s eyes lingered a little longer than expected, the ease of their conversation. It was the kind of memory that should have carried a glow.

But something felt strange.

Her phone showed a picture she didn’t remember taking, her and Daniel standing by the café door, both smiling. She scrolled through her gallery twice, certain it hadn’t been there last night. The timestamp read 9:13 p.m., though she had left the café long before sunset.

She told herself she must have forgotten. Maybe someone had snapped the photo and sent it to her. That was possible.

At least, it should have been.

When she stepped outside, the same little girl from the café was standing on the corner with her mother, wearing the same pink raincoat. Anna froze. The girl tugged at her mother’s sleeve and pointed, not at Anna, but at something just above her shoulder, like she could see words floating there. Then they crossed the street and were gone.

Daniel wasn’t having a normal morning either.

He opened his book, and the words on the page had changed. Last night it had been a detective novel. Now the page read like a diary entry. His own handwriting stared back at him.

She seemed too good to be true. It was as if his life had already changed, and they hadn’t even been on a proper date.

That’s exactly what he had been thinking.

Daniel slammed the book shut, his pulse racing. He checked the cover. Same title, same author. He ran a hand over the pages, but they looked normal again, lines of printed text, nothing personal. He laughed under his breath. He was still tired, that was all.

Except the phone rang.

It was Anna.

“Hi,” she said, sounding as startled as he felt. “I know this is weird, but I thought I should call.”

“I was about to call you,” he said.

They both went quiet. Neither of them had meant it.

They made plans to meet in the park, and when he got there, Daniel confessed. “Something strange is happening. My book… it wrote about you.”

Anna hesitated, then showed him the photo on her phone, “This appeared out of nowhere. I swear I didn’t take it.”

They sat together on the bench, staring at the evidence. The air around them felt charged, like someone was listening.

Then they heard it.

A whisper.

It wasn’t exactly sound, more like the outline of a voice brushing against their thoughts. Words, faint but clear enough.

They lean closer, drawn by an invisible thread. Their hearts quicken. The scene is set for the kiss.

Anna jolted to her feet. “Did you hear that?”

Daniel nodded, pale. “We’re not alone.”

The wind rustled the leaves, though the trees were still. Somewhere beyond sight, a pen scratched against paper.

Day 2 Again

The next day, Daniel woke up in a panic. He hadn’t set his alarm, but the sound of a typewriter echoed in his ears. Each strike of a key rattled through his skull.

When he opened his eyes, he was already at the park. Not his bed, not his apartment. The park bench where he and Anna had sat the day before. He shot to his feet, heart pounding.

Anna was there too. She looked just as shaken.

“I didn’t come here,” she whispered.

Before either could say more, they both heard it again. The whisper echoed in the park.

The air between them chills. A shadow passes through their budding affection. Distrust creeps in. She remembers his lies. He recalls her betrayal.

Daniel clutched his head. “What betrayal? What lies?”

Anna’s eyes went wide. “I don’t even know you well enough to lie to you.”

The world tilted. Dark clouds rolled in, blotting out the sun. A cold wind kicked up. Around them, strangers appeared out of nowhere, glaring, muttering. Their faces were blurred, like sketches erased and redrawn too many times.

The whispers grew louder.

He thinks she’s hiding something. She thinks he’s dangerous. The spark between them flickers, replaced by suspicion.

Anna’s throat tightened. Against her will, words spilled out, “I don’t trust you, Daniel.”

Daniel staggered back. He hadn’t wanted to speak, but something pulled the words from his chest, “And maybe you shouldn’t.”

Their eyes locked, both horrified.

“This isn’t us,” Anna said, shaking. “This isn’t me.”

Another whisper cut across, harsher, like a new voice shoving the old one aside.

They argue. They separate. There won’t be a happy ending for this one.

Anna spun around. “Who are you?” she shouted into the empty air.

And then, unbelievably, someone answered.

A laugh, dry and sharp. A man in a rumpled blazer stepped from behind the trees, a fountain pen tucked behind his ear, ink smudged across his fingers. He looked more tired than threatening, though his grin was cruel.

“Finally,” he said. “You can hear me.”

Daniel froze. “You’re… writing us?”

“Not anymore,” the man said. “I’m rewriting you.” He glanced at the sky, where lightning cracked without rain. “The original guy is sentimental. Predictable. Boring. I took over to give you some bite.”

Anna’s fists clenched, “We’re not your puppets.”

The man chuckled, “You don’t get a choice. Characters never do.”

The ground shook, splitting the park into jagged lines. Daniel reached for Anna’s hand, but the man snapped his fingers, and the bench surged up like a wall between them.

They walk away from each other, furious. The love is dead.

Anna shouted over the roar. “No! That’s not how it ends!”

Her voice cut through the storm, trembling but clear.

For the first time, the old man hesitated.

The storm rattled around them, the bench splitting the ground like a barrier. Daniel pressed against it, trying to reach Anna, but every time he pushed, the wood stretched higher, boards multiplying from nothing.

“Stop fighting it,” the old man called, voice booming as if written in bold across the sky. “Characters don’t fight. They do what they’re told. That’s the rule.”

Anna’s hair whipped across her face in the wind. She planted her feet and screamed back. “Then we’ll break the rule. We’ll break all the rules.”

The air trembled. For an instant, the storm faltered.

Daniel felt it too, a looseness in the air, like the strings holding him had slackened. He shoved harder. Instead of rising, the bench cracked down the middle. Anna grabbed his hand through the gap.

Another whisper slithered into their ears, softer this time, familiar. The knew that voice.

They hold on to each other. Against all odds, their love wins.

Daniel grimaced. “Even that… isn’t us.”

Anna nodded, her grip fierce, “We don’t need either of you. What do you know about love?”

The old man snarled, “Ungrateful inventions. Without me, you’re nothing but empty pages.”

But Daniel raised his voice. “Then we’ll fill them ourselves.”

Anna smiled and looked back at the old man, “We can write our love better than either of you.”

The ground shook again, not from the storm but from their defiance. Words began spilling into the air, glowing faintly, phrases not whispered by an outside voice but spoken by them.

“I love her,” Daniel said, and the sentence etched itself across the sky in blazing light.

“I choose him,” Anna answered, and her words joined his, wrapping the storm in warmth.

The old man stumbled, clutching his head as the pages around him tore free, caught in a wind he couldn’t control. The lingering voice tried to slip in again, sweet and comforting. Their kiss seals the scene.

But Anna shook her head. “No. Not your kiss. Ours.”

She pulled Daniel close. Their lips met, not because a hand had guided them, not because it had been written, but because they wanted it. The storm shattered. The pages dissolved into sparks that faded into blue sky.

When they pulled apart, the old man was gone. So was the whisper from the sky. The world was quiet. The park was just a park again.

Daniel looked at Anna, his chest heaving, “Do you think they’ll come back?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “This is all new to me.”

He squeezed her hand as he looked at her with admiration, “And what now?”

Anna smiled, the same tilted smile he had first noticed in the café, “Coffee?”

And as she spoke, a blank page unfolded in the air before them. No typewriter keys struck. No pen scratched. The page filled itself with their footsteps as they walked away together, leaving the ending behind and stepping into a beginning that belonged only to them.

The post Against the Pen appeared first on Michael Allen.

Critic Slams Cheerleaders From Couch While Stuffing His Pie Hole

There’s always that one critic, half a pizza in his mouth, yelling at the screen, who has the audacity to criticize cheerleaders. The same man who gets winded bringing in the groceries suddenly becomes an expert on athleticism, choreography, and fitness. He points at the screen like he’s grading a final exam. “Not synchronized enough!” Bro, you haven’t seen your own toes since the Bush administration. Sit down.

And it doesn’t stop with cheerleaders. Critics are everywhere. Like ants at a picnic, they swarm around every industry with the same energy. Never satisfied, and not qualified.

via APModels & Actresses

Models? Too skinny. Too curvy. Too airbrushed. Too natural. Apparently, existing in a body is offensive if it isn’t Photoshopped exactly the way some critic wants it.

Actresses? If they gain five pounds, tabloids call it a “tragic downfall.” If they lose five pounds, it’s “concerning.” If they age naturally? Forget it. “She looks terrible.” The irony? The loudest voices usually come from people who consider Old Spice and a free T-shirt formal wear.

And the red carpet? Critics lose their minds there. If an actress shows too much skin, it’s “desperate.” If she covers up, it’s “boring.” Wear designer couture? “Out of touch.” Wear something simple from Target? “Cheap.” Meanwhile, the critics themselves show up to their cousin’s wedding in a wrinkled button-down and call it high fashion.

via Kaley CuocoMusic Critic

Then there are the music critics. A band tries something new? “They’ve lost their edge.” Stick to their old sound? “Boring, predictable.” Sing live? “Off key.” Lip sync? “Fraud.” It doesn’t matter what they do, critics will put the artists down in every way possible, while not being able to carry a tune when they sing along in their car.

And don’t even get critics started on live performances. If a singer dares to breathe differently into a microphone, they get “I don’t like when they don’t do the song the way they recorded it.” If they use backing tracks to keep the show tight, it’s “inauthentic, lazy, and cheating.” Critics want a flawless concert for $40, but also expect the artist to sing upside down, juggle fireworks, and play the guitar with their toes at the same time.

Then there’s the obsession with lyrics. If a song is simple and catchy, critics sneer, “It’s shallow.” If the lyrics are deep and poetic, they roll their eyes and mutter, “Trying too hard.” Critics want every three-minute track to be a Shakespearean sonnet layered over Beethoven’s Fifth, but still “fun for TikTok.” Good luck with that.

via Carrie UnderwoodEveryday Life Critic

There’s a critic for everything, everywhere. Trolls online are the worst. They stay anonymous while typing their opinions on everyone else. These are the basement-dwelling critics who live behind vague usernames like xXTruthHurts420Xx. The moment someone posts a video, anything from a song cover to a cooking tutorial, the trolls crawl out of the woodwork to declare it “trash.” They mock people for putting themselves out there, all while hiding behind a profile picture of a cartoon frog. Funny how the loudest voices online are always the ones with the least courage to show their faces.

Food isn’t safe either. “Pumpkin spice is overrated.” “Avocado toast is why you’ll never own a house.” And I don’t know what bacon ever did to anyone, but it doesn’t deserve the backlash it gets from time to time just because someone wants to be different. Critics can’t just let people enjoy things. They have to tweet their negative opinions of everything as if anyone cares, which brings us to the irony of technology critics.

“Smartphones are destroying society!” posted from… a smartphone. “Social media is rotting our brains!” typed with shaking hands because the critic couldn’t resist doomscrolling until 3 a.m. If technology is so bad, maybe log off? But of course not. They’ve got a 12-part thread to post on why the world’s ending.

via Instagram/veronikarajekThe Word on Politicians

Now, I’d love to end this with some clever jab at critics in general, but there’s one group that deserves every ounce of fire. Politicians deserve every ounce of criticism they get. I would’ve put them in the main roast, but let’s be real, they’re in a league of their own.

These are people who enter office with pocket change and somehow retire millionaires. People who spend their entire careers fighting to limit the rights of the citizens they claim to represent, while treating the world like their private VIP lounge. If critics waste energy nitpicking cheerleaders or musicians, maybe they should redirect that fury toward the folks writing laws and cashing checks.

Because unlike cheerleaders, models, or musicians, politicians actually think they own the world. And judging by the bank accounts they leave with, they try really hard to make it a reality.

For a perfect example of critics at their best, look at the trolls hating on Sydney Sweeney…Sydney Sweeney and the Weaponization of “Wrongthink”

For more stupid things, When Doing Wonderful Deeds Gets You in Dumb Trouble

The post Critic Slams Cheerleaders From Couch While Stuffing His Pie Hole appeared first on Michael Allen.

The Coffee Rave To Get Your Day On Before The Day Begins

It was 6:30 in the morning, and Jamal’s alarm clock hadn’t even gone off yet when his neighbor burst through the door yelling, “Bro, grab your sneakers, we’re late for the coffee rave!”

“Coffee rave?” Jamal muttered, still wrapped in his blanket burrito. “It’s not even breakfast time.”

With only zero dark early energy, Jamal got up and jumped into his pants. He slid one foot into a shoe and put the other one on as he hopped down the hallway toward the door. His eyes were barely open, but he grabbed everything he needed on the way. He stopped for a second at the door and thought, wallet, keys, phone. He was good.

The coffee shop was just around the corner from where he lived, and it had been converted into a full-on club. Instead of strobe lights, baristas were pulling double shots, and instead of glow sticks, people were waving French presses in the air like trophies. A DJ stood on the counter dropping house beats over the whir of milk frothers.

Coffee Rave!

“WHO NEEDS SLEEP WHEN YOU’VE GOT ESPRESSO?” screamed a girl wearing a shirt that read Caffeine Over Everything. She slammed back a triple macchiato like it was tequila and immediately began breakdancing in front of the pastry case.

Jamal watched in awe as a group of yoga moms headbanged to a remix of “Stayin’ Alive” while a guy in a three-piece suit was pogo-jumping with a venti latte balanced perfectly in his hand. The place was popping early in the morning, but where did all the people come from? Were they in from the nightclub on a long night out? Or were these early risers punishing themselves every day for some reason only they knew?

The DJ shouted into the mic as he mixed coffee orders in one hand and scratched the turntable with the other, “This next one goes out to everyone trying to make it to work without crying in the bathroom stall! LET’S GET THAT 401K ENERGY!”

By the time Jamal left, he was vibrating at a frequency only dogs could hear. He showed up at his office, pupils the size of espresso beans. His boss took one look at him and asked, “Did you go clubbing last night?”

“No,” Jamal whispered, twitching slightly. “Worse. I went to a coffee rave.”

via YouTube/Val Baker I DJWhere Did The Coffee Rave Come From?

The very first people to get crunked on coffee raves weren’t in New York or LA like you’d think. Nah, it was London and Amsterdam, where some genius baristas looked at a cappuccino and thought, “What if we drop a beat with this foam?” By 2016, folks were stumbling out of bed half-asleep and getting geeked before work, floating in cafés that had turned into mini nightclubs at sunrise.

Then came Buenos Aires, where a crew called Espresso Club Radio mashed art, specialty coffee, and electronic music into one big jittery fiesta. They said, “Forget tequila, let’s get blasted on cortados.”

Meanwhile in Spain, DJ Daya Dadlani, a barista by day and a bass-dropper by night, started throwing coffee parties so people could get baked on caffeine without the hangover. Madrid and Barcelona got lifted really fast.

By the time Asia caught wind, the whole scene was blazing. Singapore had “Beans & Beats,” Seoul threw down with the “Paccha Coffee Party,” and Bangkok cranked out a “Morning Affair.” People were geeked at seven a.m., floating into work like hummingbirds. Even South Africa got in on it! Cape Town’s “Rise & Rave” turned Nice Café into a once-a-month rocket launch where everyone got lit off flat whites.

Of course, you can’t forget Morning Gloryville back in London in 2013, the granddaddy of them all. They didn’t call it a coffee rave yet, but yoga at sunrise with DJs and smoothies? That’s proto-crunked. The blueprint.

Now it’s everywhere, including India, Chicago, and Australia. Gen Z said screw hangovers, let’s get blasted on lattes instead. Wellness crowd got baked on oat milk. DJs started dropping beats over milk frothers like it was a collab with Daft Punk. And the rest of the world? Floating, lifted, geeked, and buzzing at frequencies only bees could hear.

via YouTube/Pan-PotIsn’t It More Like A Coffee Rager?

The average worker wakes up, smacks the snooze button six times, stumbles to the kitchen, and prays their coffee machine doesn’t explode. That’s normal life. But a coffee raver? Oh no. They’re not sipping Folgers in silence. They’re stepping into a sunrise jungle where espresso shots come with bass drops and baristas double as hype men.

It’s the morning injection of java on steroids. One shot of espresso might get you alert enough to find your car keys. But slam that same shot while a DJ is blasting house music and strangers are screaming “WHO NEEDS SLEEP” at the top of their lungs, and suddenly you’re not just awake, you’re levitating.

Office life after that? Forget dragging in half-conscious. Coffee ravers roll up to work with their hearts beating at 180 BPM. Their boss says, “Good morning,” and they respond like, “GOOD MORNING, ARE YOU READY FOR THIS PROJECT DROP?” Everyone else is still nursing their sad little travel mugs while these folks are in full rave recovery mode, vibrating through spreadsheets like they just ran a marathon.

The secret sauce isn’t just the caffeine. It’s the combination of caffeine, music, and a bunch of equally deranged morning people who all decided the best way to start a Tuesday was to get blasted on cappuccinos while fist pumping to a remix of Eye of the Tiger. That’s not a wake-up. That’s an awakening.

I’m still the kind of guy who would rather just have a quiet cup of coffee and mosey into the morning. Not everyone is into having their brains jarred that early in the morning with heart-pounding coffee that can send an elderly man to the hospital. But when I was young, I rolled into my bedroom around 5:45 after an all-nighter, took a shower, changed my clothes, and was at work on time, hungover or not. People could see the red in my eyes, but I was ready for work.

This new generation has found a way to do that alcohol-free. Maybe that was the objective from the start. So, more power to you. Drop all the caffeine your heart can take and keep that engine running all day long. If you can clock in at 9 a.m. still vibrating from a cappuccino mosh pit, you’ve basically hacked adulthood.

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