Professional scallywag. Boat enjoyer. Voice actor for animations, audiobooks and memes. Voice of Devon Eriksen's Theft of Fire. DM me to voice your project!
Joined May 2021
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Captain Chronic and the Big Brown Stain
There's a tale I tell sometimes, when I have an audience and more than a few beers in me.
It happened when I was a young sailor on a tallship called the Lady Washington.
The Lady is a reproduction of an American merchant brig that was built sometime in the 1750s in Boston. She was a successful privateer in the Revolution, and then an unsuccessful merchantman who attempted to open trade into the Pacific.
She's the state ship of Washington state, and she was the first woman I ever truly loved.
The story goes:
A statute of limitations ago, when the Lady was in port in Ventura, California, our engineer discovered a problem.
The Lady's a sailing ship, yes, but when the wind is slack and we've got places to be, we scoot her around with her single-screw engine, a big honkin' Detroit diesel that had been salvaged from a World War II torpedo boat. Thus, we have an engine, and an engine room, and engine problems.
The Lady, you see, was sinking.
Our engineer at the time, a man named Roscoe with too-long legs and a too-long neck that overall gave one the impression of a camel, reported to the Captain and crew that there was a hole near the screw that was pouring water into the bilge at an uncomfortable rate.
Water is supposed to stay outside the boat, you see, but with boats there's always a bit sneaking in here and there. The water collects in the bottom, an area called the bilge, and we pump it out regularly using an automatic bilge pump system.
The water wasn't quite coming in fast enough to overwhelm the pumps, we just had to run the pumps more often, but enough leaks like that and we'd have a problem.
In addition to that, the engine was badly in need of an oil change.
Big honkin' Detroit diesels like ours required a LOT of oil. Buckets and buckets of it.
Roscoe wasn't a brilliant man. A good enough wrench-turner, but not wise in the ways of the sea.
My favorite memory of him was when I was cleaning salt-scale off the rails and decks and I overheard the first mate, a very warm-but-stern fatherly figure of a man, telling camel-like Roscoe to go below and fix the sewer pipes. "The toilets are all backed up and we need to be able to use the head!"
Roscoe got a very serious look, and said "You know what you're asking me to do, right?"
The diaphragm pump. It was always the damned diaphragm pump. A little too much toilet paper or, God forbid, a... feminine product... was enough to stick the damn thing fast and build unholy amounts of pressure behind it. A pressurized pipe full of the discharges of a dozen or more large men on a protein-rich diet.
The mate, of course, insisted, and Roscoe went below through the engine room hatch with the air of a man ascending the gallows.
A few minutes later I heard an audible BANG! from below, and a stream of curses that should have peeled the paint.
Roscoe himself emerged a few minutes later, wet with something gray-brown and slimy, his eyes burning the color of hatred.
As Roscoe disappeared into the main hold to dump all of the ship's hot water over himself in the shower, the Mate asked me to take my rag and bucket down into the engine room to clean up.
"You know what you're asking me to do, right?" I asked him, in serious tones.
The Mate laughed. I went below.
The whitewashed walls were splattered gray-brown all around, with shreds of white fibrous toilet tissue, and something I desperately hoped was not corn.
The smell was incredible.
And there was a clean spot on the opposite wall from the pump, in the perfect silhouette of poor Roscoe.
Perhaps it was out of pity for the man that the Captain did not immediately order Roscoe to crawl through the bilge to fix the leak by the engine screw.
Thus, did Roscoe instead bend his energies to changing the oil.
I should mention our Captain. He was an imposing man, rail-thin but tall and broad-shouldered. Windblown white hair, bushy eyebrows, and piercing gray eyes. He had a short temper and was rather distant with the men most of the time. Scuttlebutt around the ship had somehow picked up the fact that the Captain had, upon being hired by the company, pissed hot for cannabis.
Captain Chronic, we called him. I have completely forgotten his real name, I can't think of him by any name but Chronic.
Following the oil change, four five-gallon buckets of dirty sludgy black oil were chained up in the corner of the engine room, awaiting disposal once we were out of California, where disposal of anything the local eco-terrorist government dislikes is an expensive and difficult process.
The weather in Ventura turned fitful, and the water churned during one of our afternoon excursions. We took on around forty passengers and gave them a nice three-hour sailing tour 'round the waterbreak and then out into waters that looked "like a fuckin' washing machine" by the words of our Captain.
I remember holding on for dear life in the tops as we were trying to furl the sails on our return to the dock. The rigging will try to throw you right off into the water if you let it, especially when the water is high and the wind is whipping the surface into a froth.
I didn't hear about The Disaster until we were back in port.
The chain had come loose, and the nearly twenty gallons of dirty oil had sloshed right into the engine room bilge.
This was a potentially VERY expensive problem.
Let me tell you some things about the EPA.
I remember getting a very stern lecture from First Mate one day as I was painting a wooden rail with thick marine-grade yellow paint. The head of my foam brush had come off, and splatted into the water between our boat and the dock. The Mate saw it happen, and told me in no uncertain terms that not a *drop* of that paint was to escape our boat into the water, as the EPA "has eyes everywhere here in California" and would happily crawl right up our assholes and serve a fine worth several tens of thousands of dollars direct to our kidneys for even an infraction so minor as a paintbrush.
A crime worth far more than my job. I had to go fish the brush out with a net. "Try not to be seen!" they said.
The EPA is a boogeyman to every sailor that sails in Commiefornian waters.
And we were now a miniature Exxon-Valdiz waiting to happen.
Roscoe, on discovering the oil in the bilge, first cut the float switch that activated the bilge pump and then, cap in hand, shamefacedly told the Captain what had happened.
We were now sinking without a bilge pump.
The Captain's face was a quiet mask of rage, there on the quarterdeck. "You'd better lay forward, lad." said the Mate. Roscoe retreated toward the fore looking once again like a condemned man.
We couldn't pump the bilge, because that would spill oil into ecologist-protected waters and probably destroy the company financially with kidney-fines. We couldn't *not* pump the bilge, because we were damned well sinking.
The Purser was put to work that evening, calling around to waste disposal companies, trying to find someone -- ANYONE -- who would pump out our bilge and dispose of the oil-tainted seawater.
As it turns out, because of Byzantine California regulations regarding waste disposal, the sorts of specialists we needed were either unavailable, booked out for weeks, or were *staggeringly* expensive. "Oil-tainted seawater" falls neatly between the cracks of more ordinary things, like mere dirty seawater, or dirty oil, or oil-tainted freshwater, and put us into a strange category that nobody who charged mere mortal prices was willing to touch.
As in all things involving regulatory strangulation, the only solution was crime.
The next day, we transited from Ventura to Oxnard, where we would stay only three days. After Oxnard, our itinerary put us all the way up to San Francisco, a longer transit that gave us an excuse to pass beyond the 12-mile boundary of US territory, into international waters.
There we would reactivate our bilge pump, and hope nobody noticed us flushing out the boat while leaving a thin trail of black sludge.
And so, we arrived in Oxnard, slowly sinking but generally confident that we wouldn't actually go under in the next three days.
Oxnard is a tiny, tiny marina dominated by a substantial Coast Guard station.
The Coasties had very politely made space for us at the only dock large enough to take the Lady -- the one directly out front of the damn station.
For reasons we hardly dared whisper to each other, this made us rather uncomfortable. From the deck of the Lady, we could see people walking back and forth in the radar room that towered over our boat. They couldn't have had a better view of everything we were doing. Out of superstition, or perhaps paranoia, we quashed any talk among us about oil in the bilge.
The second part of the disaster struck in the small hours of the morning, around five.
The Captain was woken up in his cabin by the terrifying sound of the other bilge pump. The emergency pump which runs on its own automatic switch!
The Captain rushed out on deck and in the moonlit morning was able to see a dark brown stain spreading from the aft quarters of our ship.
Nobody with eyes could possibly mistake where the oil was coming from.
The Captain ran to the ship's bell, and rang it stridently. This was our fire alarm signal, and the crew (thinking it a surprise drill) sprang to action.
As per the station bill, my job was to grab a fire extinguisher and also to break out life vests in case it was necessary to abandon ship. I watched, useless, as the hose teams rolled out the hoses and charged them with water from the pump. The Captain then emerged, white hair flying in the wind, carrying two giant gallon-sized bottles of yellow lemon-scented Dawn dish soap.
He proceeded to dump the soap into the oil-browned water, and directed the hose teams to churn the water with their streams.
I was... confused. I had no idea what was going on. The hoses were frothing the water into a shit-brown foam that looked somehow worse than the mere oil that had been blackening our bilge.
I had to ask.
"Captain... why are we doing this?"
The Captain spun to face me, his gray eyes wide, his white windblown hair standing on end, he said, "the EPA -- they'll GET ya for oil, but they don't know WHAT to do about SUDS!"
The sun rose on a ruined marina. Brown foamy scummy suds everywhere, sticking to the sides of expensive boats. Foot-tall bergs of poo-froth drifting to and fro, befouling the white paint of the Coast Guard cutter with its imposing 30mm cannon.
And it had all happened directly under the eye of the actual fucking Coast Guard of the United States.
That day was a very normal day, yes sir, totally routine, as we started doing normal chores around the ship like cleaning and stowing lines and ignoring the horrible brown disaster all around us. At about eight that morning, a uniformed USCG member walked down to us and, standing at the bottom of our gangplank, very politely asked if he could see our captain.
Our cook, a binge-drinking beanpole with a head too large for his shoulders, answered the man's request by going down into the aft quarters to rouse the Captain.
The Captain soon strode onto deck, his back straight and shoulders back, the air of an emperor addressing an unruly court. He *leaned* over the top of the gangplank and, as rudely as he could manage, barked a single word, "WHAT?"
The crew, one and all, continued their work as normal. But I could tell by the tension in the air that every one of us was straining our ears to hear exactly what was said, beat for beat.
"Oh! Well, see, we know you're new here in Oxnard and we don't often see ships like this one, so we wanted to give you guys a tour of the Coast Guard station!"
The Captain's entire attitude changed direction with the Mach-speed of a cracking whip, and with sudden forced joviality he said "A tour! Let's do it, everyone, EVERYONE, we're going to go on a TOUR! Let's GO!"
And so we... went on a tour of the Coast Guard station?
It was a nice tour! They've got some really nice boats!
There's this brushed-steel twin-screw monster that they use for sea rescue ops, it's got a big box up top that acts as both a float (to prevent capsizing) and as a mount for various antennae and their radar. Basically a tiny tug, a hot rod compared to our Lady. And of course we got to admire their cutter from a distance, an interdictor ship meant for running down smugglers and other criminals, some significant fraction of the size of a naval frigate, with an actual cannon turret near the bow.
And of course, we got to see the operations room.
With its giant bay windows.
The ones that look directly down at the Lady, where one could hardly miss any activity that might be going on anywhere on our boat.
I spotted the Bosun standing by one of those windows, staring down at the Lady, shaking his head.
I sidled up to him and said, "Bosun, there's no way they didn't see--"
"I know," he said, flatly.
"I mean... they *had* to have--"
"Shut up."
I shut up.
Later we were back down at the docks, and the Captain was chatting with the station's chief engineer. The crew had marched through the tour obediently, quietly, forcing smiles and trying to seem interested in all the cool USCG shit, while wondering when the shiny bracelets and the arrest warrant were going to come out.
The Captain, to the visible shock and horror of all of us, at one point *pointed to the brown sludge* that was currently slopping against the docks, and said, "So hey, what do you do about shit like this?"
Jaws dropped, and were hastily picked back up.
And then the engineer -- the Coastie guy giving us the tour! -- he looked uncomfortable.
He said, "Well, we had a meeting about it this morning. See, when it's like this, we can't really pick it up with our oil-absorber pads? In fact, there's not really anything we CAN do about this. And none of us can afford trouble with the EPA, so we've decided to ignore the weird oil stuff, pretend it doesn't exist, and hope nobody thinks it was us."
The Captain, of course, had to say "No kidding? Hell, that's what WE do, TOO!"
And that's the story of Captain Chronic and his Big Brown Stain.
These guys really need managers who filter what they say.
You don't say stuff like this. You just don't do it. When you're running civilization-level technology infrastructure projects, you need public sentiment to not turn against you.
You need the little people to like you, no matter how pathetic and worthless you think they are, because they have pitchforks and ballots, and they will vote out all the politicians you bought to make your business model possible.
Hell, they might even pitchfork you. Lotta corporate execs getting killed in the street lately.
"You shouldn't have DRAM" reads like a threat. It turns on my lizard-brain and tells me that not only are you not Tribe, but you're willing to take Stuff from Tribe. And that means I'm going to have to stab you with something pointy to Defend Tribe.
Like, c'mon, this is really bottom-shelf basics of human nature, here. Don't tell people's lizard brains that you want to take their stuff.
Just further proof that techbros don't understand humans.
Not a bad point, here.
Yes, we want the alien cyborg non-people's masks to keep slipping so that we know what they are, this is true.
Still makes me shake my head at how socially dumb they are.
nitter.cf/Ameshist174947/status/…
Dain Little retweeted
I think I speak for everyone when I say "@AnthropicAI , fuck you and the horse you rode in on."
I don't personally care about doing video game rewrites myself. But the whole concept that some busybody can tell me what I may not do with the tool I am paying for is deeply offensive.
You will be replaced by open-weight and open-source models. Every asshole move like this makes you more enemies and brings that day closer.
ANTHROPIC IS CRACKING DOWN ON VIDEO GAME REWRITES 🚨
Claude Code picked up a new rule around Oct 27, sent from Anthropic’s servers under a flag called "tengu_heron_brook". There’s no setting to turn it off.
The full rule: “Do build original games, games in a genre, and games from the user’s own designs and assets. Don’t build a recreation of a specific existing game, even if it is renamed or called original.”
Is this the end of game rewrites, modding and everything in between?
Ahhhhh, justice.
There's nothing better, friends. Nothing on this green Earth better and more satisfying than God's own justice.
That streamer rat got suspended from Instagram, too.
I choose to take this as a portent of things to come. The world will come right, somehow.
I don't think I could go back and read the original books.
They wouldn't seem right without Malfoid.
...The patronus lesson on Thursday was particularly brutal. Harry felt as though somebody had scooped him out with a spoon and put the spoon back in empty.
He came round the corner by the library, and nearly walked into Malfoy.
“Potter. You look like something Filch scraped off the underside of a gargoyle.”
“Thanks.”
He went to step round her. She stepped in the same direction, apparently by accident, and was still in front of him.
“Where have you been?”
“Nowhere.”
“Nowhere has made you a very peculiar colour.” She was looking at him the way she had looked at him on the castle steps on the first night of term: all over, from his hair to his hands, and back to his face. Her voice did not change. “Have you been drifting into the lake?”
“Leave it, Malfoy.”
“I’m not doing anything. I’m standing in a corridor. It’s a free corridor.”
“Then stand in it,” said Harry, and walked round her.
He had gone perhaps three steps when he heard books being put down on a window-ledge, rather hard, and the rustle of a bag, and quick footsteps; and something was pushed against his arm, and he looked down at it. It was a slab of chocolate, a large one, in thick gold paper with a crest stamped on it that he did not know.
He took it before he had thought about it. Malfoy took her hand back at once, as though from a stove.
“Mother sent a box,” she said rapidly. “An enormous box. Belgian. I can’t possibly eat it all, and Gregory isn’t allowed sweets until Easter because of his mother, and Vincent would eat the paper, and Pansy’s reducing. Somebody has to do something with it, or it goes white. And it’s the only thing that’s the slightest use after a Dementor; even Professor Lupin knows that much.”
Harry looked at the chocolate, and then at her.
“Who said anything about a Dementor?”
There was a short pause, in which Malfoy appeared to discover that she had walked briskly into a room with only one door, and that Harry was standing in it.
“Nobody needs to say anything,” she said. “I saw you on the steps, Potter, the night of the train. You go a particular colour after a Dementor. You are that colour now, and it is hardly my fault if I have eyes.”
She said it to a point somewhere above his left ear.
Harry found that he had begun, very slightly, to grin, for the first time that evening.
“Were you worried, Malfoy?”
The effect was immediate and spectacular. The pink came up out of her collar like mercury in a thermometer dropped in hot water...
chapter 13 of my #malfoid fic out now!
👉
#yearn #yearning #HarryPotter #fanfic #FemDraco #Malfoy #NobilityObliges
Dain Little retweeted
#BREAKING: ICE is conducting one of the biggest spy operations on left-wing activists in history.
Dain Little retweeted
If you want to make Malfoid canon, read the following:
The Department of Education's Malfoid has reminded me of the circumstances that made Maid Marian canon to the Robin Hood legend. It may surprise you to know she is apocryphal, i.e. not part of the original story.
She's a "fanon" [lit. a Fan Canon] character, who later gained traction and legitimacy. Robin hood was originally a story about a dudebro (the original Good Guy Steve meme) out with his bros robbing evil clergymen and trying to bring justice back to the Church, in the name of the Virgin Mary.
Now? Marian and Chivalric Love are as inseparable to Robin Hood as the Sheriff of Nottingham.
Here's how that happened.
🧵1/
Dain Little retweeted
Oh, I don't know, maybe he did it because you're running on a platform of "let's take all of Elon Musk's stuff and throw him in the gulag"?
We've always known this was the case, but it's nice to have verification.
Telling you folks, I'm this freakin' close to throwing my phone in a lake
Claude Code just found proof that every app on your phone is listening to your conversations. TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat. they're using what you say out loud to build your feed. i have the data to prove it.
i've suspected this for months but last week something happened that made me finally check.
i was on a call with my friend and told him i'm thinking about breaking up with my girlfriend. didn't text it. didn't search it. just said it out loud with my phone on the table. two hours later she opens TikTok next to me and her entire feed is breakups. "signs your relationship is over." "how to heal after a breakup." she looked at me and said "why is TikTok showing me this." i said i don't know. but i did know.
i connected my iPhone to my MacBook and ran Claude Code that same night.
it scanned every app's background microphone activity for the last 90 days. not just the apps that asked for microphone permission. apps that were supposed to only have access to photos or location but were activating the microphone anyway.
what it found:
→ TikTok activated the microphone 347 times while the app was "closed" in the background
→ Instagram → 211 background activations
→ Facebook → 189
→ Snapchat → 94
every activation lasted between 3 and 15 seconds. enough to catch a sentence. every one of them tagged a keyword and cached it locally on the phone with a timestamp.
Claude Code pulled the full keyword cache:
→ "breakup" — tagged 4 hours before her feed changed
→ "moving out" — from a conversation with my mom last Tuesday
→ "wedding venue" — from a call with my sister about her engagement that i never searched once
→ "protein powder" — said it out loud to my roommate, had ads for it within an hour
→ "flight to tokyo" — mentioned it at dinner, saw travel ads the same night
those keywords were sitting in a local cache on my phone organized by app with timestamps. TikTok had the most entries. Instagram was second. every single keyword matched a conversation i had out loud near my phone.
the scariest one was "wedding venue." my sister told me she's getting engaged on a private call. i never searched it. never typed it. within a day my explore page had engagement rings and venue tours.
then Claude Code checked a second phone in the same room. my girlfriend's. same keywords. same timestamps. both phones were picking up the same conversation and tagging it independently.
i asked Claude Code how to shut it down. it mapped every app's microphone access and built a permission audit.
what i did:
→ revoked microphone access from every app that doesn't need it to function
→ disabled background app refresh for TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat
→ turned off "Hey Siri" which keeps the microphone in passive listening mode 24/7
→ revoked "nearby interaction" permission which uses ultrasonic audio between devices
Claude Code confirmed all four apps lost background microphone access after the changes. i checked her phone too. same steps. took about 3 minutes per phone.
within 48 hours both our feeds went completely random. generic content. nothing personal. nothing from our conversations. that's when i knew for sure it was real.
the full step by step and the prompt are in the first reply. takes 3 minutes. save it so you don't lose it and send it to anyone who's ever said "my phone is definitely listening to me." it is. now you can prove it and shut it down.
Readers added context they thought people might want to know
2 days before, OP claimed to have found spyware on his "wife's phone":
x.com/starmexxx/stat…
Now, in this post, he talks about his "girlfriend":
x.com/starmexxx/stat…
OP has a history of fake AI content:
"Spy camera" found in hotel room: x.com/starmexxx/stat…
Spyware on "friend's computer": x.com/starmexxx/stat…
OP selling AI products: x.com/starmexxx/stat…
Flagged as AI: x.com/i/grok/share/b…
Okay, let's talk about it.
The original Star Wars trilogy was a spaghetti Western set in space.
It was hammy and kinda poorly written, the acting was so-so, but the shot composition and editing was absolutely ace and the sound track was epic. It was emotionally satisfying; the bad guys lost, the good guys won, and Our Guy became the hero we always knew he would be.
The prequel trilogy was a Greek tragedy set in space.
It was hammy and kinda poorly written, the acting was so-so, but the shot composition and editing was absolutely ace and the sound track was epic. It was emotionally devastating; the bad guys won, the good guys lost, and Our Guy became the villain we always knew he would be.
Do you see the problem?
Dain Little retweeted
we absolutely should in fact genetically engineer bioluminescent plants & trees and then completely eradicate the affront to God that is LED street lights from the face of the Earth
Dain Little retweeted
"Terence Tao, you dumbshit" is not a judgment I would have ever thought possible before a few months ago.
Tao complains "AI is generating terrible proofs: great results, but no care for elegance, for who understands them, or for what comes next".
You've just described what you are supposed to do as a human being, fool. It's not the chisel's job to make a sculpture look beautiful; those choices belong to the mind and hand of the sculptor.
I've been writing software for 50 years. If I, a crusty old fart from the days of punched cards, can accept that I will never write a significant amount of code by hand again - that my job is steering and quality-checking an AI now - then what is *your* excuse for mental inflexibility, golden genius boy?
I'm pretty sure that if AIs actually had enough mathematical taste to be consistently elegant, and then were good enough at explanations to make their proof accessible, which is what you say you want...
...you'd be bitching harder, because you'd be entirely obsolete.
Quit your whining, you spoiled primadonna. Go do your job.
Looks like I'm gonna be doing some poetry reading.
Sorry, can't be helped, absolutely compulsory at this point
This is kind of the thing. When you look at who Robert Service was this wasn't some pampered college professor who has never swung an axe or tossed a hay bale - he was, for quite some time, living out in the sticks in Yukon... And writing poetry about it which sticks in your head for a lifetime.
People think of poetry as being some kind of pastime for college professors, angsty teenagers, or people who swig overpriced coffee between protests. It's not - or it doesn't have to be. There's a poet in the soul of a lot of people who might split their time between hunting, watching football, building things, and working with their hands. As a culture we seem to have forgotten that - and man do I hope we remember it because we're missing out on a lot.
Poetry is - or can be - for everyone. You find the right poet and it'll move you to your core whoever you are.
Dain Little retweeted
This is the best explanation between left and right I have heard in a long time! #RepublicanValues #democraticvalues
Hey, I need everyone to mute AND block @LeosTake26 for stealing content.
The goal here is to de-rank his account so that he doesn't gain anything from the stolen content.
It would be one thing if he was just reuploading, but he's being a jerk to anyone who calls him out.
unavailable
Dain Little retweeted
"Even Heaven had to go to war to protect its peace. Never apologize for drawing a line that kindness couldn't hold."
So "nothing ever happens" applies here because the players on this game board are cowards.
That's why "nothing ever happens" -- that's the core reason why nobody ever goes in for the finisher, why nobody goes to prison, why nothing ever seems to actually blow up or resolve. There is no final Hollywood-style climactic battle because nobody wants to risk their lives, freedom and livelihoods in such a thing.
Winning isn't standing over the ruined corpse of your enemy, bloodied sword in hand. Winning looks more like shining a bright light in a dark corner, and watching the roaches scurry away.
Here's how you'll know we won: it's when prominent Democrat politicians start scrambling over themselves to loudly proclaim that they were NEVER going to REALLY participate in a COUP, oh no, and that a color revolution would be TERRIBLE, and really it's the Republicans who are guilty of trying to pull a coup so you can't accuse us of that, and also you're ugly and stupid and my dad could beat up your dad.
We're not going to round up and imprison all of the eeeeeeevil Democrats, no matter how evil they actually are, because doing so is risky and nobody actually wants to fire that fateful terrible shot that gets the actual war going.
We're going to expose them, shame them until they start feeling the heat of the light of truth shining upon all their terrible misdeeds, and make them squirm until they break off from whatever insurrectionist plans they had. Thus will the whole conspiracy dissolve and we'll be right back to nothing happening, just like it always happens.
Until, y'know, it happens.
At some point, the evidence of a coordinated run on our Constitutional Republic will need to be actionable by those who are on the game board.
It’s not enough to have feels about it. The evidence of actionable coordination is taking shape in real time.
This is emergent coordination aka parallel convergence. NOT seditious conspiracy.
Although with a receipt I have from @DataRepublican generated last evening in our space, we may have the unraveling a foreign play at work- more to come on that.
For most of this run, they will not cross a seditious line because they don’t have to in order to run the play.
USE YOUR WORDS. Stop using hyperbole in a war for mind and heart.
You’re dealing with seasoned professional nation captors. They wrote the book.
The climate is rich, they have every opportunity to make a run with a Constitutional crisis and you are the only thing standing in their way. (Follow SK)