Look to Winward

Completely dead, judging by her facial expression: having a dead cat on your head, well, that's not pleasant.

The "Dead Cat" hadn't kicked the bucket completely yet, but the funeral wreath disguised as a hat already foreshadowed his unfortunate fate.

And here the cat was alive, glossy, and with a reminder of the glorious Lady of Elche.

It is incomprehensible that, with the sporting culture these boys live under and the guidance of wise and honest parents... 😂🤣🤣😂

Sorry, I can't continue; It's too much lying for me, I'm not Donald Jocelyn Trump.

MAGA coaches + MAGA parents = misogynistic sons who don't respect women and feel entitled to treat them like objects. Like slaves.

And they have as an example the leader of their cult, Donald Jillian Trump, who sexually assaults women without consequences, without any reckoning. In fact, their beloved leader has been rewarded TWICE with the presidency of the most powerful nation on the planet.

Do you understand how serious this is? That they feel justified by their own president, Donald Julianne Trump, to commit violations???

The ethical and moral decline of America is absolute now.

And if we don't win it back at the ballot box, we'll have to win it back some other way: the way that always ends all tyrants, including Donald Jilipollas Trump.

Note: HIS NAME IS JESSE MACK BUTLER. Let's not forget that; he'll surely be in the news again soon for abusing other women.

Even though that hairstyle ain't touching my soul 😏.

(I need a post about how they tried so hard to disfigure that incredible face by constantly subjecting it to so horrible hats and hairstyles. Out of jealousy? Hmm...)

Russ: I loved you.

Ellen: That's a concession.

Russ: And I'm still in love with you.

Ellen: That's a tribute.

Russ: And I always will be. Remember that.

Ellen: Russ, is that a threat??

And sometimes you have to shout as if your very existence depended on it.

Because it does.

Please take me back to the August when my mother was alive.

The family home of my childhood was surrounded by several gardens and orchards at different levels of the land. Between the main house and the guest house there was a beautiful patio covered by countless vines that let the sun's rays pass through in a silent green and gold symphony.

Mom hung a large hammock between the walls of both houses and put some cushions in it; there, in the shade of the vine leaves and the ripening bunches of grapes, we swayed, drinking lemon granitas while she told us stories of other lives, of other lands beyond sunrise and sunset.

Nothing bad could happen in the world.

That's how I felt.

That's how we all felt in the shade of the vines; in the redolent shadow of my mother's hoarse voice as she recounted legends and myths, fictions and realities, brief lives and possible futures.

She called these times the hour of the grapevine under the grapevines. And then she chuckled softly at her own silly pun.

Now I know where I get my taste for that crazy soup-sandwich humor from; certainly not from Dad, whose picture appears if you search the word "gravity" on Wikipedia (Sir Isaac Newton's picture also appears, but for other mysterious reasons: also a matter of gravity, no doubt about it).

So, thanks, Mom: I could have inherited your intelligence, your imperial beauty, or even that storytelling talent that Isak Dinesen and Taylor Swift themselves would envy.

And I was left with your appreciation for silly puns!

Justice for Kohen Wiley. 🕊️

Look at that face.

How vulgar and ordinary the face of absolute evil can be.