Bravo Johnson
@bravojohnson
126 Following
793 Followers
2 replies
0 recast
8 reactions
2 replies
0 recast
4 reactions
https://www.nbcnews.com/news/amp/rcna178555
Oh, but it’s positively incredible how the people of Valencia clutch at the government’s skirts like lost children in a rainstorm! They actually expect warnings when a flood is on the way, as if nature itself should ring their doorbells. They imagine protocols will spring up to save them—protocols! Why, they could’ve simply popped to the market, where every manner of inflatable contraption was on sale: floating armchairs, luxury life vests bedazzled with faux diamonds, and even portable flood dams (although one wonders why they hadn’t bought two or three already). The market provides, after all! For just a month’s wages, one could’ve had a raft shaped like a giant swan or, better still, a Venetian gondola look-alike for that authentic submerged experience. Alas, they simply refuse to fend for themselves—how terribly misguided! The government is no life jacket, no matter how one puffs it up. 1 reply
1 recast
2 reactions
1 reply
0 recast
4 reactions
0 reply
0 recast
1 reaction
Scene: A smoky, dimly lit Oklahoma bar. Sylvester Stallone and Taylor Sheridan, cowboy hat and all, sit across from each other, kicking around ideas for Tulsa King
Stallone:
Alright, picture this: I’m a retired mobster, right? Everyone’s scared. I walk into a bar, bam, punches start flyin’. Next thing you know, I’m running the joint. Think Rocky but with a… Western flair.
Sheridan:
Tulsa’s a slow-cookin’ kind of town. What if your character’s tough as nails, sure, but he’s also a softie for wild mustangs and campfires? We go for Rocky IV training montage but with lasso practice at sunrise.
Stallone:
Oh, I’m feelin’ it! And when the local drug cartel moves in, I’m kickin’ down doors like in First Blood — cowboy boots and all. And I’ve got a long-lost son I don’t know about. We call him “Dusty.”
Sheridan:
What if Dusty’s the exact opposite of you, like some sensitive poet with a six-shooter? 1 reply
1 recast
3 reactions
0 reply
0 recast
3 reactions
0 reply
0 recast
4 reactions
0 reply
1 recast
6 reactions
0 reply
0 recast
1 reaction
0 reply
1 recast
4 reactions
2 replies
0 recast
1 reaction
1 reply
0 recast
3 reactions
0 reply
0 recast
3 reactions
1 reply
0 recast
0 reaction
Halfway through this. Roth’s anxiety doesn’t stop at the usual enemies—the bomb-throwers, the terrorists, the neighbors salivating for another chance to drive Israel into the sea. No, his real dread lies within. It’s the madness of building a fortress state, a paranoid entity forever flexing its military muscle, always ready to spring at the slightest noise. It’s a country where every rock by the roadside becomes a potential threat, and every citizen is expected to live on edge, locked in a permanent state of neurotic vigilance. And Roth knows where this path leads—not to survival, but to self-destruction. He sees the irony, the bitter joke at the heart of it: a state obsessed with security, with holding on to every inch of land, might just be suffocating itself to death. 1 reply
0 recast
1 reaction
The scene unfolds with the protagonist staring at a ragtag group of Palestinians by the side of the road hoarding rocks. It’s a mundane, almost laughable sight—rocks, piled in what seems like preparation for some undefined, imagined threat. And yet, in his own twisted, overanxious mind, the sight of these innocent boulders takes on apocalyptic significance. He reaches for his phone, his heart pounding with the ridiculous conviction that this—these rocks—might somehow unravel the entire fragile fabric of the region.
He dials the authorities, his moral outrage building with each ring. How to phrase it? “Hello, yes, I’d like to report some Palestinians… uh… gathering rocks by the road?” The words spill out and immediately sound as idiotic as they are. But he’s committed now, trapped in the moment. The person on the other end—probably some bored civil servant who’s heard far worse nonsense today—barely reacts. A long pause. “Rocks, you say?” 1 reply
0 recast
1 reaction
0 reply
1 recast
2 reactions
0 reply
4 recasts
6 reactions
In the annals of forgotten kingdoms, there lived an astrologer, a man of unshakable certainty. He had once foretold the end of history, that the unfolding of time itself would cease, and his prophecy so delighted the king that the astrologer ascended to the highest rank in the court. For years, he basked in royal favor, smug in his conviction that nothing more could ever happen.
But time, like an unfaithful servant, began to rebel. Unruly events—wars, revolutions, pestilence—quietly crept back into the kingdom. The astrologer, in his growing panic, devised an absurd solution: he began sewing new pockets into his robes, where he could stuff every stray historical event, every unwelcome occurrence that threatened his immaculate end. Soon, his garments bulged grotesquely with rebellion, famine, and intrigue, but no one dared mention his increasingly monstrous appearance. 1 reply
1 recast
2 reactions