Keith Doyon

"To be free, a man needs land and a gun, but always a gun." ~attributed to Emiliano Zapata (A way to support yourself independent of government, and a means to defend you and yours, from others and from government.)

@RupertLowe10 There will be resistance. Not all of it above board.

We campaigned heavily on the fact that aggressive foreign men have made British women feel unsafe in our town centre. Women across Great Yarmouth felt there was finally a political party that had the courage to address these concerns. Thousands and thousands of them voted for us. We will use all available tools at our disposal to tackle it locally. We have already made progress over the last year, but there is so much more to do. There are now councillors with the conviction and experience to do something about. Two of our councillors have vast policing experience - they will use it. We will act. And we are going to take this campaign to elections all over Britain. Having abusive gangs of foreign men in our town centres is NOT acceptable, and something has to be done. First locally, but eventually it must be achieved through a change of Government. I want them gone. A Restore Britain Government will make our streets safe again for British women and girls, that I promise you.

@TheWildMonkey2 Great example of a use not previously on the bingo card.

I'm building an app for my awesome niece who runs mental health clinic so she can figure out probabilities of hitting certain revenue goals, given number of appointments scheduled, patient show-up rates, and insurance reimbursement variability. AI is a freakin game-changer in coding.🤯 I'm up to nearly 1,000 lines of code, written in seconds by AI. This program would have taken me at least a week to write and debug by hand.

@RadioGenoa Multiculturalism is their strength!

In India, police explain to Muslims not to harass Hindus.

@FinalTelegraph @LauraLoomer @RealCandaceO That is certainly what it looks like.

@LauraLoomer @RealCandaceO This is a calculated act of diplomatic sabotage conducted from the luxury of a foreign hotel to undermine national interests. x.com/FinalTelegraph…

You lying piece of shit. You quite LITERALLY included a full Bible passage in my firing documents from Matthew 5:9-12 “Blessed are the Peacemakers…”. I tweeted the passage completely stand-alone and you cited it as an example of antisemitism which was violative of my contract terms. You have absolutely no right or authority to publicly lie about what I lived through. It’s been 3 years of my family dealing with your deranged stalking and public lies. You even orchestrated, reviewed, and approved the now-infamous “Christ is King” episode with Andrew Klavan. The best part about your two-year attempt to bankrupt my family through the court system are the resulting transcripts which last forever.

@FriedmanBrock Nice. Enjoy!

@KeithDoyon Well, its a traditional 1911 so less capacity is a given, and more so as this is Illinois. Its heavy, but aside from needing to be very thoughtful about your belt and holster for CC, that weight works in your favor.

Ok, question...got wilsons combat oil, the red thin stuff...took off the black cap, took out the red plug, but it still doesn't flow out the tip. Do I snip off the end or am I missing something? I feel stupid.

@ruyekian7 @EthicalSkeptic After the chronology you described, are you still willing to go back in question what you first accepted without question to verify the foundation of everything else?

@EthicalSkeptic Sonething i've noted time and time again for myself on a personal experiential lvl is that if you accept certain things at face value without question occasionally..none of these things are insane or unacceptable, & than you suddenly realise that leap was not ever really a leap.

The reason the Mokattam limestone of the Giza Plateau did not appreciably dissolve under marine submersion, while the Tura Limestone did, comes down to depositional fabric and early formation diagenesis – or friability (for short). Mokattam carbonates are primarily nummulitic, grain-strengthened limestones that underwent early marine concretion (concrete is far stronger than cement - which is more decorative in its use) This produced low primary porosity and high buffering capacity against undersaturated seawater, whereas Tura limestone is a fine-grained, micritic, high-purity calcite with much higher effective porosity and far less early concretion/long chain calcite, making it chemically reactive and vulnerable to dissolution under prolonged marine and/or kinetic water interaction. Like cheese cake it is dense yes, but also very vulnerable to chemical dissolution. In short, Mokattam behaved as a chemically armored carbonate, while Tura behaved as a chemically exposed one – a contrast which formed at deposition and was locked in by early diagenesis. The backing stones were LOAD-BEARING>>> the Tura casing stones were not. This contrast is a guarantee. Neither of these was "poured" - more work is involved in poured structure by far, the quality control value chain would have been fatal to the project, the pyramid would have buckled from missed QC failures, and there would have been standardized sizings in a specific horizontal patterning (from poured-structure engineering experience). Instead, they relied upon the Quality Control of Eocene deposition and 35 million years of Mokattam compaction.

EVERYTHING here is spot on:

@erocnomeDehT @ShamashAran God bless you and yours. All that you have accomplished is every bit something to be proud of. You obviously deserve every bit of it. Press on.

@ShamashAran This hit hard. I still have nightmares. People coming to repo the house, the car, or worse, take the kids away. Everything we own is paid off or ahead on payments. They still take it, say we don't deserve it, it was a mistake we even had it at all.

She still checked the locks three times before bed. Not because Texas was dangerous. Quite the opposite, really. The neighborhood was quiet enough that the silence was comforting, but it also made her uneasy. No sirens screaming through the night. No drug dealers arguing in parking lots at three in the morning. No helicopters washing blue light across stained apartment walls. Just sprinklers ticking in the dark and the distant hum of highway traffic. Normal people sounds. See, that was the problem. What most people see as normal still felt temporary. Monica stood barefoot in the kitchen of the little house outside Fort Worth, staring at the refrigerator like it might vanish if she blinked too long. The fridge was covered in magnets she bought herself because nobody could tell her not to . A stupid ceramic cactus in neon colors. A Buc-ee's beaver grinning like a lunatic. Her niece's report card clipped beside an electric bill she had paid three days early. Paid. early. EARLY. The thought still gave her a strange, private thrill. At fifty-two years old, she still sometimes stood in grocery stores staring at full carts in disbelief. Steak. Fruit that wasn't bruised. Real coffee. Name-brand cereal. She could buy these things now without calculating what she could skip eating later. Sometimes she wanted to grab strangers by the shoulders and scream, You have no idea how hard this was!! But people didn't like hearing that kind of thing. They liked the cleaned-up version better. The version where survivors became polished and wise instead of twitchy and exhausted. The version where the little girl inside you stopped shaking. That little girl still woke her up sometimes. Eight years old. Pink nightgown with faded stars on it. Standing frozen in a dark hallway while her father's footsteps creaked across rotten floorboards. People always imagined trauma like explosions and fire. Like screaming. But some of the worst moments in her childhood had been quiet enough to hear the refrigerator humming. Her mother had tried. God, she had tried. Monica would defend that woman until the day she died. Her mother had worked double shifts while hiding bruises beneath long sleeves in July heat. She had scraped together enough money to keep food in the apartment. She'd sat with Monica during nightmares, rubbing circles into her back while pretending not to know why her daughter screamed in her sleep. Her mother had been drowning too. People judged poor women too easily, Monica thought. Especially women trapped with violent men. Everybody wanted them to become action heroes overnight. Grab the kids and flee dramatically into the night. Life wasn't a movie. Sometimes escape took years. Sometimes your bravery looked like surviving until payday. Her father finally left after Monica turned eight. By then the damage was already rooted deep inside her like rust in pipes. Most people would think that'd bring relief. But no. Then, the drugs came. First weed. Then pills. Then anything she could eat, snort, or inject. Anything that turned memory fuzzy around the edges. Anything that let her sleep. The ghetto swallowed girls like her every day. Everybody knew one. Skinny shoulders, dead eyes. Too-smart mouths hiding frightened little kids underneath. Girls who learned early that painkillers worked faster than therapy and cost less. By twenty-three, Monica had overdosed twice. The second time, she woke in a county hospital with charcoal on her lips and her mother asleep in a plastic chair beside her. Her mother looked old. That was what finally broke her. Not the hospital. Not almost dying. Her mother's face. Her mother was a woman who had spent her entire life fighting monsters and losing inches of herself every year doing it. Monica remembered staring at the fluorescent lights overhead thinking: If I die, then everything she suffered for dies too. Not everyone climbs out after that realization. She knew that. Some people sink too deep. But somehow she clawed upward inch by inch. Rehab. Relapses. Meetings in church basements smelling like burnt coffee. Waitressing jobs. God, you have NO IDEA how bad life is unless your're a waitress in a restaurant barely holding it together. Panic attacks in bathroom stalls. Three straight years where she measured success entirely by whether she woke up sober. She had a wild idea one afternoon. She'd leave. She heard about Texas. It was everything she thought she hated. Everything she loved tore her apart. Texas had not saved her. She hated when people talked that way about places. No state could save you. But Texas had given her room. Room to breathe. Room to become someone new before the old neighborhood could drag her back under by the ankle. She found work managing inventory for a plumbing supply warehouse. Not glamorous, but steady. Honest. Predictable. Predictable was holy to her. Her boss liked her because she showed up early and didn't steal shit. He had no idea those were skills earned through blood and terror. The first time she got a tax refund larger than three digits, she cried in her car. When her credit score crossed 700, she took a screenshot. Her mother had been dead for 3 years, but she wanted her to see that screen more than anything. The first time she signed a lease without needing a roomate, she sat alone in the empty living room on folding chairs and laughed until she started sobbing. Because nobody understood. Success feeels different when you come from hell. Middle-class people talked about stability like it was ordinary. To Monica, stability felt like balancing on top of a hurricane. Even now, years later, fear stalked her quietly. What if she lost her job? What if she got injured? What if one bad month started the avalanche? What if the old life was her real life and this was only some temporary clerical error the universe would eventually correct? Sometimes she woke before dawn absolutely convinced she was back in THAT apartment. Back in that heat and mold, her neighbors shouting. Wondering if the gunshots would coem next. Then she would hear the air conditioner humming softly. She felt the clean sheets against her skin. She felt his skin against hers. He didn't understand, and she loved him for that more than he could ever know. She could smell coffee from the timer she set the night before. And slowly, carefully, reality would settle back into place. One Saturday morning she stood in her backyard holding a garden hose while the sun climbed over the fence. Tiny tomatoes hung from plants she had grown herself. Her own yard. Her own tomatoes. It was such a stupid thing to be proud of. And yet pride filled her chest so fiercely it almost hurt. The pride of a woman who had crawled through broken glass for every inch of peace she possessed. She thought about the girl she used to be: frightened, angry, poisoned with shame that had never felt right to her. That little girl would never have believed this life was possible. Maybe Monica still didn't fully believe it either. But the tomatoes were real. The paid bills were real. The quiet was real. The woman standing barefoot in morning sunlight was real. And maybe healing was not becoming fearless. Maybe healing was being terrified every day and building a life anyway. Her husband joined her outside. He put his arm around her and she cried a little inside.

@senorameredith @GRebel2024 @JohnStrandUSA @data_republican It's going to be hard to vote our way out of this mess. But hard is not the same as impossible. Our country has done hard before, successfully.

@GRebel2024 @JohnStrandUSA @data_republican So, what is your answer?

Democrats are lunatics. Republicans are cowards. We all know this is the problem—but what’s the solution? It’s time to put patriots in Congress. 👉🏼 JohnStrand.com/donate 🇺🇸

@NotAvgLiberal Normally, under sane conditions, @SecretService frowns on threats against any person currently filling the role of The President.

8647

@wokal_distance Elites v. Elites. This is how revolutions almost always go.

This guy is a millionaire nepo-baby who grew up literally riding a pony, and wears Cartier glasses while driving million dollar cars; and then he goes and tells poor people to risk their lives engaging in violent revolution while he gets rich by streaming about it.

@joelgaines Hummmm . . . (Punch back? Or multi-million dollar settlement? Punch back? Multi-million settlement? Damn, This is a tough one.

I feel like the answer is obvious.

A much more accurate piece of history since the 1960s:

@Guanyador72 Staying rich is easier than getting rich in the first place, way easier, but it's still never guaranteed. Rags to riches to rags in three generations is a well represented story.

imagine getting rich and never going broke for the rest of your life

@TJtheSting @ingelramdecoucy @Hpgabagool @NOLAnews A black conservative is it in existential danger to "Our Democracy."(tm)

@ingelramdecoucy @Hpgabagool @NOLAnews I'm going to be voting for John James to be governor of Michigan. Guess how all the people whining about "black representation" will be treating him

Will Sutton: The Supreme Court has threatened Black representation at all levels of elective office nola.com/opinions/will_…

@Adams1722Saml @FamedCelebrity If you do, be sure to Give Thanks for such a worthy feast!

@FamedCelebrity No, but going to try. Might make along with some of my trailer trash turducken--hot dog encased in spiced ground beef, wrapped with bacon and smoked for a couple hours.

Anybody try this?

@ClimateWarrior7 Policies are SO important. But so is porn. Please don't neglect your porn just because you're worried about policies. 😩

Many people have noticed that I’ve been posting a lot less on here over recent months. There are two reasons for that. The first is that I have moved to BlueSky because of the intolerant hateful bigotry on X. The second is I suffer from a serious medical condition which means that I have to pleasure myself while watching internet pornography for up to 16 hours a day. Sometimes I think I'm lucky the Green Party doesn't fire me as policy director. I guess they appreciate those 2 minutes I spend every single day, rain or shine, thinking up new policies.

@FriedmanBrock Damn! Ok, so, Is there anything about it yet that you don't like? Sites? Capacity? Size?

@KeithDoyon I do, very much so. The trigger is really nice, the grips are just right...the heft. And it is very nice to shoot with such minimal recoil. Very accurate, which is a must.

@kentarou_yokota @inuchochin What is most important is not always what is merely efficient.

@inuchochin 親の世代がもうすでに、それらの躾が身に付いていないのが実情だと思いますね。だから躾を期待して武道を習い事として選ぶというのが出てくる。礼節や躾は己も他者も害さない社会の構築に有効ですが、効率とは程遠いので廃れてきたように感じます。

竹刀を跨ぐな、刀と同じように扱いなさいと幼少期から躾けられてきた自分としては、実際に跨いでいるのを見るとショックと言うか認識の違いを思い知らされる。三島由紀夫曰く「剣道で礼を尽くした後に行うのは、相手をぶっ叩く事である。」用途や行為が如何なる物であれ礼節を失ってはならないと思う。

@BrownMrke @HORUSthe13thSUN @Rothmus Troy the movie is fiction. Troy the city was real, and yes, Greeks were Europeans.

@HORUSthe13thSUN @Rothmus Seriously, no. You’re talking about what you want to believe vs what actually happened. Troy is a fictional story about the Greeks. The Greeks, were and are white.

If you paid me to ruin a movie, I still couldn’t have done it this masterfully