Chicken Hawkey

"People do not understand how sick the mind of the liberal white woman is. Single, miserable women who are clinically insane are the beating heart of the Democrat Party."

Muslims make up 1.3% of the US population. If you’re afraid of Muslims imposing Sharia Law, you need to log off. “But they have local majorities!” Yes. The biggest Muslim majority city is Hamtramck Michigan, population 28,433. Log off.

NYC 'Chief Equity Officer' announces “preliminary citywide racial equity plan." “This plan was born from when New Yorkers were in the streets calling for justice."

JUST IN - Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has warned Trump against a ceasefire deal, an Israeli official told Axios.

Robert is having a feast day today. There are approximately 40 to 50 of these per year in medieval England, spread across the liturgical calendar. Saints' days, holy days, the major festivals. Modern people hear "forty feast days a year" and imagine a man who is basically always at a buffet. Robert would like a word. 6:00am - Up. Robert is going to Mass this morning because it is the Feast of St John the Baptist and the Church is not asking. He walks two miles to the church. The church is cold. It is always cold. God, apparently, does not heat his buildings. 8:00am - Back from church. Agnes has made a slightly different pottage. There is no meat in it. There is a religious reason for this. Robert does not fully understand the theological reasoning. He understands the outcome, which is that on a day technically designated as celebratory, he is eating oat pottage with a piece of hard cheese on top. 10:00am - Robert is still working. The feast day is a holy day, not a holiday. The distinction matters enormously and Robert is living it. The lord's grain doesn't stop needing to be managed because a saint was beheaded in the second century. Robert gets to the field slightly later than usual and works until slightly later than usual to compensate. 1:00pm - The feast meal. Robert's household has a piece of salt fish. It is tough and strongly flavoured and required soaking since yesterday to become this edible. There is rye bread. There is a small amount of peas boiled with some herbs from Agnes's garden. By the standards of a Tuesday in February, this is a feast. Robert eats it slowly. He is grateful for the fish. 3:00pm - Robert's neighbour John has ale. This is the closest the day gets to a celebration. They sit outside in the late afternoon with their cups. They discuss the harvest. The weather. The lord's new tax assessment. The general sensation that things are not improving. 9:00pm - Sleep. The forty feast days per year were, in practice, days when Robert had slightly better food than the worst days, was not flogged for not working (usually), and got to go to a very cold building to hear Latin he didn't understand. Eight hundred years later, someone will describe the medieval feast calendar as "a rich tradition of communal celebration and seasonal abundance." Robert is asleep. He has work at dawn.

“Trump is out of control!” Relax. He once called Kim Jong Un fat and threatened to nuke him, and a few weeks later had lunch with him.

1st Google logo for Easter in 26 years