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I’m getting questions regarding the top photo of in my profile. It is a 10% ballistics gelatin block used to test the terminal ballistics of a bullet. In this pic it is a Barnes 95 TTSX for a 10.5” LWRC SIX8 at a little over 2409 feet per second.

@FuriasRuler @StarWarsDaily_ Yup, but back then it was just called Star Wars.

@StarWarsDaily_ Yes

Did you see A New Hope when it came out in theaters?

Nasty, brutish and short. That is the phrase everyone reaches for to describe life before civilisation, and it may be one of the most successful pieces of propaganda ever written, because it is very nearly backwards. The line is Thomas Hobbes, 1651, on life without a strong state. It got promoted into a verdict on the Stone Age hunter: that our ancestors wallowed in filth and starvation until farming and government rode in to save them. Flattering. Also flatly contradicted by the one witness that cannot lie, which is the skeletons. Lay a pre-agricultural hunter in the ground beside the farmer who replaced him on the same soil, and the bones are embarrassing. In the eastern Mediterranean the hunters stood around five foot nine. After the turn to farming, average height dropped close to five inches, and in places the descendants have still not won it back. At Dickson Mounds in Illinois, where you can read the change burial by burial, the farmers carried fifty per cent more rotten teeth, four times the anaemia, spines worn down by labour, and lives that got shorter rather than longer. Tall, sound-toothed hunter on top. Stunted, aching farmer beneath. The same patch of earth. So where did the famine and the plague and the misery come from? They arrived with the granary. Chain a whole people to two or three crops and a bad summer turns from a lean month into starvation, the kind that emptied medieval villages while no hunter with the whole wild to draw on ever knew it. Herd people and their animals into permanent settlements and you brew the crowd diseases, measles and smallpox and tuberculosis, that need a crowd to spread. Heap up a grain surplus and a few men can suddenly own it, guard it and rule everyone who needs it, and there is your landlord, your tax collector, your standing army. The inequality is in the graves too. At Mycenae the royals lie inches taller with a full set of teeth while the commoners rotted beside them, a gap in the bone that did not exist before there was grain to hoard. A fair word, because the romance oversells it. The hunting life was no meadow of gentle equals. Men fought, raids came, a hard winter could still finish you. The point is narrower and harder than the fantasy: the organised, industrial scale of human misery, the famines and plagues and slavery and despots, is overwhelmingly the work of what came after the first field was ploughed. Which leaves the famous phrase stranded. Coined for life without the state, borrowed to sneer at the hunter, it fits neither half so well as it fits the hungry, stooped, plague-worn peasant who came after the plough. Hobbes was describing a cage, and mistaking it for the wild.

More than 7 times!!

listen up, we have to vote for the man with the nazi tattoo so he can stop the man landing rockets and curing the blind from making any more money, otherwise we’ll get fascism you see how stupid you sound, yes?

@Sassafrass_84 @heathmil1 One problem is men willing to do bad things to bad people also have to consider the government, that failed to protect its citizens in the first place, will use its full power (including it’s propaganda arm the media) against us for protecting women. Daniel Penny comes to mind.

He's not wrong. It's going to take some good men to do bad things to right this course we are on.

@gunfanatics1 Neither. 16 rounds and disappears under a tee shirt with a Tenicor Certum Lux4 holster.

Would you rather have a sidearm with a massive, flawless 21-round capacity that prints like crazy through your jacket, or a clean 8-round single-stack that disappears?

@2brokefora249 Absolutely not! I had one back in the 2000’s and sold it. Regret.

Ok yall I gotta ask Do you think I should get rid of my MK23?

In 1919 a New York physician got so fed up with watching his patients get worse that he went to a museum to ask the dead for advice. His name was Blake Donaldson. He had a practice full of people who were overweight, ill, and getting steadily worse no matter what the medicine of the day threw at them, and he had run clean out of ideas. So he walked into the American Museum of Natural History, found the anthropologists, and asked them the question no respectable doctor was supposed to ask. What did healthy humans actually eat before all of this? They showed him the skulls. Ancient ones. Pre-agricultural ones. And the teeth stopped him in his tracks. No decay. No crowding. No abscesses. Rows of clean, strong, untroubled teeth belonging to people who had never met a dentist, a toothbrush, or a sack of flour. The anthropologists told him about the Plains hunters who lived on buffalo, and about pemmican, the dense brick of dried meat and rendered fat that carried men through a North American winter on next to nothing else. Donaldson went back to his surgery and did something that would get a modern doctor hauled in front of a committee. He put his patients on meat. Fat meat, specifically. Roughly six ounces of lean with two ounces of visible fat, three times a day, from beef or lamb. Coffee. Water. That was the prescription. He stripped out what he called the worst offenders, the flour and the sugar and the sweet milk, and he watched what happened. What happened was they got better. The weight came off without hunger, because he insisted they eat enough and eat often. The blood pressure settled. The gallstones, the migraines, the aching joints, the sour stomachs, the whole catalogue of modern complaints he had been failing to shift for years began, quietly, to resolve. He kept going. By the end he had run something like seventeen thousand patients through this regime over roughly forty years, which is a working lifetime of evidence rather than a passing fad. He wrote it down in a book called Strong Medicine in 1961. The establishment's response was swift and familiar. One prominent figure pronounced the book hardly scientific. Another filed Donaldson under food faddism and implied he had simply forgotten whatever he once knew about nutrition. A man with forty years of patient outcomes was waved off by people armed with a theory and a grievance, and the profession moved smoothly on to the low-fat advice that has served us so brilliantly ever since. He was not a guru and never pretended to be one. He thought he was just copying what those museum skulls had been quietly demonstrating for ten thousand years, which is about the most honest thing a doctor has ever said about diet. The book is still in print. The skulls are still in the case. And the advice that buried him is still printed on the side of the cereal box.

@Kinza1278 @Jandyj7 Ditch the smoke and climb in.

You pull up to pick your girl up for a date and you find her like this What do you do?

@CountDraculaDB The new Obsession movie is scary as hell.

Name a Horror that is a solid 10/10

@thomas_garrard For real.

See, this is why I need a girlfriend. Nobody says “Hey, don’t buy that sword.” And maybe someone should say that.

@SweetTexanRose @Ilegvm There’s a Rick and Morty episode that covers squirrels…

I’m convinced squirrels are actually demons. 😂

@JackArnett11 💯 Especially with body cams and modern police policies.

🤣🤣🤣🤣BUT my how things have changed.....back in the 60's I stayed in the bar waaay tooo long, walked outside into a cold winter snowy night, said to my self, hell I can drive home, figured out after a few blocks of bouncing off the curbs that driving was a bad idea, so I stopped, turned the car off and promptly went to sleep! Some hours later, I awoke to the sound of banging on my window, a police officer asked I was alright, I told him what I had done, he had me get out of the car, walk around a bit, aked me if I thought I could now drive, THEN he followed me home and blinked his lights as I pulled into my drive...NO WAY that would happen today💪💪💪🏴‍☠️

@QueenAnticommie LOL. Does Ken’s click too? Because mine sure do.

Me all the time

@Musclemanhh I don’t know, I’m 57 and still lifting.

When do you plan to stop lifting weights? At 40? 50? 60? Or are you one of those gym bros who plans to be moving iron until the day they can’t walk anymore?

Can you imagine if Ukraine had used those bio weapons and sprayer drones? A country with nukes attacked with a weapon of mass destruction with US involvement?

@TylerRatcliff17 @end3of6days9 That’s called the lug nut rule; he with the most lug nuts wins.

When you challenge a bull to mortal combat👀👀🤣🤣

Eat mostly plants. A little fish. Meat on special occasions. It is the oldest dietary advice on earth, and it had nothing to do with your health and everything to do with who was holding the deed to the land. Who got the grain: - The Roman mob, handed free wheat by the state to keep it from rioting - The Egyptian labourer, paid in bread and beer - The medieval peasant, on pottage because the manor took the rest - The gladiator, fattened on barley for the blades - The galley rower, the field hand, the conscript Who got the meat: - The pharaoh - The senator - The lord - The bishop - The man who owned the gladiator For almost all of history the plant-heavy plate told everyone in the room exactly where you stood, and it was never near the top. Meat climbed the ladder. Grain pooled at the bottom with the people who had no choice. The modern plate model puts grains at the broad base and shrinks the meat to a corner. They have drawn the peasant's plate, framed it, and called it the gold standard. The peasant would have swapped it for yours without blinking.

@infantrydort Wordsmithery worthy of the Bard.

The extent I care about narco-terrorists is limited to the speed with which they are torn from the fabric of this existence and compelled to confront God.

This country. A driveway. My neighbor Dale owns a truck, and I have discovered who actually defends this nation. Monday, a family down the street moved. Dale's truck. Wednesday, a tree limb fell on Mrs. Carter's fence. Dale's truck. Friday it snowed, and an unspoken signal traveled the block, and Dale appeared with a plow blade like a one-man cavalry. No one pays him. No one drafts him. He is summoned by need alone. "Dale," I asked, "who do you serve?" "What?" "Who commands the truck?" He thought about it. "Whoever's stuck, I guess." WHOEVER IS STUCK. Eight hundred years of military philosophy in my bloodline, and this man in a hoodie has perfected it: a standing army of one, sworn to the realm of Whoever Is Stuck. In my land, a lord keeps soldiers for his own gate. Dale keeps a truck for everyone's gate. I offered him my loyalty. He offered me a beer. We were both confused by the other's gift and accepted anyway. That is diplomacy. I asked what I could do to repay the block's debt to him. He said, "Help me load a couch Saturday." I have never trained harder for anything. The couch was heavy. I was not strong enough. I want to say I was. I was not. Dale carried his end and most of mine and said "good lift" anyway, which is the kindest lie in the language. A man with a truck does not ask who needs him. He has already backed into the driveway. I cannot buy a truck yet. So I have become the man who shows up when the truck does. Every truck needs a vanguard. Dale has not approved this title. Dale does not need to.