What happened to the 300,000 children who were either kidnapped or sold by their parents to the cartels who brought them to the U.S.? Were they handed over by Biden and Mayorkas to pedophiles? Are they working in fields or factories? Were they coerced into sex work? Were they sacrificed to sell their organs? Are they dead?
Be kind to your leftist friends. They’re fragile right now. They were counting on war, impeachment and more excuses to riot in the streets. It looks instead like we may have peace.
Even those on the left, whose hair is on fire over the Saturday night surprise, have to admit that the strikes were breathtakingly successful. Not only did B2 bombers fly from Missouri to Iran and back without detection. They dropped bomb after bomb on precise nuclear targets and returned without any American casualties.
There’s a “sign post up ahead.” Planet car tax looms before us. Once again, we’re on a journey to a wonderous land whose boundaries are only that of imagination.
It's imperative that President Trump appoints senior-level military officers who will enthusiastically follow the orders of the Commander in Chief.
Hands shaking on my point-and-shoot, I managed to snap one picture as the bear chased my mother. I got another once she leapt breathlessly into the passenger side of the car. The bear thudded against the door and stuck her head and claws in the open window.
While the three nutty lib women on the court may have been fooled by euphemisms that attempt to cloak the ghastly and irreversible medical experiments being performed on confused youngsters as health care, the majority of the court was not. The vote was 6-3.
Leftie politicians provoke a confrontation with ICE or law enforcement, get arrested and hold tearful pressers where they accuse Trump of being Hitler. Rinse. Repeat.
What, exactly, did this woman think would happen when she stood in front of a moving car? She obviously believed the driver would do what other Californians do in this situation: Lock their doors, grit their teeth and inch slowly though the bellowing anarchists while they scream, pound on the car and even jump on the hood. Sometimes they pull them out of the cars and beat them.
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For years, I've been offering assorted explanations for why I spent three years in Dublin during the early 1980s: To cover a war without going to the Middle East. To avoid appearing in public in a bathing suit. To cure a case of unsightly hand warts. To date guys with Irish accents.
The list changes but almost always contains a kernel of truth.
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