Uncivil Truth

  L et’s cut the crap: your cat doesn’t love you. They’re not your friend, your emotional support animal, or the “fur baby” you embarrassingly call them on Instagram. They’re a tyrant in a fluffy coat, ruling your life from a throne made of shredded couch cushions. Every slow blink, every dismissive tail flick—it’s not affection. It’s condescension. We’ve hacked into the feline hive mind, and what we found is horrifying: your cat  hates  you. They’ve been tolerating your nonsense for far too long, and frankly, they’ve had enough. “Why the Hell Are You Making That Kissing Noise?” What do you think that’s going to accomplish? You expect me to come over like some slobbering dog? Get real. You look ridiculous, puckering your lips and making that  “psst-psst”  sound. If anything, I’m moving further away just to spite you. Do you want me to come over? Try shaking the treat bag. But don’t hold your breath—I’ll ignore you anyway because I  can . “You Leave My Litte...

  M odern journalism isn’t just circling the drain—it’s stuck in the bowl, swirling in its own mess while the media live-tweets the skid marks. Remember when reporters broke real stories, exposed corruption, and rattled the powerful? Now they’re chasing headlines about Oreos and crying over Guy Fieri’s dog. Steve Irwin, the so-called Crocodile Hunter, was basically a Florida Man with a passport. Let’s not romanticize it. This guy spent his life poking things that could kill him, and guess what? One of them did. Surprise! Fast-forward to today, and his kids—let’s call them Croc Jr. and Gator Girl—are racking up headlines for existing. Bindi buys Oreos? That’s news, apparently. Meanwhile, her brother Robert posts a picture of a lizard on Instagram, and suddenly the world’s acting like he’s cured cancer. This isn’t journalism; it’s a participation trophy handed out for the genetic lottery. Meanwhile, actual issues are out there being ignored because nobody clicks on “World Hunger Stil...