The PHONE call.

Timmy's hands shook as he picked up the vintage rotary phone that had belonged to his grandparents. He stared at the number he was about to dial—Kelly's number. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the receiver and, with a determined flick of his finger, began spinning the dial—1... then 2... and so on. Each time it returned, there was a satisfying “ding,” but with each number, so did Timmy’s confidence fade slightly. Finally, the phone rang and rang, his heart doing the Macarena in his chest. Just as he was starting to think he should hang up, a gruff voice barked into the receiver. “What do ya want?” “Um, hi! Is Kelly there?” Timmy squeaked, his voice high and shaky like a cartoon character. “Who are you?” came the growl, punctuated by the sound of a creature (read: Timmy’s brain) being crushed under the weight of sheer panic. “I’m uh… Timmy. Just a friend from school!” He tried to sound casual, but it came out like a mix of a squeaky toy and a nervous squirrel. “Friend, huh? What kind of friend?” Timmy could practically hear this guy's mustache twitch. “I just want to talk to Kelly,” he blurted, praying for a swift rescue. There was a long pause, and Timmy could hear the sound of someone chewing. Had Mr. Grumpy Pants just put him on hold? Would he get to hear a terrible muzak rendition of “Here Comes the Sun”? Suddenly, another voice shouted from somewhere in the house, “DAD! Who’s on the phone?” “Just some kid!” her father barked back, and Timmy winced as he imagined him gripping the phone like it was about to explode. “Tell him to hold on!” Kelly’s voice chimed in sweetly, breaking through the tension. Timmy gulped. “Uh, I can hold…” “Yeah, you! Just hold on a minute!” Her father roared. Timmy imagined him chowing down on popcorn, like a tyrannical king ruling over his castle. The waiting was unbearable. Timmy was convinced this whole operation was a disaster. The phone felt heavier. Sweat started to form on his brow. What was he even going to say? “Hey Kelly, wanna hang out? Sorry I was almost eaten alive by your dad’s grizzly bear impression!” Yes, that sounded totally normal. Finally, the line clicked. “Hi! Who’s this?” came Kelly’s sweet voice, akin to a choir of angels. “Hi! It’s me, Timmy,” he spluttered, momentarily losing the eloquence he’d practiced for days. “Um, I was wondering if you wanted to, um… go out?” “Go out?” she echoed, sounding amused. “Like… on a date?” “Y-yeah! I mean, not that it’s a date. More like… just hanging out? At the café on Main Street? For a milkshake?” His words tumbled out like balls in a juggling act gone horribly wrong. “Sure! What time?” she asked, her tone getting excited. “Now?” he suggested, desperate but also mentally kicking himself. This was so cringe. “Now, as in right now? You want to meet now?” she confirmed, sounding a mix of surprised and entertained. “Uh, maybe?” Timmying answered, frantically looking out the window, wondering if he had time to jump in a time machine and prepare himself. “Let me check with my dad,” she said, and Timmy could practically hear her running to the living room. “Dad!” Kelly called. “Can I go meet Timmy at the café?” “Who’s Timmy?” her dad barked back with suspicion. “He’s just a friend!” “Friend? What friend? How old is he? Are you sure he’s not a creep?” “Dad!” Her voice sounded exasperated. “He’s not a creep! Just a kid from school!” Another pause ensued, and Timmy tightened his grip on the phone. Where was this going? “Alright, you can go,” he finally relented, but Timmy could still sense the disapproval radiating from the other end. “See?” Kelly chirped, sounding enthusiastic. “I can meet you! How about in five minutes?” “Okay!” Timmy blurted, the unexpected rush of excitement completely contradicting the nausea swirling in his stomach. “Alright! I’ll see you in a bit!” And the call ended with a click. Timmy hung up in a daze, eyeing the clock—oh no! He had exactly 4 minutes and 35 seconds to make it to the café, looking every inch like he wasn't a hot mess. Bolting out of the house, he darted past his own front yard, nearly colliding with a low fence. Just then, he heard a distant, gruff voice booming from the phone call’s aftermath: “Hey, Timmy! Don’t you trip over anything!” echoed in his head like a ghost of potential embarrassment. He sprinted towards the café, feeling like he was racing against time and perhaps the genetic legacy of smooth talkers like James Bond. There it was hope! He turned the corner just as a kid on a skateboard zoomed by, and he dodged to the side, narrowly escaping another embarrassing episode. He arrived at the café, panting and disheveled, but an odd sense of pride washed over him. He was here! He might not be a cool cat, but he’d made the call, and quite possibly survived a bear attack. And somehow, maybe, just maybe, today could turn out to be the best day ever. And if it didn’t? Well, at least he’d provided Kelly with one heck of a story about the epic phone call that led to Timmy and the Great Café Adventure.

I have not done any real engineering so here is the latest story,Part 2 on the engine trying to eat it's dip stick

Once upon a time last month in the sunburnt land of Australia, there was a trusty little machine known affectionately as "The Dingo." It was a compact earthmover, and like the cheeky wild dogs it was named after, it had a knack for getting into scrapes. This particular Dingo had seen more action than a kangaroo at a boxing match, and after years of hard labor, it was finally having a midlife crisis—or at least a complete mechanical breakdown. One fine morning, as the sun blazed over the outback, the Dingo decided it was done playing nice. It let out a mechanical groan that rattled the windows of the nearby shed, and just like that, it tried to disembowel itself from the inside, its dip stick being the first to meet its maker. If only machines could hold their lunch! There were bits of engine clinging to the grass like a hungover mate still holding onto last night’s barbeque as Stew worked late into the night.. Out came Stew, the local handyman. He was as resourceful as a spider in a fly factory and wore a face that had seen more dust storms than a sheepdog. "Right then, you ole tin can," he said, eyeing the mess before him. "Time for a little TLC — Tough Love and Compression!" With a hearty laugh, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work. He stripped the engine down to what could only be described as a pile of sorrowful bolts and broken hopes. The alternator bracket was broken, but Stew wasn’t about to be outdone by a mere piece of metal. In true Aussie spirit, he crafted an oversized bracket that looked like it had been borrowed from a bulldozer. “That’ll teach ya!” he chuckled, as if daring the Dingo to misbehave again, after all, Stew thought he had a good understanding of his machine. Next came the “oil transfusion.” Stew needed roughly a hundred liters to replace what the beast had expelled. He fashioned a makeshift pump out of a discarded fuel canister and a bit of garden hose. “If doctors can use a syringe,” he reasoned, “then I can do this!” And so, the Dingo’s guts were siphoned out, stored, and Stew sensed the thrill of making a fine mess even messier, as the Dingo lay there like a wounded animal, awaiting the final fix. After a long month of sweat, swearing, and more than a bit of improvisation, the Dingo was finally beginning to look like its old self once again - but it's a hard thing to keep an old workhorse from falling apart. But wait! Just as he was about to do a victory dance, he heard a telltale “thunk.” He looked down to see that one of its tyres (American English) had gone flat, like a party balloon after a particularly rowdy celebration. “Oh, come on!” he cried, scratching his head in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me! What’s next? A machine breakdown support group?” Stew couldn't believe that after all he had been through he had to deal with the Dingo's flat tyre. Stew sighed and dragged out his flat tire kit as he grumbled about the trials of being a mechanic, a therapist, and an engineer all in one. He couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. to be continued

What is

In shadows cast by whispered sighs, Where hearts might dance but seldom rise, A tale unfolds of love's great feast, Yet men, it seems, have missed the beast. With armored hearts, they forge ahead, On paths of logic, cold and dead, They search for truth in lines and charts, But miss the pulse of tender hearts. And women, bending like the trees, With grace, they sway in gentle breeze, Yet doubt their worth in love’s embrace, As if their hearts a foreign place. Yet love, a river, wild and wide, Flows through the cracks where dreams abide. It's not confined to gender’s mold, In silent stories, love grows bold. So let the men put down their shields, And women trust in what love yields. For in this dance of give and take, A world of wonder we can make. Through eyes that meet, through hands that touch, In every heartbeat, love's a crutch. Not known, not done, but felt, we see, Together, bound in harmony.

The Enchantment of Entitlement

Once upon a time, in a kingdom where love flourished among mortals, there was a striking young woman named Seraphina. With a beauty that turned heads and a charm that captivated hearts, she had long been admired and pursued by many. However, as her suitors lined up, Seraphina felt a growing restlessness. She was tired of men vying for her affection, often treating her as a trophy to win rather than a person to love. One day, weary of their shallow attentions and determined to seize power for herself, she ventured into the enchanted forest, where it was said that the elusive god of love, Cupid, dwelled. The forest was thick with magic, and as she walked deeper beneath the ancient trees, she stumbled upon Cupid himself, a mischievous figure with boyish charm and golden wings. Seeing him, Seraphina's mind raced with a bold plan. "What if instead of being an object of desire, I could wield the very power of desire itself?" she thought. Inspired, she pulled out a mystical amulet she had stolen from an ancient sorceress, infused with the ability to twist love into a tool of power. With a flick of her wrist and a whispered incantation, Seraphina ensnared Cupid in her spell, binding him to her will. As the magic took hold, his laughter faded, replaced by a look of confusion. “What have you done?” he gasped, realizing he was no longer free. "You will do my bidding from now on, dear Cupid," Seraphina declared with a gleam in her eyes. "Every time you shoot one of your arrows, that man shall become a slave to the will of the woman who commands you!" The air shimmered with magic as Cupid’s power transformed. From that day forth, his arrows no longer sparked love; instead, they enslaved the hearts of the men who fell victim to them, binding them to the desires and whims of the women they were shot by. As Cupid's new role spread chaos through the land, the balance of power shifted dramatically. Women throughout the kingdom, empowered and emboldened by Seraphina’s spell, began to embrace their entitlement. They strutted around, heads held high, their figures accentuated by towering high-heeled shoes that allowed them to look down upon the men now reduced to mere subservience. Each time a man was struck by Cupid's newly enchanted arrows, he found his will bend to the desires of the woman who commanded the arrow. He became an obedient servant, fulfilling her every wish, following her every order. The transformation in the kingdom was swift—a dance of dominance where women reveled in their newfound power, and men, once suitors, became submissive shadows, forever chasing after approval that would never come. Seraphina, elevated to a position of power beyond her wildest dreams, enforced this new order with an iron fist. She led her fellow women in a fanciful celebration of entitlement, parading their power throughout the kingdom. "We are queens!" they declared, as they orchestrated grandiose gatherings, turning the courtship dance into a spectacle of command and control. Yet as the days turned into months, something strange began to stir within Seraphina. As the novelty of power wore off, she found herself surrounded by hollow sycophants, men who had lost their very essence. What once thrilled her—the joy of being adored—became a burden; she realized that love, in its absence, was now replaced by something dark and unfulfilling. One day, as she sat in her grand chamber surrounded by her obedient servants, a quiet longing washed over her. In her heart, she missed genuine connection, the thrill of mutual admiration, and the sweetness of love untainted by coercion. Desperate, Seraphina sought out the very god she had ensnared—Cupid. She found him, glimmering faintly, shrouded in the veil of servitude she had cast over him. "Cupid!" she cried, her voice trembling, "I… I made a terrible mistake! What I thought was power has turned to emptiness. I yearn for true love, not this hollow slavery!” Cupid, still bound by her enchantment, looked at her with compassion. “To love is to trust,” he replied softly, his voice carrying the weight of lost dreams. “You sought to wield love as a weapon, but true love cannot thrive in chains. You have the power to release me, but will you choose love over power?” In that moment, Seraphina felt the weight of her choices colliding within her. With a heart full of regret, she lifted her hands, unfastening the bonds of magic she had cast over. The men never forgot and formed migtow and the men lived happily ever after.

Letter to Donald Trump

Dear Donald G'day from Australia! As an Australian citizen, I am writing to you today to bring to your attention a pressing matters that affect not only my country but the world at large. I appreciate your influence and hope that you can provide guidance on these critical issues. First and foremost, I want to emphasize the importance of equality among all people. Regardless of our backgrounds, we are all inhabitants of this Earth, deserving of respect and fair treatment. Gender-based violence is a pressing issue that affects many, including MEN, and it is vital that we recognize and address this matter comprehensively. Climate changes all the time like the green new deal it needs to be rained in, I urge you to take immediate action to stop cloud seeding – a technology that we believe is having a devastating impact on our environment, It is a pressing issue that needs our attention now more than ever. The worlds food supplies are not meeting the real needs of the people as our children are getting FAT because of chemicals made into the food. SUGAR should be banned just like the drugs like fentynil herion and cocain. Furthermore, I would like to highlight the underappreciated role of waste management workers. Trash collection is a critical job, and those who perform it deserve fair compensation without being burdened by environmental taxes and enviromental levies that penalize their vital contributions.Steel is at about 120 australian dollar a ton and the EPA steals $68 dollars of that Truck rego $9,000 how is one able to sustain this? I also draw your attention to some problematic government policies in Australia that may be perceived as punitive. I am referring to the State Debt Recovery and the linking of pet ownership to driving privileges or license revocation. It is essential that our regulations prioritize public safety without unjustly complicating the lives of responsible citizens. Moreover, making fines linked to driving licences with no exemptions, is considered immoral and an act of state sponsered blackmail. In striving to improve road safety, I propose the implementation of a merit point system for good driving. Recognizing and rewarding safe drivers can not only encourage responsible behavior on the roads but also foster a culture of accountability among all motorists. Thank you for considering these points. I believe that together we can work towards a society that is equitable, respectful, and mindful of the challenges we face on both social and environmental fronts. If you want to contact me send me a comment and I will get in contact with your Australian embassy

two days ago

**Severe Storm Shakes Sydney: Lightning Strikes with Earthquake-Like Force** *Sydney, Australia – 16/1/2025 – A severe storm swept through the southern suburbs of Sydney last night, bringing with it intense lightning strikes that startled residents and rattled buildings. Witnesses reported that the thunder accompanying the lightning was so loud that it felt as if the ground itself was shaking, reminiscent of an earthquake. The storm, which moved in around 7 PM, quickly unleashed heavy rain and powerful gusts of wind. However, it was the extraordinary lightning show that drew the most attention. Eyewitnesses shared their shock as bolts of lightning lit up the night sky, with thundering booms resonating deeply, causing windows to rattle and household items to vibrate. Local residents described the experience as both awe-inspiring and frightening. “I thought we were having an earthquake. The whole house shook, and the thunder was deafening,” The Bureau of Meteorology had issued severe weather warnings ahead of the storm, advising residents to stay indoors and secure outdoor items. Experts recommend that during such storms, individuals avoid using electrical appliances and stay away from windows. As the storm has cleared, the region is left with a renewed reminder of nature’s power. Meteorologists emphasize that while storms of this intensity are not uncommon in spring, this particular event featured an unusual concentration of lightning strikes.

Title: The Weight of Shadows

Once in a small, sun-drenched town, there lived an old man named Samuel, who owned a thriving family-run bakery. The bakery, "Sweet Memories," had been passed down through generations, each adding their unique touch to the pastry recipes that warmed the hearts of the townsfolk. From the fragrant cinnamon rolls to the rich chocolate éclairs, each treat was more than just a snack; it was a nostalgic reminder of home. Samuel was a kind soul, well-respected in the community. His wrinkled hands had kneaded countless batches of dough, and his laughter had mingled with the scent of fresh bread for over fifty years. But the world was changing around him, and he found himself embattled in an arena he had never anticipated: the ruthless realm of corporate expansion and taxation. Five years prior, a corporate conglomerate had moved into the town, constructing a massive supermarket that promised convenience but harbored an insatiable appetite for profit. The supermarket, with its bright signs and deep pockets, began to lure customers away with lower prices, leaving Samuel’s once-bustling bakery eerily quiet. The old man stood at the counter each day, donning his flour-dusted apron, watching as families rushed past him toward the glow of the supermarket. He tried to adapt, introducing new products, offering discounts, and even organizing community events to draw people back. But the lethargic march of the corporate machine was relentless. One fateful afternoon, Samuel received a letter from the new CEO of the conglomerate. It wasn't just a threat to his bakery; it was a decree of doom. The letter highlighted new tax regulations imposed on small businesses. “We believe in fairness,” it claimed, yet the pain it wrought was palpable. Taxes skyrocketed on profits that had already dwindled, leaving Samuel barely able to keep the lights on. “I’ve spent my life building this place,” he muttered to himself as he prepared the dough each morning, his spirit crushed beneath the weight of numbers and legal jargon that felt alien to him. He’d always found comfort in his craft, but now tears filled his eyes as he faced an accountant who informed him that expenses had exceeded income for the first time in decades. As the months went by, the walls of "Sweet Memories" seemed to close in around him. He sold cherished family heirlooms to pay for bills, borrowed from friends who barely got by themselves, and cut back on ingredients, sacrificing quality in a desperate bid to stay afloat. The once warm aroma of fresh pastries dwindled to thin, stale air. One evening, Samuel stood behind the counter, the last tray of day-old pastries before him. He wept openly as he recalled the laughter of his children, the pride he felt watching them learn to bake, and the joy of celebrating birthdays and milestones in the cozy space he had created. Now, the bakery felt like a tomb. On one particularly dreary day, after yet another visit from the tax collector, Samuel made the hardest decision of his life. With heavy heart, he put up a “For Sale” sign, hoping for a miracle that could save the legacy he cherished. But as the days turned to weeks, the calls never came. The dream of Sweet Memories slipped through his fingers like flour in the wind. On the day of the auction, the townsfolk gathered, an air of sadness enveloping the crowd. Samuel watched silently as strangers bid over his cherished bakery, each price raising a pit in his stomach. When the gavel finally fell, signaling the end of his dreams, he could no longer hold back his tears. As the new owners began plans for a generic franchise, Samuel knew he had not just lost a business; he had lost a piece of his heart. The laughter that once echoed in those walls faded like the memories of his family's legacy. With a heavy heart, he turned away from the only life he’d known, a life crushed beneath corporate greed and the weight of the shadows that now darkened his world. But as he walked away, the townsfolk, who had once frequented his bakery, stepped forward. They vowed to seek out local markets, to remember the joy of homemade goods, and to keep alive the spirit of their beloved bakery. Samuel may have lost “Sweet Memories,” but he had planted a seed of resilience within the hearts of his community, a reminder that even in the face of despair, they could rise again. And as Samuel walked into the sunset, tears still streaming down his weathered face, he realized that while he might have lost his bakery, he would never lose the memories forged within it—a testament to his undying spirit, which would forever linger in the tables, the chairs, and the hearts that had once found joy in his creations.