

Eggs
Eggs
Eggs
Eggs
Eggs
Eggs
I hope they were armed to the teeth and you piss your bed from nightmares for the rest of your pathetic life.
Huh? There’s not enough roooom, you all wanted smaller phones right?
Rubs nipples
If Harvard capitulates I Hope they end up decimated anyhow. They’ve got enough money in their endowment to give Donald Trump a hundred middle fingers.
Directly targeting the 1st amendment.
Someone take away his ketamine.
10 years salary up front or no deal.
Michelle Wu’s speech was fucking powerful.
The ash Wednesday ashes are a chefs kiss diplomatic smackdown to the theocratic alt right.
They wanna remove govt spending from GDP calculations to hide how bad shits gonna get.
Guess what that level of asinine obvious Jedi hand wave bullshit is gonna do?
Make everyone scared to invest scared to spend. We’re in for a recession for sure.
______ backed trump
Now Trump’s decision to _______ will hurt them
More at 11
How long until some mayors daughter gets sent to gitmo for protesting at college?
Eggs.
Eggs.
Eggs.
It’s seems the powers that be know that climate change can serve as a wrath of God-like scapegoat and they’re all but accelerating a push to move most trade to be controlled by US/Russia (+ Greenland + Canada) via the arctic sea, and choke any ability for countries to trade any other way by co trolling the Panama canal.
I am not an expert, I am an armchair nobody. Am I crazy or is this just plain as fucking day?
No. You can learn to love yourself when you’re depressed. The two are not mutually exclusive.
There’s nuance to the idea that you need to love yourself before loving someone else.
At its core, it means this: Nobody is responsible for your happiness but you.
When someone lacks self-love and enters a relationship, they often rely on their partner as their source of self-worth. This isn’t just unfair—it’s unsustainable and often leads to heartbreak.
To put it another way, you need to fill your own cup. You can’t walk around empty, expecting someone else to keep pouring into you indefinitely. That’s not their job, and trying to take it on is exhausting, leading to burnout and relationship failure.
The truth is, you have to learn how to be happy alone. A relationship isn’t about making each other happy; it’s about supporting and loving one another in a way that fosters self-love, allowing both people to grow into their fullest potential.
I cannot do jury duty anymore.
Sorry.
I cannot be impartial in this justice system.
Yeah, the main reason Ive changed jobs is money. Nobody gives raises like new bosses.
If I keep posting this every time there are egg related political news stories, maybe it’ll come true?
I put together a little short story about how I would like to see Donald Trump meet his demise. Drowning in eggs:
The Eggsecution.
The once-proud leader, now stripped of title and dignity, stands in the center of the barren, concrete abyss. The abandoned Olympic swimming pool—thirty feet deep, dry as bone—has become their final stage. Above, the gathered masses stretch in every direction, a writhing sea of anticipation.
They do not jeer. They do not boo.
They simply chant.
“Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”
It starts as a murmur, a low thrum of human voices vibrating in unison. Then it grows, swelling into a deafening roar that rattles windows, that shudders in the bones of every person present. A chant as ancient as it is absurd, a single-minded invocation of punishment.
The first egg arcs high overhead, tracing a lazy curve before splattering against the fallen leader’s shoulder. The yolk bursts, oozing down his baggy, ugly, now-useless suit. A streak of yellow, the first of many.
Another egg. Then another.
Then dozens.
The first impacts make them flinch, stagger—hands raised in a futile shield. But soon there are too many to dodge, too many to deflect. They curl inward as the sky rains viscous judgment. The chant never stops.
“Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”
Shells crack. Yolk drips. The scent of sulfur and shame thickens in the stagnant air. It coats their skin, their hair, their pride, turning them into something less than human. Something… egg-like.
At the top of the pit, a child—no older than seven—steps forward. They hold their egg with both hands, cradling it like something precious. Reverent. With a deliberate motion, they lob it downward. It strikes the leader square on the forehead, exploding with an almost musical plap. The crowd erupts into a fresh crescendo of cheers, but the chant never falters.
“Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”
No escape. No reprieve. The pit is smooth concrete, slick now with raw egg and humiliation. They can do nothing but stand there, endure, become part of the ritual.
Somewhere in the throng, a vendor hawks boiled eggs. Another sells cartons to the unprepared. A man in a chicken suit waves encouragingly at the crowd.
The night wears on, but the spectacle does not end.
It cannot end.
Not until the last egg is thrown. Not until the last voice is hoarse.
Not until the world is rid of this one, failed leader, broken not by swords or exile, but by the inescapable weight of public yolk and scorn.
“Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”