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A Learning Experience

In the upcoming weeks, Donald Trump is going to teach the American public about the word "imperialism".

The Trump administration warned Iraq this week that it risks losing access to a critical government bank account if Baghdad kicks out American forces following the U.S. airstrike that killed a top Iranian general, according to Iraqi officials.

The State Department warned that the U.S. could shut down Iraq’s access to the country’s central bank account held at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, a move that could jolt Iraq’s already shaky economy, the officials said.

Iraq, like other countries, maintains government accounts at the New York Fed as an important part of managing the country’s finances, including revenue from oil sales. Loss of access to the accounts could restrict Iraq’s use of that revenue, creating a cash crunch in Iraq’s financial system and constricting a critical lubricant for the economy.

And...

Washington is not willing to bow to Iraqi demands to withdraw its troops and any future discussions with Baghdad will be purely confined to the future structure of its forces in the country, the US state department has said.

Sorry, Iraq. You belong to the US now.

Don't be ungrateful.

Rudolph the Red Nosed reindeer

Another AI-generated Christmas carol.

Rudolph the Red Nosed reindeer
Was the best sleigh in all of Nantucket
The horse was lean and tanned
The woman was full of perfume
The only thing keeping the goose from falling off the ground
Was the reins
Like strings of spaghetti
And if you could just cut it down
You could even make a bow
Like a bow and arrow
But if you wanted to make a bow you had to use a lot of power

Right down to the little lamb
Its red head was covered in feathers
Its heart was full of sugar
And the most prized food item was its head

Everywhere in the barn there were beavers’ eyes
Some would go, “Where is the sugar?”
But to them it was simple, it came from a good source
And they found sugar in olden times
Families that lived in the stable all had it

This is what Christmas must be like at Jeff VanderMeer's house.

Holy Crap

And now Trump's gonna get all Trumpy on Iran?

I picked the wrong month to stop drinking.

https://twitter.com/realDonaldTrump/status/379717298296086529

Wisdom

For the last decade or so, I’ve been routinely attending a ride-on lawnmower race. I’ve always wanted to participate, but the high cost of used mowers is better spent on more practical vehicles, like literally anything else. Sometimes, though, the universe sends you a message. And in my case, that message came in the form of an awkward leg of a huge trade-in scam.

Picture, if you will, the humble redneck. They await the approach of big, fast domestic mowers. John Deeres, Cub Cadets, even weird modified Chinese stuff they looted from Aliexpress. There is jubilance, but that soon comes to an awkward hush. An unfamiliar engine note approaches.

My International 1480 combine harvester, all ten tons of it, is barrelling down the highway at a clip somewhere between “tepid” and “jaunty.” Even though I have shown up for a race, I am sandbagging a little bit, making sure that the bets get settled against my vehicle before I show them the might of a fully operational monster such as mine.

Technically, there is no violation. I had looked at the rulebook from every angle in the previous year: it has the correct number of wheels, the proper agricultural intent, and with precise work on the tiller, it can even (poorly) mow a suburban lawn. Is it modified? Oh yes, yes indeed, but I see the nitrous bottles poking out from the rows of Kubotas at the starting line.

And when I leave the starting line, it is a thing of beauty. At least for a few milliseconds. It seems that the wizards at International Harvester simply did not comprehend of a situation in which the frame of their combine would be launched into the air by means of one thousand eight hundred foot-pounds of supercharger-bolstered torque. I had erroneously believed that the loose soil of the rural community would let the wheels dip in, but now I am facing directly into the sky, having twelve o’ clocked hard on my wheelie, shooting flames from my exhaust and whirling vertical blades of death towards the grandstand.

It’s not about whether you win or lose. Sometimes it’s about how many pages you add to the rulebook.