Sable Phoenix retweeted
It’s slowly coming out that in every single race that the Democrats “won”, there were more votes than there were people eligible to vote.
This is physically impossible. That’s the smoking gun.
Sable Phoenix retweeted
Here are the updated 2026 Midterm Election projected results
Republican voters didn’t stay home, they didn’t switch sides and vote for Democrats. Republicans had the same high numbers as last Midterms
Democrats just magically “found” millions of new voters. DEMAND AN AUDIT
Sable Phoenix retweeted
🚨WOW! THE STREETS OF JAPAN HAVE BEEN TAKEN OVER BY JAPANESE TRUMP SUPPORTERS CHANTING "FIGHT!"
THE PEOPLE OF THE WORLD LOVE TRUMP!🔥
We know the FAKE NEWS won't report this.
Share to make this go viral!
I never knew I needed a statistical analysis of why Malfoid one-shotted the internet until this video. #malfoid #HarryPotter
youtube.com/watch?v=MgftBs9M…
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Sable Phoenix retweeted
“If Jesus was God, why did He cry?”
When I was Muslim, I used to smirk at the shortest verse in the Bible. A crying God? So weak bro.
Then I actually read WHERE He’s standing.
“Jesus wept.” John 11:35. Just two words. It should bring you to your knees.
At the tomb of His friend Lazarus, He’s about to raise him. In sixty seconds He’ll shout that dead man back to life. The victory is already loaded.
And yet, He weeps anyway.
He didn’t have to. The happy ending was already in His hand.
But He looked at the grief around Him, the sisters, the mourners, the sheer wreckage that death makes of everything, and He entered it.
He let it hit Him. God, with tears running down His face, at the graveside of someone He loved.
The God of Islam was too majestic to weep. I was proud of that. Until I met a God who was strong enough to.
“We do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses.” Hebrews 4:15.
Whatever you’re burying right now, He’s not watching from a safe distance. He’s the God who weeps at gravesides.
And then empties them.
Now you and I get to rejoice forever with our Lord Jesus Christ.
Sable Phoenix retweeted
I've been seeing more #Galfoy posts, of late.
Remember where we are in the stages of conquest.
First they said it wasn't even popular, it was a flash in the pan, it won't trend a week.
Then they called us retards, Gooners, idiots, all the -ists and -isms
Now they are trying to persuade us to lighten our touch by changing away from the purpose built gatekeeping tool of the name #Malfoid.
We are Winning.
Keep posting.
Keep gatekeeping with a vitriolic fervor.
Keep #Yearning.
🤖 Made with AI
Sable Phoenix retweeted
For the West to survive, all western nations MUST make it a constitutional aim to maintain a 90% White population.
It is at that level that White nations excel.
I am not White, I am a product of twenty thousand years in North America, and before that, Siberia.
But I was raised by Whites, I speak English as my first language, and am devoting my life to the cause of White preservation.
I will never waver from that determination.
Sable Phoenix retweeted
Nine people in ten would point at the steak on the right and call it the healthy one, and I have run out of patience with every single one of them.
The one on the right is a ribeye with the ribeye taken out. The one on the left is the animal as it was built, a cap of fat round the edge thick enough to earn the word, a seam of it between the muscles, marbling through the eye so dense it looks like frost. Fifty years ago the butcher would have charged you more for the one on the left and apologised for the one on the right.
Now the trimmed one is premium and the real one is a guilty pleasure, and the country that fell for that is the country with the diabetes clinic.
The fat is the food. A, D, E and K2 live in it and nowhere else on the plate. The flavour lives in it, which is why the right one needs a jus and the left one needs a knife. The fullness lives in it, which is why the right one has you at the fridge by nine and the left one has you forgetting breakfast. The fuel lives in it. The red is the packaging, and you have been taught to buy the packaging and tip the contents away.
And this fat, out of every fat on the counter, is the one that cannot hurt you. The cow's rumen saturated it before it reached her. It sits solid and white on the board, it does not go rancid in the pan the way the bottle of sunflower oil does, and it is the fat your great-grandmother fried everything in while heart disease was still a rarity you wrote up in a journal.
So who convinced you otherwise. A margarine firm with a heart on the lid, a 1977 guideline written by a man who never ran a trial, and forty years of magazine covers, every one of them paid by somebody with a bottle to sell. They could not sell you the fat on the left, because it comes free with the cow. So they taught you to fear it and sold you the substitute.
Half a century on, the lean one costs more, tastes of less, leaves you hungry, and gets called healthy by people who have never once asked what the fat was for.
The one on the left. Eat the edge first. Stop apologising for being right.
Sable Phoenix retweeted
People wonder why I'm so obsessed with donkeys. I've looked into it, and my only finding is that the rest of you are underdoing it.
The donkey was built for the ground where everything else gives up. It lives on thorn and scrub that a horse would starve beside, climbs rock on hooves like chisels, cools itself through those ears, and can lose nearly a third of its body weight in water, carry on eating, then drink 25 litres in three minutes and walk off as if nothing happened. We tamed it 7,000 years ago in the dry country of East Africa, and it has been the animal of the hard places ever since.
So it was the donkey, long before the horse, that carried civilisation on its back. One of Egypt's first pharaohs was buried at Abydos with ten donkeys laid in graves beside him, every spine worn from a lifetime under loads. The grain, the salt, the copper and the news of the ancient world moved at a donkey's pace, and wherever a hill is still too steep for a wheel, they still do.
The same animal fed our babies. Donkey milk is the closest milk on earth to a human mother's, Hippocrates prescribed it, and the foundling hospital in Paris kept a stable of jennies so the orphans could be put straight to the udder. A fair share of Europe's abandoned children owe their first month to a donkey, and most of those donkeys carry a dark cross down the back and across the shoulders, which the old story says was given to them on Good Friday.
It carried our wounded too. On the beach at Gallipoli a stretcher-bearer from South Shields found a stray donkey, and for 24 days the two of them walked up and down Shrapnel Gully under fire bringing broken men down to the boats, until a machine gun got the man. The donkey went back up with the next one. Of everything the Anzacs brought home from that campaign, the thing they chose to remember was a donkey.
Then there is the stubbornness, the one fact everybody is sure of, and it is the opposite of the truth. A horse meets danger by bolting, which is why horses die on cliff paths. A donkey stops, looks at the thing in front of it, and makes a decision, and it will refuse to step into water it cannot see the bottom of because it is right not to. For 7,000 years we have been calling a risk assessment an attitude.
Put one in a field of ewes and it appoints itself. A fox or a loose dog comes through the hedge and the donkey goes at it, head down, front feet first, and keeps going until the thing has gone. Nobody trains that in. It decided they were its sheep.
It remembers a face and a field after 25 years. It will stand over a dying companion for a day. It lives to 40 and outlasts half the people who ever owned it.
There are about 50 million of them alive, carrying water, firewood and children for the poorest people on earth, and close to 6 million a year are now killed for their hides, boiled down into a gelatine sold as a tonic. The animal that did the most work for the least thanks is being melted into a wellness product.
Seven thousand years of hauling us uphill, feeding our orphans and carrying our wounded, and the best we managed in return was to turn its name into an insult.
So no. Not nearly obsessed enough.
Sable Phoenix retweeted
Jeff Foxworthy and Muslims
Jeff Foxworthy writes....... Have you ever wondered why it's OK to make jokes about Catholics, Jews, Christians, the Pope, the Irish, the Italians, the Polish, the Hungarians, the Chinese, the French (including French Canadians), the elderly, bad golfers, men/women, blacks/whites, red necks, etc., but it's insensitive to make jokes about the Muslims?
Well, it's time to level the playing field and be politically incorrect, by including our friends, the Muslims, on this grandiose list. So Jeff Foxworthy did his part to include the Muslims on his list ...
1. If you grow and refine heroin for a living, but morally object to the use of liquor, you may be a Muslim.
2. If you own a $3,000 machine gun and a $5,000 rocket launcher, but can't afford shoes, you may be a Muslim.
3. If you have more wives than teeth, you may be a Muslim.
5. If you think vests come in two styles, bullet-proof and suicide, you may be a Muslim.
6. If you can't think of anyone that you haven't declared jihad against, you may be a Muslim.
7. If you consider television dangerous, but routinely carry explosives in your clothing, you may be a Muslim.
8. If you were amazed to discover that cell phones have uses, other than setting off roadside bombs, you may be a Muslim.
9. If you have nothing against women and think every man should own at least four, then you, too, may be a Muslim.
10. If you find this offensive and do not forward it, you are part of the problem here in America … but if you delete this, you are most likely a Muslim. Eishhhhhh
Sable Phoenix retweeted
I am getting profoundly sick of women (many of whom possess advanced degrees in subjects that require several years of graduate study) who hate stwelve-year-old boys, explaining to the rest of civilization how we need to relate to them.
Now, before anyone gets carried away, I am also a woman. I have been one for more than fifty years. I was never a boy. I am a tomboy, which means I spent a fair amount of my childhood doing things that would cause a modern Gender Studies department to call an emergency faculty meeting.
The difference is that I don't have a PhD in anything, (worthless or otherwise) so I haven't developed the intellectual confidence necessary to believe I know absolutely everything.
I'm kind of dumb that way.
For example, I have this radical theory that boys should be encouraged to read whatever the hell interests them.
For a great many boys, this will be...
(Please sit down. This may be upsetting.)
BOY STUFF.
Sports!
Soldiers!
Hunting!
Explosions!
Airplanes!
Tanks!
Dinosaurs eating other dinosaurs!
Some boys will prefer chemistry or astronomy. Some will love cooking. Some will be fascinated by fashion. Some will want to read about ballet, and some will want to read about a Sherman tank driving through a ballet recitle while firing its main gun at a home ec class.
THIS IS FINE.
Nobody is proposing that we issue every male child a football, a rifle, and a copy of The Art of War at birth, then arrest him if he expresses an interest in soufflés.
We're suggesting that if you want boys to read, it might help to give them books about things they actually want to read about. They probably know what interests them better than the woman who spent 8 yearas at university, and written tons of papers about how awful men and boys are.
I realize this is a controversial educational theory, requiring another $400 million in federal research grants.
But here's something else I've noticed.
Whenever the subject of boys comes up, an astonishing number of women immediately begin explaining how boys need to be understood, engaged, reimagined, reconstructed, and possibly returned to the manufacturer for a firmware update.
You know who might have some useful insight into what it's like to be a boy?
MEN. Yes! MEN!
Those strange, hairy creatures who were (in most cases) ACTUALLY BOYS at one point!
I know. It's an outrageous suggestion.
Now, being a woman, I don't have firsthand experience with boyhood. But I've discovered this remarkable intellectual technique called LISTENING TO PEOPLE WHO DO.
It's fascinating. You ask someone about their experiences, and then (and this is the really important part) you SHUT UP long enough to hear the answer.
Sometimes you even learn something.
One thing I've learned is that a great many boys enjoy traditionally masculine things.
Not all boys. Not every boy. Not every minute of every day.
But enough boys that pretending otherwise requires a level of deliberate obtuseness normally associated with government procurement.
Thank you for attending my TED Talk.
That'll be $650.
I'm kidding. It's free. I haven't figured out how to get a university to pay me for stating the obvious. I'm not a Democrat anymore.
But seriously. We've spent two generations "rethinking how we engage with boys."
Judging by the educational and social problems facing young men, I think we're entitled to ask whether some of that rethinking has been an enormous, expensive failure. Maybe it's time to stop treating ordinary boyhood like a defective social construct requiring professional intervention.
Maybe it's time to let Grandpa, who was once a boy himself, take the kids fishing.
Or shooting.
Or teach them how to rebuild a carburetor, throw a football, or make something useful with their hands.
And if one of those boys wants to learn ballet or bake a cake instead?
LET HIM. MAYBE THEN we can find someone (most likely a woman) to help him otu.
That's the entire point!
Give boys opportunities.
Give them books.
Give them good male role models.
Let them discover their interests without turning every preference into an ideological emergency.
And for the love of everything holy, STOP ACTING LIKE ACKNOWLEDGING THAT BOYS AND GIRLS OFTEN HAVE DIFFERENT INTERESTS IS SOME KIND OF CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY.
I'm not suggesting women have nothing useful to contribute to raising or educating boys. I'm suggesting that perhaps, just perhaps, we should spend a little less time lecturing men about what boys need, and a little more time asking men what being a boy was actually like.
It's a crazy idea, I know.
But after fifty years on this planet, I'm beginning to suspect that the people who insist they know the most about boys are frequently the people least interested in listening to them.
Sable Phoenix retweeted
"Resistance is futile, Potter! You will adapt to serve me!"
"I... What? Why are you saying that so weird?"
"The Borg. Star Trek, Next Generation? Best of Both Worlds?"
"What?"
"I WAS LITERALLY A HOMUNCULUS ABOMINATION OF MAGIC AND I STILL SAW TNG!"
"WELL I'M SORRY! MY GUARDIANS DON'T LET ME WATCH TELLY!"
"I-Seriously?! What about books?"
"They didn't read me those I had to figure it out myself."
"Surely a movie or two-?"
"No! I lived in a cupboard under the stairs!"
"Oh for... This-This just isn't working! You don't get any of my references and that makes banter impossible! UGH! Why are you so inconsiderate to your nemesis?! There are rules about this sort of thing!"
"What rules?!"
"If you have to ask you'll never know! GOD! I don't even feel like killing you, just your relatives!"
Sable Phoenix retweeted
These are the most important words a White House Chief of Staff have ever spoken…
Listen. You know I am right.
Sable Phoenix retweeted
Replying to @Movydro
Lucius has become THE most interesting character in a Malfoid rewrite.
Give me the Malfoy family dynamics please.
Also, well done, this is great stuff.





























