The “coincidences” that just happen to be devastating to the already depleted food supply continue. Two separate fires in Minnesota destroyed an agricultural equipment dealer and a chicken farm.
Over 200,000 chickens were burned in the fire at the chicken farm reducing the number of eggs that can be sent to markets. The chicken barn belonged to Forsman Farms, a major egg producer that sells three million eggs per day. The specific building that was destroyed sat on the company’s Howard Lake farm and was described by a spokesperson as a “substantial facility.”
Why are so many food processing plants and warehouses catching fire all of a sudden? And as I was sitting in the studio getting ready for the report… a plane crashed at a General Mills food facility in Georgia. I discussed the issue on Tucker Carlson Tonight. pic.twitter.com/QWJ3b6j65d
— Jason Rantz on KTTH Radio (@jasonrantz) April 22, 2022
The fire at the chicken farm occurred on May 28. A Minnesota Valley Irrigation facility also burned down in Wadena last week. Minnesota Valley Irrigation provides massive irrigation systems that keep fields watered during periods of insufficient rain. The blaze resulted in a total loss.
Although these two losses both occurred in the agriculture sector and similar incidents have garnered media attention around the United States, fact-checkers are sure there’s nothing to be worried about. “There’s been no significant increase in fires at food production facilities so far in 2022,” reassures factcheck.org. The site has taken aim at Tucker Carlson for having a guest on his show in April who discussed a high-profile string of destructive events at food processing plants, according to the Tennessee Star.
“Accidental Fires” Continue To Happen At Food Processing Facilities All Over The United States
The mainstream media and fact-checkers are working hard to convince people that none of this is out of the ordinary, while they promote the slaughter of birds over avian influenza (bird flu) and remain adamant that the food shortages are being caused by Russia’s “invasion” of Ukraine.
Another Food Supply Chain Issue: Wheat Prices Surge
Prepare now. Time is running out. The fires continue. The culling of birds continues. The continual and intentional destruction of the food supply chain hasn’t slowed.
It Took 22 Years to Get to This Point
This article was originally published by Michael Snyder at The Economic Collapse Blog. When one...
The United States doubled its troop presence in Syria to 2,000 as the ruling class is determined...
This article was originally published by Lance D. Johnson at Natural News under the title:...
Commenting Policy:
Some comments on this web site are automatically moderated through our Spam protection systems. Please be patient if your comment isn’t immediately available. We’re not trying to censor you, the system just wants to make sure you’re not a robot posting random spam.
This website thrives because of its community. While we support lively debates and understand that people get excited, frustrated or angry at times, we ask that the conversation remain civil. Racism, to include any religious affiliation, will not be tolerated on this site, including the disparagement of people in the comments section.
Good! Let them chickens burn. I hate chickens. They put up too much of a fight when I try to show them my little mushroom. Sheep are a different story tho. I like me some sheep…
From what I hear we’ve already lost half of our food production industry to mysterious fires si far this year, and that may be an underestimate.
I wish people would leave Matt Gaetz alone. He’s a pretty awesome guy and he gets all kinds of girls…I mean “ladies”. He’s even hooked me up a couple of times, or at least he tried. None of them bitches would even talk to me. I thought I heard one of them say something about me smelling like “open ass” or something.
Drewish lighting?
DEW you have any idea how that happened?
Smells kinda like, chicken.
I wish Pee Wee Herman still made movies. That fella was so hot. I’d give anything to sword fight that hunk of burning love!
Home
News
Health
Celebs
I wish more men were like Nick Gilronan, winner of last year’s Smallest Penis in Brooklyn contest (this year’s contest is this Sunday, aka Father’s Day). He is proud of what he’s got between his legs, so much so that he was willing to stand almost naked, wearing just a mankini, in front of a crowd and strut his stuff. He told an interviewer, “The size of a man’s penis does not matter for who he is as a person or in a relationship,” and I wholeheartedly agree. See, I prefer guys who are a little less endowed, with good reason. Firstly, the best lovers I’ve ever had have been on the smaller side, which I don’t think is a coincidence. My hunch is that because these men feel self-conscious about their size (all of them told me as much at some point), they go out of their way to make up for it, excelling at oral sex and making good use of their fingers as well as positions like doggy-style.
Second, smaller guys are grateful for the attention paid to their member. A former lover, who is one of the most confident, bordering on arrogant, people I’ve ever met, was almost shy the first time he took his clothes off with me. “I hoped you would like it,” he said once he was fully naked. I would never have expected him to be anything but sure of himself, and, far more than anything we did in bed, that moment of humility endeared him to me. It made him vulnerable, which made my heart beat extra hard. Well-endowed guys are, in my experience, often too cocky (pardon the pun), so sure of themselves and their magical penises that they act like al
I Prefer Small Penises, like my own.
I wish more men were like Nick Gilronan, winner of last year’s Smallest Penis in Brooklyn contest (this year’s contest is this Sunday, aka Father’s Day). He is proud of what he’s got between his legs, so much so that he was willing to stand almost naked, wearing just a mankini, in front of a crowd and strut his stuff. He told an interviewer, “The size of a man’s penis does not matter for who he is as a person or in a relationship,” and I wholeheartedly agree. See, I prefer guys who are a little less endowed, with good reason. Firstly, the best lovers I’ve ever had have been on the smaller side, which I don’t think is a coincidence. My hunch is that because these men feel self-conscious about their size (all of them told me as much at some point), they go out of their way to make up for it, excelling at oral sex and making good use of their fingers as well as positions like doggy-style.
Second, smaller guys are grateful for the attention paid to their member. A former lover, who is one of the most confident, bordering on arrogant, people I’ve ever met, was almost shy the first time he took his clothes off with me. “I hoped you would like it,” he said once he was fully naked. I would never have expected him to be anything but sure of himself, and, far more than anything we did in bed, that moment of humility endeared him to me. It made him vulnerable, which made my heart beat extra hard. Well-endowed guys are, in my experience, often too cocky (pardon the pun), so sure of themselves and their magical penises that they act like all they have to do is lie there to impress me. The result is the very opposite.
Along with this, being able to laugh about your penis size is something else I appreciate. Sure, we all have aspects of our bodies we wish were different, but if you’re so hung up on what you’re missing, you’re not going to be fun in bed. I appreciate lovers who’ll joke around when I tell him I want to get busy, like the boyfriend who said, “You want to touch my small penis, don’t you?” Or if we were at the grocery store and I picked up an unusually large zucchini, “It’s always about size with you, isn’t it?”
Third, I’ve slept with men on the opposite end of the penis size spectrum—in my opinion, they were too big. One of whom I had a huge crush on and worked hard to woo, only to find that during sex if he pushed all the way inside me, it hurt. No matter how much I shifted around, took deep breaths or prepared myself, sex with him wasn’t that much fun (in hindsight, lube would have helped, but I didn’t have any on me). Not to mention giving him head was almost impossible. That’s not to say I wouldn’t have dated him, but only that sex with him was more work than someone with smaller. So be careful what you wish for, ladies.
Fourth, smaller actually works better for certain activities like anal and oral sex. I’m more likely to want to try anal sex with someone who I don’t fear will hurt me because of his size.
Too many women fall for the myth that a bigger dick automatically means better sex; there’s even a dating site, 7orbetter.com for, you guessed it, men who hang at seven inches or more, and the women who lust after them. I’m not saying size doesn’t matter, but it’s not the be all and end all of your sex life. Can you imagine if a guy rejected you because your boobs weren’t big enough? Judging a man by what’s between his legs is just as obnoxious, especially since it’s not something he can change.
Still, telling a man he’s small is the worst insult we can give a guy in today’s culture—witness Farrah Abraham trying to belittle her sex tape costar James Deen by mocking him and saying, “His penis is small. I haven’t seen many but his was definitely not big.” Never mind that this we can all judge for ourselves via a Google search—she sunk to the lowest common denominator of attacking someone’s manhood. So what if it was small? That doesn’t mean the person on the receiving end of such an insult isn’t a good person—or a good lover.
When I say I prefer a small penis, that’s not to say I have a tape measure in my hand when I jump into bed with someone or that not having one is a dealbreaker. I couldn’t tell you the exact measurements of my boyfriend’s penis, or any of my exes. It’s not a matter of a hard number, but more that when I fall for someone, I fall for the whole package (again, pardon the pun).
A 2013 study published in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America (yes, the shortened version is PNAS!) found that “males with a larger penis were rated as being relatively more attractive.” Of course they were! Visually, a big bulge is going to look sexier than a small one, but that doesn’t tell you anything about what the guy will actually be like in bed.
More than any single position or act, what my best not-so well-endowed lovers have shared is confidence in themselves. Sure, they may wish in a utopian way that they were bigger down there, but they’ve learned to work with what they have. They weren’t sitting around feeling sorry for themselves. The worst of all worlds would be a guy who wanted constant reassurance that he was “big enough”—that’s not my job.
Just as you seem taller when you hold your head high and project confidence, a penis will seem bigger if you present it the right way—and I don’t just mean shaving your pubic hair, though that works too. As my hero Gilronan said, “Probably the most fun I have with my penis is that I’m a grower, not a shower, and when I’m with women I love seeing their reactions as it grows to double its flaccid size.” Exactly. I like the whole process of sex—it’s not just about the end result. Knowing that I’ve turned him on—that he’s getting harder specifically because of me and my attractiveness—makes me want to go further. If I feel the need for something bigger inside me, there’s always a trusty dildo or vibrator.
Being with an actual, flesh and blood human being is about enjoying all their eccentricities, not just measuring them against a pre-conceived checklist. When I’m with someone who completely captivates me, at that moment, he could be two inches or twelve—I truly don’t care. My name is Genius and I love little roosters.
Seems to be an overload of moniker snatchers
I used to raise chickens back when I was a lad. It was my first business, an idea of my parents, and a good one, too. I learned all about business basics – they loaned me money for the chicks and feed, and provided a place for my 40 white leghorns, the “small” chicken coop on our property. It was called that because we had a “large” one too, which at one time housed 200 constantly pooping chickens. I was 10 years old then, and I guess you could say that I lived on a small farm, with its two pastures, barn and woodshed being a home to anywhere from 10 to 20 black angus cattle. But we never thought of it as a REAL farm because we also had one of those, an 80-acre beef cattle farm about a 20-minute drive away, which also served as headquarters for my Dad’s excavating business.
Anyway, the purpose of having the chickens was to sell the eggs. I would feed and water them daily, gather the eggs, clean the eggs, weigh the eggs, put them into cartons and sell them throughout the neighborhood on my little 3-speed bicycle. Some of the neighbors bought a dozen or two every week, and others stopped by when they saw my “EGGS 50 cents/DOZ.” sign out front.
Eventually, I got all the start-up costs paid off and began actually making a little profit. I think this took something like three years. A year or so later, the chickens began to “molt”, and their egg production began to slow. What was 40 eggs a day became a dozen, then down to about one a day. About this time, my parents took over the costs of feeding the worthless fowl.
And so it was that one night at dinner, Dad says, “Why don’t you go down and shoot all those chickens next time you get the chance?” I nodded in agreement, always willing to shoot at things with my .20-gauge Winchester single-shot even though it kicked like a mule and always left a huge bruise on my shoulder. Dad’s request was forgotten for a couple of days. Then one afternoon, with my parents gone, I was getting stoned down in the woodshed with my neighbor John Warthog. John lived up the road on a REAL farm, a huge dairy farm with hundreds of head of milk cows, which is what you’ll usually find on huge dairy farms. But the real story at Pleasant View Dairy was the not the cows, but the Warthogs whom owned it.
John’s grandfather, “Pop”, was senile long before I was born, and only went downhill from there. The worst nightmare was getting stuck behind him on the way home from church — he would drive his Jeep pick-up 10 MPH down the center of the road, oblivious to any honking, yelling, or ill-advised attempts at passing him. Blind in one eye to begin with, he had no business behind the wheel of ANYthing. When he died around 1970 or so, we felt a sense of relief more than anything.
John’s dad was a gregarious sort, a funny and upbeat fellow who won my admiration by buying a brand-new Olds Vista Cruiser every two years. They switched to Cadillacs later, after some of the kids moved out. But John’s dad, Chris, had this horrible, disfiguring “birthmark” over half his face. What it looked like was a huge purple scab, but if you knew him, you just got used to it. It was part of the Warthog Legacy: They all had some sort of birth defect or another, or got disfigured before adulthood somehow. Even Mrs. Warthog was obese, with a major, I mean MAJOR, case of “lazy-eye syndrome”. Then the kids:
First there was Nick, a bizarrely huge fellow who crashed so badly while bicycling that he had to have a series of pins permanently installed in his ankle, scuttling what surely would have been a successful wrestling career. Then Sandra, the only girl in the family, and as far as I can tell, pretty normal. Then came John, Pat and Roger, all three of which had horrible speech defects, some of which went away as they got older. John, the one my age, was just goofy. Pat managed to lose a front tooth in a sledding accident, then lost an eye when someone nailed him with a water balloon from a moving car in the high-school parking lot. Roger had the worst speech of all, sounding something like Dino the Dinosaur, only less comprehensible. I don’t know if he ever got better or not.
There are different theories about the Warthogs, some think Pop had some bad genes or something, but I suspect in-breeding.
Anyway, John and I are smoking dope in the woodshed one sunny afternoon when I remember that I was recently ordered to shoot the chickens. All right! I run to the house and grab my .20-gauge and a box of shells.
John and I decided to take turns: One would chase the chickens out of the little chicken-coop and into the open chicken-yard, where the other would blast away with the shotgun. Now, remember, John and I are 15 or 16 now, John’s blonde hair is beyond shoulder-length, and my frizzy brown mess is halfway down my back. We are blowing away chickens while shouting and hooting and running around with stoned glee.
We forgot about the new neighbors maybe 200 feet away from the chicken yard, the Mosleys, a nice mormon family whom had moved in a few months earlier. There was Mr. Mosley, a gruff-looking sort who looked a lot like a PE teacher; Mrs. Mosley, a pretty mom; Brett, who you may remember from story #3 but whom we hadn’t really met yet (who would later shoot himself Hitler-style); his sister Shawna, who was pretty and would later get pregnant at 15; and young Todd, I guess we’ll never know how he turned out.
Anyway, when John and I pause for a moment in our chicken-massacre frenzy, we look up and there they are: all five Mosleys, looking at us, all lined up behind the glass door in their family room, and in order from tallest to shortest: Mr., Mrs., Brett, Shawna, and young Todd. They are all staring in disbelief at two apparently crazed pot-head hippies blowing away two or three chickens at a time with a .20-gauge shotgun! We laugh even harder as we corner and finish off the last of the freaked-out squawking birds, each shotgun blast sending a huge mass of feathers into the air! Now I’m looking for any and all domesticated animals with whom I can share my seed. Should you know of any lonely, love-starved, four-legged friends in need of a good time, make sure you let Genius and Spider know. They know where to find me. Thank you for your attention.