Entertainment

In the murky, shark-infested waters of the Calda Channel, Chuck Studley and I learned the hard way that destiny often finds you paralyzed with fear, clutching your dive tanks, and fervently swearing off any future encounters with the ocean’s toothy residents.

When the ghost of Hitler starts sounding like the only guy in the room with historical perspective, you know the circus has pitched its tent in City Hall.

The global board’s flipped, and while the diplomats fumble for pieces, the strongmen are already playing a new game with live ammo.

When the shell crates are empty and NATO’s still circling the bureaucracy drain, you improvise with whatever’s sticky, stinks, and might make a Russian grunt rethink his life choices.

Today’s cartoon slices through the fog of modern warfare like a B-2 through Tehran’s airspace—exposing a Pentagon flex and a press corps too bored, buzzed, or clueless to notice the smoke.

Helicopters, those damnable, awe-inspiring beasts, taught me the hard limits of man and machine through a litany of mishaps, from hard landings in brown-out dust to emergency ocean bailouts and explosive chaos, revealing their true worth only when pushed to the edge.

F1 doesn’t waste time asking for your attention—it hotwires your pulse, slams the throttle, and dares your adrenal glands to keep up.

Brandon Webb’s life reads like a classified op with footnotes in blood and saltwater—equal parts sniper, author, surf rat, and entrepreneurial insurgent.

When Uncle Sam sends billion-dollar batwings halfway around the world to knock on your uranium door with thirty thousand pounds of ‘nope,’ the message isn’t subtle—it’s seismic.

The following is an event that happened leading up to Hell Week. It was one of those life moments where we have a choice to make.

Iran’s generals are dropping faster than bar tabs at a Navy port call, and even the Devil’s starting to lose track.

Bob Lang’s cartoon is a bayonet-sharp jab at a culture where shouting over ceremony has become the new form of patriotism.