Entertainment

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.

This ain’t a ballet recital—it’s Ana de Armas turning tactical carnage into performance art, and brother, she doesn’t miss a step or a headshot.

If Gavin Newsom’s idea of leadership is grinning through the smoke while LA burns, then I guess all it takes to run California these days is a flak vest, a hair gel sponsorship, and a complete disregard for reality.

Europe’s idea of defense is hiding under a welfare umbrella while whistling past the graves of wars it swore it would never repeat.

Putin’s war in Ukraine is starting to look less like a display of strength and more like a slow-motion replay of history’s costliest delusions.

We launched for war in the dead of night, rucks strapped tight and nerves tighter—only to turn around midair and win a battle no one would ever hear about.

When the apocalypse starts feeling like a diversity seminar on bath salts, you know the writers took a wrong turn somewhere after season one.