Chiefs Fans Quotes

I like how you call homosexuality an abomination." "I don't say homosexuality's an abomination, Mr. President, the bible does." "Yes it does. Leviticus-" "18:22" "Chapter in verse. I wanted to ask you a couple questions while I had you here. I'm interested in selling my youngest daughter into slavery as sanctioned in exodus 21:7. She's a Georgetown sophomore, speaks fluent Italian, always cleared the table when it was her turn. What would a good price for her be? While thinking about that can I ask another? My chief of staff, Leo Mcgary,insists on working on the sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly says he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself or is it ok to call the police? Here's one that's really important, cause we've got a lot of sports fans in this town. Touching the skin of a dead pig makes one unclean, Leviticus 11:7. If they promise to wear gloves, can the Washington Red Skins still play football? Can Notre Dame? Can West Point? does the whole town really have to be together to stone my brother John for planting different crops side by side? Can I burn my mother in a small family gathering for wearing garments made from two different threads?

Later, toward the end of my presidency, The New York Times would run an article about my visits to the military hospitals. In it, a national security official from a previous administration opined that the practice, no matter how well intentioned, was not something a commander in chief should do - that visits with the wounded inevitably clouded a president’s capacity to make clear-eyed, strategic decisions. I was tempted to call that man and explain that I was never more clear-eyed than on the flights back from Walter Reed and Bethesda. Clear about the true costs of war, and who bore those costs. Clear about war’s folly, the sorry tales we humans collectively store in our heads and pass on from generation to generation - abstractions that fan hate and justify cruelty and force even the righteous among us to participate in carnage. Clear that by virtue of my office, I could not avoid responsibility for lives lost or shattered, even if I somehow justified my decisions by what I perceived to be some larger good.

President Josiah Bartlet: Good. I like your show. I like how you call homosexuality an abomination. Dr. Jenna Jacobs: I don't say homosexuality is an abomination, Mr. President. The Bible does. President Josiah Bartlet: Yes, it does. Leviticus. Dr. Jenna Jacobs: 18:22. President Josiah Bartlet: Chapter and verse. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions while I had you here. I'm interested in selling my youngest daughter into slavery as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. She's a Georgetown sophomore, speaks fluent Italian, always cleared the table when it was her turn. What would a good price for her be? While thinking about that, can I ask another? My Chief of Staff Leo McGarry insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly says he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or is it okay to call the police? Here's one that's really important 'cause we've got a lot of sports fans in this town: Touching the skin of a dead pig makes one unclean. Leviticus 11:7. If they promise to wear gloves, can the Washington Redskins still play football? Can Notre Dame? Can West Point? Does the whole town really have to be together to stone my brother John for planting different crops side by side? Can I burn my mother in a small family gathering for wearing garments made from two different threads? Think about those questions, would you? One last thing: While you may be mistaking this for your monthly meeting of the Ignorant Tight-Ass Club, in this building, when the President stands, nobody sits.

Ben thought that was how you could tell the difference between most people. It wasn't "I'm a dog person" and "I'm a cat person" or "I'm a Chiefs fan" and "I'm a Broncos guy". It was whether you cared about quarters. To him, four quarters was a dollar. A stack of quarters was lunch. The amount of quarters those little shits threw out the window that day could have bought him half a pair of jeans.

I can remember when I was a bit of an ETA fan myself. It was in 1973, when a group of Basque militants assassinated Adm. Carrero Blanco. The admiral was a stone-faced secret police chief, personally groomed to be the successor to the decrepit Francisco Franco. His car blew up, killing only him and his chauffeur with a carefully planted charge, and not only was the world well rid of another fascist, but, more important, the whole scheme of extending Franco's rule was vaporized in the same instant. The dictator had to turn instead to Crown Prince Juan Carlos, who turned out to be the best Bourbon in history and who swiftly dismantled Franco's entire system. If this action was 'terrorism,' it had something to be said for it. Everyone I knew in Spain made a little holiday in their hearts when the gruesome admiral went sky-high.

LOST is often lauded as one of the best fantasy dramas in television history, as well as one of the most cryptic and - occasionally – maddening. But confirmation of just how important it is came with an almost unbelievable communiqué from the White House last week. President Obama’s office reassured Lost fans that the commander in chief wouldn’t move his yearly state of the union address from late January to a date that would coincide with the premiere episode of the show’s sixth and final season. That’s right. Obama might have had vital information to impart upon the American people about health care, the war in Afghanistan, the financial crisis – things that, you know, might affect real lives. But the most important thing was that his address didn’t clash with a series in which a polar bear appears on a tropical island. After extensive lobbying by the ABC network, the White House surrendered. Obama’s press secretary promised: “I don’t foresee a scenario in which millions of people who hope to finally get some conclusion with Lost are pre-empted by the president.

Most of this fixation was easy to explain. Brady was a midfield player, a passer, and Arsenal haven’t really had one since he left. It might surprise those who have a rudimentary grasp of the rules of the game to learn that a First Division football team can try to play football without a player who can pass the ball, but it no longer surprises the rest of us: passing went out of fashion just after silk scarves and just before inflatable bananas. Managers, coaches and therefore players now favour alternative methods of moving the ball from one part of the field to another, the chief of which is a sort of wall of muscle strung across the half-way line in order to deflect the ball in the general direction of the forwards. Most, indeed all, football fans regret this. I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we used to like passing, that we felt that on the whole it was a good thing. It was nice to watch, football’s prettiest accessory (a good player could pass to a team-mate we hadn’t seen, or find an angle we wouldn’t have thought of, so there was a pleasing geometry to it), but managers seemed to feel that it was a lot of trouble, and therefore stopped bothering to produce any players who could do it. There are still a couple of passers in England, but then, there are still a number of blacksmiths.

The Amazonian Gift Is courage in a woman's breast less pleasing than in man? And is a smiling maid allowed no weapon but a fan? 'Tis true, her tongue I've heard 'em say is woman's chief defence And if you'll b'llieve men, gentle youth, I have no aid from thence. And some will say that sparkling eyes More dang'rous are than swords But I ne'er point my eyes to kill nor put I trust in words. Then, since the arms that women use successless are in me, I'll take the pistol, sword, or gun, and thus equipped, live free. The pattern of the spartan dame I'll copy as I can to man, degen'rated man I'll give that simple thing, a fan.

First Nations and science fiction don't usually go together. In fact, they could be considered rather unusual topics to mention in the same sentence, much like fish and bicycles.... To me, sci-fi was a world of possibilities. As a fan of writing, why shouldn't my fascination extend to such unconventional works? It was still writing, still literature in all its glory, but here they used different tools to explore the human condition, be they aliens, advanced technology, or other such novel approaches.... I wanted to take traditional (a buzzword in the Native community) science-fiction characteristics and filter them through an Aboriginal consciousness.

An amusing, if somewhat apocryphal, example of this comes from comic books: in an attempt to give Superman fans what they wanted, a focus group of comics consumers (10- to 12-year-old boys) was asked what kinds of figures they admired. Their replies were interpreted literally, and for a while in the 1960s, Superman did whatever the focus groups decided, leading to a string of surreal stories of the Man of Steel working as a police chief, dressing up as an Indian, or meeting George Washington (and to Jimmy Olsen, a meek supporting character, turning into a giant space turtle). It led to a kind of creative bankruptcy and an impossibly convoluted storyline that had to be eventually scrapped entirely, the comic starting over as if none of those stories had happened.

If these avatars were real people in a real street, Hiro wouldn't be able to reach the entrance. It's way too crowded. But the computer system that operates the Street has better things to do than to monitor every single one of the millions of people there, trying to prevent them from running into each other. It doesn't bother trying to solve this incredibly difficult problem. On the Street, avatars just walk right through each other. So when Hiro cuts through the crowd, headed for the entrance, he really is cutting through the crowd. When things get this jammed together, the computer simplifies things by drawing all of the avatars ghostly and translucent so you can see where you're going. Hiro appears solid to himself, but everyone else looks like a ghost. He walks through the crowd as if it's a fogbank, clearly seeing The Black Sun in front of him. He steps over the property line, and he's in the doorway. And in that instant he becomes solid and visible to all the avatars milling outside. As one, they all begin screaming. Not that they have any idea who the hell he is -- Hiro is just a starving CIC stringer who lives in a U-Stor-It by the airport. But in the entire world there are only a couple of thousand people who can step over the line into The Black Sun. He turns and looks back at ten thousand shrieking groupies. Now that he's all by himself in the entryway, no longer immersed in a flood of avatars, he can see all of the people in the front row of the crowd with perfect clarity. They are all done up in their wildest and fanciest avatars, hoping that Da5id -- The Black Sun's owner and hacker-in-chief -- will invite them inside. They flick and merge together into a hysterical wall. Stunningly beautiful women, computer-airbrushed and retouched at seventy-two frames a second, like Playboy pinups turned three-dimensional -- these are would-be actresses hoping to be discovered. Wild-looking abstracts, tornadoes of gyrating light-hackers who are hoping that Da5id will notice their talent, invite them inside, give them a job. A liberal sprinkling of black-and-white people -- persons who are accessing the Metaverse through cheap public terminals, and who are rendered in jerky, grainy black and white. A lot of these are run-of-the-mill psycho fans, devoted to the fantasy of stabbing some particular actress to death; they can't even get close in Reality, so they goggle into the Metaverse to stalk their prey. There are would-be rock stars done up in laser light, as though they just stepped off the concert stage, and the avatars of Nipponese businessmen, exquisitely rendered by their fancy equipment, but utterly reserved and boring in their suits.

Donald Trump repeatedly promised he would hire "the best people." He did not. That is not my opinion; it is President Trump's, which he expresses frequently. Trump has said that his first secretary of state, Rex Tillerson, was "dumb as a rock" and "lazy as hell." His attorney general, Jeff Sessions, was "scared stiff and Missing in Action," "didn't have a clue," and "should be ashamed of himself." Trump described one of his assistants, Omarosa Manigault Newman, as "wacky," "deranged," "vicious, but not smart," a "crazed, crying lowlife," and finally a "dog." After lasting only eleven days as communications director, Anthony Scaramucci "was quickly terminated 'from' a position that he was totally incapable of handling" and was called "very much out of control." An anonymous adviser to the president was called "a drunk/drugged-up loser." Chief strategist Steve Bannon was "sloppy," a "leaker," and "dumped like a dog by almost everyone." His longtime lawyer Michael Cohen was "TERRIBLE," "hostile," "a convicted liar & fraudster," and a "failed lawyer." The president was "Never a big fan!" of his White House counsel Don McGahn and "not even a little bit happy" with Jerome Powell, his selection to head the Federal Reserve, whom he called an "enemy." His third national security advisor, John Bolton, was mocked as a "tough guy [who] got us into Iraq." When the president was irritated with his former chief of staff, John Kelly, the president's press secretary, Stephanie Grisham, declared that Kelly "was totally unequipped to handle the genius of our great president.

I thought the submarine environment would be a useful analogy for the space station in a number of ways, and I especially wanted my colleagues to get an up-close look at how the Navy deals with CO2. What we learned on that trip was illuminating: the Navy has their submarines turn on their air scrubbers when the CO2 concentration rises above two millimeters of mercury, even though the scrubbers are noisy and risk giving away the submarine’s location. By comparison, the international agreement on ISS says the CO2 is acceptable up to six millimeters of mercury! The submarine’s chief engineering officer explained to us that the symptoms of high CO2 posed a threat to their work, so keeping that level low was a priority. I felt that NASA should be thinking of it the same way. When I prepared for my first flight on the ISS, I got acquainted with a new carbon dioxide removal system. The lithium hydroxide cartridges were foolproof and reliable, but that system depended on cartridges that were to be thrown away after use—not very practical, since hundreds of cartridges would be required to get through a single six-month mission. So instead we now have a device called the carbon dioxide removal assembly, or CDRA, pronounced “seedra,” and it has become the bane of my existence. There are two of them—one in the U.S. lab and one in Node 3. Each weighs about five hundred pounds and looks something like a car engine. Covered in greenish brown insulation, the Seedra is a collection of electronic boxes, sensors, heaters, valves, fans, and absorbent beds. The absorbent beds use a zeolite crystal to separate the CO2 from the air, after which the lab Seedra dumps the CO2 out into space through a vacuum valve, while the Node 3 Seedra combines oxygen drawn from the CO2 with leftover hydrogen from our oxygen-generating system in a device called Sabatier. The result is water—which we drink—and methane, which is also vented overboard.

At the end of World War II, the U.S. military set up an agency called the Joint Intelligence Objectives Agency, whose mandate was to implement Operation Paperclip, a program in which U.S. military and spies fanned out across Europe, seeking German scientists and engineers to bring home to America. Even before the war with Germany had ended, the Cold War was in full swing, and the U.S. government was desperate not just to obtain the knowledge these men held, but to keep their ideas, research, and abilities out of the hands of the Soviets. President Truman was adamant that no actual Nazis be brought back to the States, but the generals and spies ignored this edict from their ostensible commander-in-chief. When confronted with Nazi war criminals like the infamous Wernher von Braun—inventor of the German V-2 rocket and dedicated exploiter of slave labor, who was personally responsible for flogging and torturing people, and whose program resulted in the deaths of tens of thousands—the army and intelligence services whitewashed records, expunged files, and erased evidence of Nazi Party membership. They not only brought the most evil of criminals back to the United States, but gave them the highest of security clearances.

The map attached to the Simla Convention had been initialled by the British representative, Henry McMahon, and signed by the Chinese delegate, Chen I-fan and the chief Tibetan representative, the Lonchen Shatra, on 27 April 1914.

Demian Farnworth, chief content writer at Copyblogger, defined it this way: A content strategy is “a plan for building an audience by publishing, maintaining, and spreading frequent and consistent content that educates, entertains, or inspires to turn strangers into fans and fans into customers.

Not a fan of eating breakfast, the chief routinely stopped at the McDonald’s in town and ordered her favorite: peppermint mocha. They knew the chief so well, the local chain restaurant actually stashed some of the peppermint mixture during the off-season specifically for Frizzo. “It was one of the highlights of my morning,” she said.

Beware the detractors: The seed of your dream can be crushed before it even has a chance to sprout. That’s why in the early stages you practice the facets of openness and curiosity to help you stand in wonder. I think of Carey Smith and his intelligent naiveté as he named himself Chief Big Ass of Big Ass Fans and built his dream based on his ideals.

The reason Jesus talked more about money than any other subject is because it can easily become his chief competition. We end up following money and the things money can buy instead of Jesus. Many

True fans are not only the direct source of your income, but also your chief marketing force for the ordinary fans. Fans,

The Kohinoor diamond, radiant symbol of the power of the Moghul Empire, had, with the annexation of the Punjab in 1849, been quietly palmed into future Chief Commissioner John Lawrence's waistcoat pocket. From there it was sent to London to be shown at the Great Exhibition in 185I, recut by Garrard's, the fashionable London jewellers, then set in the very centre of Queen Victoria's crown. In 1656, when it had been presented to Shah Jehan, the Kohinoor had weighed 756 carats; recut by Garrards, it was reduced to 106 - fit symbol of waning Indian fortunes.

THE ROAR of the death blast on the Avenue of the Americas cannot be heard in faraway Johannesburg. With eight weeks to go to the opening game in Soccer City, Sepp Blatter and his South African capos have enough problems. Outraged by price gouging, fans are staying home. In the townships citizens protest every day; ‘Service riots’ send messages to politicians that public money should be spent on homes, water, sewage plants and jobs, not stadiums that will become white elephants. Why should they listen? They have the police beat back the protestors. The World Cup is good news for Danny Jordaan, leader of the bid and now chief executive for the tournament. Quietly, his brother Andrew has been given a well-paid job as Hospitality liaison with MATCH Event Services at the Port Elizabeth stadium. A stakeholder in the MATCH company is Sepp Blatter’s nephew Philippe Blatter. The majority owners are Mexican brothers Jaime and Enrique Byrom, based in Manchester, England, Zurich, Switzerland and with some of their bank accounts in Spain and the Isle of Man. The Brothers are not happy. Sepp Blatter awarded them the lucrative 2010 hospitality contract aimed at wealthy football patrons, mostly from abroad. If that wasn’t enough, Blatter also gave them the contract to manage and distribute the three million tickets. The brothers are charging top rates for hotels and internal flights and expected to make huge profits. Instead, they are on their way to losing $50 million. They plan to recoup these losses in Brazil in four years time.

In England the driver is always the same, a huge man called Bill Corbett, who knows the problems, chief of which is the ability to speed fast enough to frighten fans out of the way, but not so fast that they get run over.

George Washington so liked Edward Savage’s painting of “The President and His Family, the full size of life,” that he ordered “four stipple engravings” in “handsome, but not costly, gilt frames, with glasses,” and hung one of his purchases over the fireplace mantel in the small dining room at Mount Vernon. As the Washington family—George and Martha, and two of Martha’s orphaned grandchildren, George Washington (“Washy”) and Eleanor (“Nelly”) Custis—took their daily repast, Edward Savage’s tableau of “The President and His Family” looked down upon them. It is likely that Washington favored the portrait above many others because of its intimacy and its affirmation of the future. The family gathers about a table at Mount Vernon, George seated at the left, opposite his wife, Martha. Washy, the younger of the two grandchildren, stands in the left foreground, while Nelly stands at the right in the middle ground. Washington rests his right hand upon the boy’s shoulder; Washy, in turn, holds a compass in his right hand, which he rests upon a globe, in a stance suggesting that succeeding generations of the family were destined to spread the ideals of liberty and democracy around the world. In the background, framed by large pillars and a swagged curtain, Savage presents a glimpse, as he said in a note, of “a view of thirty miles down the Potomac River.” On the table at the portrait’s center rests Andrew Ellicott’s map of the new federal seat of government. The family appears to be unrolling the document; Washington holds it flat with his left arm and sword, while Nelly and Martha steady it on the right. With her folded fan, Martha gestures to “the grand avenue,” as Savage called it, that connects the Capitol with the White House. In the right middle ground stands one of the chief contradictions of the new democracy, a nameless black male servant, part of the retinue of more than three hundred slaves the Washingtons depended upon for their comfort, security, and prosperity. Dressed in the colors of Mount Vernon livery, a gray coat over a salmon red waistcoat, he possesses an almost princely quality. His black, combed-back hair frames his dark face with its prominent nose. His unknowable eye impassively takes in the scene. He keeps his left hand enigmatically concealed in his waistcoat; his collar flamboyantly mirrors Washington’s across from him. The slave must remain a shadow, unobtrusive, unassuming, unremarkable, almost a part of the frame for the Potomac. Only the slave’s destiny seems apart from those gathered about the table examining the plans, yet from the beginning the fates of both slavery and the new city were inextricably intertwined. The nameless man’s story, along with the stories of tens of thousands of others, was very much a part of the plot unfolding on the Potomac in the 1790s. The consequences of involuntary servitude would affect and effect Washington’s development to the present day.

You know, Liza, it would really shake up this town if fans got wind you’re dating Mr. Baseball. He has changed the game and the face of the Chiefs since he’s been here. I’d love to see how Cleveland would embrace him loving a black woman.

the Pope and Father Gabriele Amorth, the Catholic Church’s chief exorcist, who have both spoken against Harry Potter in the media (the Pope did so before he became Pope, when he was Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger and was a prefect for the congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, a position frequently described as the Church’s devil’s advocate).

Chiefs Kingdom Forever” (Verse 1) We’re Kansas City Chiefs fans born and raised, True and blue, we stand amazed, Mahomes and Kelce, leading the way, With their trick plays, they light up the day. (Chorus) We’re goin’ for three in a row, To the Super Bowl, let’s go, let’s go! Chiefs Kingdom, loud and proud, We’ll cheer 'em on, in every crowd. (Verse 2) From Arrowhead to the big stage, Our team’s the best, we set the gauge, With every pass and every run, We’re in it till the game is won. (Chorus) We’re goin’ for three in a row, To the Super Bowl, let’s go, let’s go! Chiefs Kingdom, loud and proud, We’ll cheer 'em on, in every crowd. (Bridge) Through the highs and the lows, In the rain, in the snow, We’re Chief fans till the end, With our team, we’ll always stand. (Chorus) We’re goin’ for three in a row, To the Super Bowl, let’s go, let’s go! Chiefs Kingdom, loud and proud, We’ll cheer 'em on, in every crowd. (Outro) So raise your voices, let it be known, In Chiefs Kingdom, we’ve found our home, Mahomes and Kelce, leading the way, We’re Chiefs fans, come what may.

Gamache smiled. "Not a fan?" "Are you kidding? Of Gregorian chants? A bunch of men singing without instruments, practically in a monotone, in Latin? What's not to love?

Go Chiefs, Go!” September 5, 2024 at 1:54 PM (Verse 1) Every Sunday afternoon, it’s the same old scene, She’s in the kitchen, saying she don’t like the game. But when the Chiefs hit the field, she’s rooting for the other team, I just shake my head and smile, it’s always the same. (Chorus) Go Chiefs, go! Three-peat to the Super Bowl, She can cheer for whoever, but my heart’s painted red and gold. Go Chiefs, go! We’re on a winning roll, No matter what she says, I’m shouting loud and bold. (Verse 2) She’s got her reasons, says it’s just a game of men, But I see that twinkle in her eye when the touchdowns begin. She’s pretending not to care, but I know she’s having fun, Even if she’s cheering for the other side, I know I’ve won. (Chorus) Go Chiefs, go! Three-peat to the Super Bowl, She can cheer for whoever, but my heart’s painted red and gold. Go Chiefs, go! We’re on a winning roll, No matter what she says, I’m shouting loud and bold. (Bridge) Maybe one day she’ll wear that red and gold, But until then, I’ll keep cheering, never getting old. She’s my number one fan, even if she won’t admit, Together we’ll watch the game, every single bit. (Chorus) Go Chiefs, go! Three-peat to the Super Bowl, She can cheer for whoever, but my heart’s painted red and gold. Go Chiefs, go! We’re on a winning roll, No matter what she says, I’m shouting loud and bold. (Outro) So here’s to the Chiefs, and here’s to my girl, We’ll keep this rivalry going, it’s our little world. Go Chiefs, go! Three-peat to the Super Bowl, With her by my side, it’s the best story ever told.

Go Chiefs, Go!” September 6, 2024 at 11:19 AM (Verse 1) Every gameday, it’s the same old scene, She’s in the kitchen, saying she don’t like the game. But when the Chiefs hit the field, she’s rooting for the other team, I just shake my head and smile, it’s always the same. (Chorus) Go Chiefs, go! Three-peat to the Super Bowl, She can cheer for whoever, but my heart’s painted red and gold. Go Chiefs, go! We’re on a winning roll, No matter what she says, I’m shouting loud and bold. (Verse 2) She’s got her reasons, says it’s just a stupid game. But I see that twinkle in her eye when the touchdowns begin. She’s pretending not to care, but I know she’s having fun, Even if she’s cheering for the other side, I know I’ve won. (Chorus) Go Chiefs, go! Three-peat to the Super Bowl, She can cheer for whoever, but my heart’s painted red and gold. Go Chiefs, go! We’re on a winning roll, No matter what she says, I’m shouting loud and bold. (Bridge) Maybe one day she’ll wear that red and gold, But until then, I’ll keep cheering, never getting old. She’s my number one fan, even if she won’t admit, Together we’ll watch the game, every single bit. (Chorus) Go Chiefs, go! Three-peat to the Super Bowl, She can cheer for whoever, but my heart’s painted red and gold. Go Chiefs, go! We’re on a winning roll, No matter what she says, I’m shouting loud and bold. (Outro) So here’s to the Chiefs, and here’s to my girl, We’ll keep this rivalry going, it’s our little world. Go Chiefs, go! Three-peat to the Super Bowl, With her by my side, it’s the best story ever told.

(5) THE HAMMER has the Supreme Court under illegal surveillance including and, most particularly. Chief Justice John Roberts (Brennan and Clapper also had Justice Scalia under surveillance with THE HAMMER); (6) Lockheed Martin’s supercomputers

High chiefs of large districts or even entire islands would be met with respect and prostration; any sign of blatant disrespect was punishable by death. A ruler’s clothes could not be worn by common men, and his house was a sacred place where only those who were permitted could enter. A high chief would be attended to and advised by a group of nobles, which traditionally favored the paternal side of the family. Some of the lesser-ranked members of the king’s cohort would be responsible for waiting on him, helping him stay cool with fans, bathing and massaging him, and fetching him food and drinks.

Yet if the Marathas were violent in war, they could in times of peace be mild rulers.106 Another French traveller noted, ‘The Marathas willingly ruin the land of their enemies with a truly detestable barbarity, but they faithfully maintain the peace with their allies, and in their own domains make agriculture and commerce flourish. When seen from the outside, this style of government is terrible, as the nation is naturally prone to brigandage; but seen from the inside, it is gentle and benevolent. The areas of India which have submitted to the Marathas are the happiest and most flourishing.’107 By the early eighteenth century, the Marathas had fanned out to control much of central and western India. They were organised under five chieftains who constituted the Maratha Confederacy. These five chiefs established hereditary families which ruled over five different regions. The Peshwa – a Persian term for Prime Minister that the Bahmani Sultans had introduced in the fourteenth century – controlled Maharashtra and was head of the Confederacy, keeping up an active

Later, toward the end of my presidency, The New York Times would run an article about my visits to the military hospitals. In it, a national security official from a previous administration opined that the practice, no matter how well intentioned, was not something a commander in chief should do—that visits with the wounded inevitably clouded a president’s capacity to make clear-eyed, strategic decisions. I was tempted to call that man and explain that I was never more clear-eyed than on the flights back from Walter Reed and Bethesda. Clear about the true costs of war, and who bore those costs. Clear about war’s folly, the sorry tales we humans collectively store in our heads and pass on from generation to generation—abstractions that fan hate and justify cruelty and force even the righteous among us to participate in carnage. Clear that by virtue of my office, I could not avoid responsibility for lives lost or shattered, even if I somehow justified my decisions by what I perceived to be some larger good.

Later, toward the end of my presidency, The New York Times would run an article about my visits to the military hospitals. In it, a national security official from a previous administration opined that the practice, no matter how well intentioned, was not something a commander in chief should do—that visits with the wounded inevitably clouded a president’s capacity to make clear-eyed, strategic decisions. I was tempted to call that man and explain that I was never more clear-eyed than on the flights back from Walter Reed and Bethesda. Clear about the true costs of war, and who bore those costs. Clear about war’s folly, the sorry tales we humans collectively store in our heads and pass on from generation to generation—abstractions that fan hate and justify cruelty and force even the righteous among us to participate in carnage. Clear that by virtue of my office, I could not avoid responsibility for lives lost or shattered, even if I somehow justified my decisions by what I perceived to be some larger good. Looking through the helicopter window at the tidy green landscape below, I thought about Lincoln during the Civil War, his habit of wandering through makeshift infirmaries not so far from where we were flying, talking softly to soldiers who lay on flimsy cots, bereft of antiseptics to stanch infections or drugs to manage pain, the stench of gangrene everywhere, the clattering and wheezing of impending death. I wondered how Lincoln had managed it, what prayers he said afterward. He must have known it was a necessary penance. A penance I, too, had to pay.

Chief Justice Roberts inexplicably reversed his opposition to The Affordable Care Act, also known as Obamacare, putting Americans’ health care in the hands of government bureaucrats.

No one cares about data when everything is going well,” said Josh Wills, the former chief data engineer at Slack, who agreed to help. “People only care about data when the shit hits the fan. ‘Oh my God, what’s going on??? We need data!

We might not have marketing budgets, or a massive fan base . . . [but] we can build books for sharing. We can sample at scale. We can give readers a stake in distribution. We can open up exchange between artist and fan, beyond the sales transaction. And we can do this in a way that drives creative profitability. —MATT MASON, CHIEF CONTENT OFFICER, BITTORRENT

Thomas A. Fanning,Chairman and Chief