Star Trek cosplay for rich girls

 

Oh, please—let’s all take a moment to applaud the brave sisterhood of high-altitude influencers who bravely boarded their glittery space Uber for a ten-minute selfie in the stratosphere. Because obviously, slipping into a pressurized designer jumpsuit and sipping zero-gravity champagne for the ’Gram is exactly the same as pioneering mankind’s journey into the void of space.

Let’s compare: real astronauts—yes, the ones with PhDs, years of flight training, and titanium guts—have actually died pushing the boundaries of science and human potential. Remember them?

• Gus Grissom,
• Ed White,
• Roger Chaffee —perished in the tragic Apollo 1 launchpad fire.
• Dick Scobee,
• Michael J. Smith,
• Ronald McNair,
• Ellison Onizuka,
• Judith Resnik,
• Gregory Jarvis,
• Christa McAuliffe —killed during the Challenger explosion in 1986.
• Rick Husband,
• William McCool,
• Michael P. Anderson,
• Ilan Ramon,
• Kalpana Chawla,
• David M. Brown,
• Laurel B. Clark —who died aboard the Columbia in 2003 during reentry.

These were genuine heroes who didn’t just “go to space”—they earned it. They didn’t play dress-up and call it “breaking barriers.” They didn’t go up for bragging rights; they went up for all of us.

But sure, let’s act like a 12-minute space tourism jaunt—complete with full makeup, zero training, and likely a branded sponsorship—is the new face of “exploration.” Spoiler alert: it’s not the future of science. It’s the future of Instagram. And unlike the fallen astronauts, these women risked nothing but a bad hair day and a malfunctioning filter. Bravo, ladies. Truly… brave.

Adolf Hitler, what might’ve been…

Let’s give credit where it’s due: Adolf Hitler could’ve gone down in history as Germany’s great economic savior. He took a country crushed by war, starving, humiliated, and with a currency worth less than toilet paper—and in record time, turned it into a global powerhouse. But unfortunately, a little thing called genocidal psychopathy got in the way. Minor flaw.

How did he rise to power? Not with honesty or integrity, of course—but with fire, blood, and manipulation. The Reichstag fire? A political arson job straight out of a Bond villain’s playbook. Naturally, Hitler blamed the socialists, communists, and anyone else who wasn’t goose-stepping in rhythm. And surprise! His buddy Hermann Göring just happened to live across the street from the Reichstag, with a secret tunnel connecting the two. Total coincidence, right?

And the gullible masses? They ate it up. Hook, line, and swastika. “Heil Hitler” wasn’t just a salute—it was a national hypnosis. Soon, Chancellor Hitler was Führer Hitler, and just like that, democracy was tossed into the furnace alongside free speech, gun rights and dissent. A whisper in the wrong ear? Boom—off to the guillotine or the gallows, courtesy of the kangaroo circus known as the People’s Court.

Then came the grand finale: the Holocaust. The deportation trains to death camps weren’t some bureaucratic misstep—they were the crowning achievement of Hitler’s unholy obsession with control and cruelty. An entire machinery of death, running with chilling precision.

And here’s the kicker—modern leftists, desperate to distance themselves from one of their ideological cousins, have the audacity to claim Hitler was a far-right figure. As if “National Socialist German Workers’ Party” didn’t have the word socialist screaming in bold letters. As if the obsession with government control, censorship, central planning, and the suppression of dissent was somehow “right-wing.” It’s historical revisionism at its most shameless—and it works, because the public has the memory of a goldfish and the curiosity of a rock.

And yet, it all started with the same tired formula: a politician’s empty promises, a charismatic smile, and the old “I alone can fix it” speech. What fools we are to fall for it, time and time again. Control is the drug of choice for politicians, and power is their addiction. And just like Hitler, they always wrap it in patriotism, progress, and a firm handshake.

The firearm import ban must be sent to the trash heap of tyranny

Let’s get one thing straight—neither George H. W. Bush nor his son George W. Bush were ever true allies of the Second Amendment. They weren’t defenders of liberty—they were political opportunists who kept their mouths shut just long enough to avoid pissing off Republican voters. Behind that phony pro-gun facade was the same cowardice and contempt for constitutional rights that we’ve come to expect from career politicians.

In 1989, Daddy Bush launched a full-on assault against American gun owners. With the stroke of a bureaucrat’s pen, his administration banned the importation of 43 models of semi-automatic rifles—including iconic, reliable firearms like the Chinese-made AK-47 and the Israeli-made Uzi carbine. Why? Because some pencil-pushing gun-grabber decided these firearms didn’t meet some laughable “sporting purpose” test—as if the Second Amendment was written to protect skeet shooting on the weekends.

And here’s the kicker—this wasn’t done through Congress. No debate. No vote. No representation. Just raw, unconstitutional executive overreach. Pure tyranny. And it’s been allowed to stand for decades.

The time is now for the Donald Trump administration to undo this unlawful attack on gun rights.

We’ve Fought Wars for This. Don’t You Dare Forget It.

We have spilled blood on foreign soil—not for territory, not for treasure—but for freedom. For liberty. For the promise that no man or woman in this nation will ever be crushed by the boot of unchecked power.

We didn’t fight and die to beg for our rights—we fought to secure them. Freedom of speech. The right to bear arms. These are not privileges handed out by bureaucrats—they are birthrights, earned and preserved by patriots.

But liberty doesn’t end at the microphone or the muzzle of a rifle. It matters most when we’re accused. When the government turns its full weight against a citizen and says, “You are guilty.” That is when our real protections must stand unshakable.

And it is there—at that moment—that the black-robed judges step forward.

They are not monarchs. They are not gods. They are supposed to be guardians. Sentinels sworn to protect us from the very government that pays their salaries and pulls their strings. They sit not to serve kings, but to restrain them. Their sacred duty is to uphold the Constitution, to ensure that no man or woman is thrown into a cage without due process, without justice, without the full force of the Bill of Rights standing in their defense.

But make no mistake: they are human, and they fail.

Sometimes out of fear.

Sometimes out of ignorance.

Too often, out of loyalty to the political machines that elevated them to their thrones.

Justice is supposed to be blind—but too often it peeks under the blindfold to see who holds the power. And jurisprudence, which should be the cold, unwavering application of law, becomes instead a twisted puppet show of personal bias, political debt, and cowardice masquerading as caution.

When judges forget that their robes are not symbols of dominion but of duty, then justice dies a little. And every American is left more vulnerable to the tyranny our ancestors fought to defeat.

This is the battlefield now—not with rifles and tanks, but in courtrooms.

And every time a judge bows to politics instead of the Constitution, we lose ground in that war.

We must demand more.

We must remember why we fought in the first place.

And we must never let anyone forget: the rights of the accused are the last line of defense between freedom and tyranny.

We didn’t win our liberty to watch it rot in a courtroom.

Saved by Technology: The Rise of the Digital Alibi

Back in the day when I was a young street cop, a robbery at a convenience store would set off the usual chain of events. I’d arrive on scene, talk to the shaken clerk and any so-called witnesses, and they’d give me the vaguest description imaginable: “male, maybe 5’10”, dark hoodie, ran that way.” That was all we needed. We’d hit the streets, looking for someone who looked like they didn’t belong.

Soon enough, we’d find our usual suspect—a guy with priors who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d get stuffed into the back seat of a patrol car, hands cuffed behind his back, and paraded back to the crime scene. The victim and witnesses would take a glance and, pressured by the moment and their misplaced faith in police instinct, they’d nod. “Yeah… that’s him.”

Case closed. The jury would hear that the witnesses “positively identified” the suspect, and the court system would grind ahead like a machine with no brakes. Only one problem: this time, the guy was completely innocent.

Fast forward to 2025. Now, when we bring back a suspect to the scene, even if he gets picked out by a shaky eyewitness, there’s a new player in the game—technology. And it doesn’t lie. The convenience store’s high-def surveillance camera might show someone entirely different. The timestamp proves our suspect was nowhere near the register. Suddenly, that same system that used to steamroll the innocent now has a built-in truth detector.

How many innocent people were locked away before surveillance video became common? How many lives ruined by nothing more than a bad hunch and a lazy ID?

But video isn’t the only game changer. Today, your smartphone might be your best witness. If you’re truly innocent, your phone’s GPS data could be a digital guardian angel, showing exactly where you were, second by second. Calls, texts, app data—it’s all time-stamped and stored.

And if you weren’t carrying your phone? No problem—Plan B: License Plate Readers. Cameras mounted on police cars, toll booths, and traffic poles track your vehicle’s movement across cities like an invisible net. They can confirm you were five miles from the crime scene when the alarm rang out.

Even facial recognition, credit card use, smart home device logs, Uber receipts, and digital doorbell cameras—all can be silent allies. And let’s not forget DNA and fingerprints. While they’re powerful tools, they aren’t infallible. Mistakes happen. Cross-contamination happens. But when combined with real-time digital data, the truth becomes a lot harder to bury.

If you find yourself accused of a crime you didn’t commit, you don’t just need a lawyer—you need a war team. A skilled private investigator and an aggressive attorney who know how to gather, preserve, and present this digital evidence before a Grand Jury Indictment or Preliminary Hearing seals your fate.

Yes, this era of tech invades our privacy—but in the right hands, it also protects the innocent and keeps the government honest. It’s the double-edged sword of the 21st century. And sometimes… it’s the only thing standing between you and a prison cell.

Capital Punishment: The Ritual of Sanitized Murder

There’s something unspeakably grotesque about the death penalty—a horror masked by ritual and bureaucracy. Picture it: a shackled human being, surrounded by several men, marched down a sterile corridor to a sanitized execution chamber. No struggle, no chaos—just cold obedience to a state-sanctioned death warrant. Then, with clinical precision, a switch is flipped, a lever pulled, a syringe deployed—and a life is extinguished. It’s the ultimate act of cowardice, done not in a fit of rage or fear, but with calm, procedural detachment.

And the judges? The robed Pontius Pilates of our time—handing down death from the bench, then washing their hands of the consequences. “It’s the law,” they say, hiding behind precedent like children behind a curtain, pretending they’re not responsible for the blood on their hands.

Don’t misunderstand me. There are monsters among us—people whose evil defies redemption. If they’re gunned down in the act, whether by a brave citizen or a police officer defending the innocent, I’ll lose no sleep. In fact, I’ll applaud.

But what we’ve done is far worse than responding to immediate danger. We’ve institutionalized death. We’ve built a system that can destroy a life with all the formality of renewing a driver’s license.

And it’s not just the guilty we’ve put to death.

Over 200 men and women—some forgotten, some moments from execution—have been proven innocent and released from death row. How many weren’t so lucky? How many innocent souls were strapped down and murdered by mistake, while the system congratulated itself for delivering “justice”?

If we insist on killing in the name of law, then “beyond a reasonable doubt” is not enough. That standard was crafted for liberty, not lethal injection. A single thread of doubt should be a screaming siren—not a procedural footnote—when a human life is on the line.

Until then, the death penalty isn’t justice. It’s a blood ritual in a civilized mask.

Real ID, the Patriot Act, and the Funeral of Your Privacy

Oh, don’t act surprised. We were warned—loudly, clearly, and repeatedly. Orwell handed us the script back in 1949 with 1984, a chilling tale about a dystopian future ruled by tyrants armed with technology. The only thing he got wrong? The date. He was off by a few decades. Welcome to the show.

Then came Ted Kaczynski—yes, the Unabomber—whose 1995 manifesto Industrial Society and Its Future actually predicted with disturbing precision where this tech-obsessed world was headed. Sure, he mailed bombs (horrific, wrong, and indefensible), but buried in that 35,000-word screed were truths that our Silicon Valley overlords would prefer you ignore.

Fast forward to 2013. Edward Snowden peeled back the curtain and confirmed what Orwell and Kaczynski both hinted at: the government is watching you. All of you. All the time. The NSA was hoarding your phone records, digging through your emails, cozying up with big tech under the warm blanket of “national security.” The public screamed, Congress clutched its pearls, and then—poof—nothing changed. The programs didn’t end. They evolved, quietly, like a virus with a better PR team.

Enter Real ID—because apparently, the government didn’t know enough about you already. Now, if you want to fly or walk into a federal building, you’ll need your government-approved tracking badge with a shiny star. Why? Because the state needs your “valid” home address. They don’t want to just know who you are—they want to know exactly where you sleep at night.

Remember when driver’s licenses had no photos? When Social Security cards said “Not to be used for identification”? Those were quaint little relics of freedom—back when Americans were citizens, not livestock with barcodes.

And don’t get cute with burner phones. The feds can trace those right back to the 7-Eleven where you bought them. They’ll pull security footage, tag your face, grab your license plate, and follow you home like it’s a hobby.

This isn’t about safety. It’s about control. And guess what? It’s only getting worse. Technology isn’t liberating us—it’s forging our chains. And Americans? Oh, they’re too busy scrolling and swiping to notice the prison being built around them—one app, one camera, one “convenience” at a time.

As for me? Keep your Real ID. I already have a passport, and that’s all the ID I’ll ever need. I won’t pay for my own surveillance.

Let the sheep line up. I’m walking the other way.

The Most Troubling Aspect of the Menendez Brothers Crimes

Let’s cut to the chase. Lyle and Erik Menendez didn’t just kill their parents — they executed them in cold blood, with 12-gauge shotguns, inside the luxurious walls of their Beverly Hills mansion. It was a brutal ambush, and it wasn’t long before things started to unravel.

At first, police suspected a mob hit. The scene was that violent. But within seven months, the real story began to emerge — not through clever detective work, but from the brothers themselves, who couldn’t keep their stories straight and spent money like lottery winners on a deadline.

After the August 1989 murders, Lyle and Erik went on a jaw-dropping spending spree. Lyle picked up a Rolex, a Porsche, designer clothes, and even sank money into a restaurant in Princeton, New Jersey. He also paid for Erik’s private tennis coaching. Meanwhile, Erik bought a Jeep, entered tennis tournaments, and indulged in luxury travel and shopping like there was no tomorrow.

Together, they burned through hundreds of thousands of dollars in just six months. They even redecorated the mansion — replacing carpet and reupholstering furniture — before quickly moving out.

Prosecutors called it what it looked like: greed. The defense tried spinning it as a trauma-fueled reaction to years of alleged abuse. But trauma doesn’t come with receipts from Porsche dealerships and five-star hotels. The brothers’ blatant indulgence only reinforced what the public and prosecutors already suspected — that they killed for money. 

Was the “abuse excuse” something they cooked up with their first lawyer Leslie  Abramson?  

It took two trials, but justice caught up. Lyle and Erik were convicted and sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. The most disturbing part? It wasn’t just the murders — it was the aftermath. The calculated, shameless celebration of their new inheritance-funded freedom, paid for in blood.

I certainly can’t comment on their reportedly excellent prison records.  This sentence was not about reform but rather punishment..  It looks like the punishment is about to end through a resentencing or governor’s commutation.  

Arrested? Smile Like Your Future Depends on It—Because It Probably Does!

So, you’ve just been arrested. Great. Welcome to what is likely not going to be the best day of your life. But hey, this is exactly why you need to flash those pearly whites like you’re posing for a toothpaste commercial—because your booking photo is about to go public, baby!

We’ve all seen those glorious mugshots on TV—faces contorted in despair, rage, or just plain confusion. Some look like they’ve just seen a ghost, others are doing their best “Don Corleone” impression. It’s like a sad talent show for the emotionally wrecked.

Back in the day, booking photos came with that charming slate of police info—height, date, maybe a fun alias. But no more! The cops got tired of being sued because those CSI-style headshots made people look guilty, even when they were just misunderstood lovers of chaos.

Now? Booking photos look like they were snapped between chemistry and gym class. No police info, no context—just you and your “Why me?” face. And trust me, nothing screams “I probably did it” more than a pouty mug or a smirk that says, “Catch me if you can.”

And let’s not forget—if your arrest makes the news (bless your dramatic soul), your mugshot is going viral faster than your aunt’s meatloaf recipe. So do yourself a favor: look cheerful, look innocent, look like you’re on your way to brunch, not jail.

Bottom line: No matter what chaos led to this moment, smile like your lawyer’s retainer depends on it. Because it just might

Bizarre shooting and arrest of Jillian Shriner Weezer, Bassist Scott Shriner’s wife.

As long time criminal defense investigator, I can’t help but notice a foul odor connected to the arrest by Lapd officers of rock star Scott Shriner’s wife Jillian.  Jillian Shriner, better known by her pen name Jillian Lauren, is a bestselling author.

Not only was she arrested, but she suffered a gunshot wound inflicted by a cop.  

This thing unfolded as cops were chasing a trio of black males in the LA suburb of Eagle Rock California.  They ran from a freeway into the neighborhood.  With all the sirens and commotion , apparently Jillian Shriner came out to her driveway gun in hand.  Allegedly she fired her gun at the wanted suspects.  Were they a threat to her? The only person that knows for sure is none other than Jillian Shriner.  At some point cops claim she ignored multiple orders to drop her weapon. Cops claimed that she then fired her gun at them.  Somehow this doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.  The only thing that does make sense is because she was shot by a cop. They are going to have to justify their own gunplay.  I’m not accusing the cops here because I simply don’t know what happened.

A very little of this story makes any sense whatsoever.  If I was on the defense team, I would be all over the case like a cheap suit.  Because of the seriousness of the charges, Jillian Shriner can spend decades behind bars.  Her bail was astronomically set high at $1 million but she was able to post it and get released.  Oh, and she had to get medical care for her shoulder gunshot wound.

Right now, she is set for a court appearance on April 30 in department 30 in downtown LA.  It will be interesting to see what Lawyer will be handling her defense.  It’s going to take a while before the police body am footage and police reports begin to publicly surface.  Somehow, I suspect that the body cam footage that may or may not show justification for the police shooting will be unusually slow.

As a criminal defense investigator, this is exactly the kind of cases I specialize in handling.  

Charged with a Crime? The Battle for Your Freedom Has Begun

You’ve just been charged with a crime. From this moment forward, your life is no longer in your hands—it’s in the hands of total strangers. A prosecutor wants to brand you a criminal. A judge will control the battlefield. And if it goes that far, twelve jurors—who don’t know you and never will—will decide your fate.

Guilt or innocence? Right now, it barely matters. You’re in a system where perception can outweigh truth, and where justice depends on strategy, preparation, and how well you play the game.

The most important move you’ll make? Choosing the right lawyer.

Forget flashy media personalities with slick ads and big egos. They’re often chasing headlines, not justice. You want a fighter in your corner—quiet, focused, relentless. Look for someone who lives and breathes criminal law. Someone whose reputation is built in the courtroom, not on social media.

If your lawyer isn’t using a skilled investigator, you’re already at a disadvantage. No matter how good your attorney is, they can’t dig for the truth themselves. If they stumble onto evidence, they become a witness—and you’re left without a defender. A professional investigator can uncover the facts, find witnesses, and expose the cracks in the case against you. Yes, it’s an extra cost—but your future is worth every dime.

Next comes the most underestimated weapon you have: respect.

From this point forward, every move you make is being watched. The judge, the prosecutor, even the bailiff will size you up. You’re not just on trial—you’re on display. Think of it like courting a new relationship: appearance, manners, and attitude matter.

Show up sharp. Groomed, clean-cut, dressed like you’re stepping into a boardroom—not a bar. Business attire, polished shoes, no excuses. There’s nothing casual about a courtroom where your freedom is on the line.

Inside that courtroom, discipline is survival. No eye rolls, no groans, no slouching when a ruling goes against you. Be respectful to everyone—the judge, the bailiff, the clerk, and especially your lawyer. They’re all watching, and it all matters.

If your attorney puts you on the stand—an uncommon and risky move—you’d better be prepared for war. Cross-examination is a pressure cooker. The prosecutor will poke, prod, and provoke you. Don’t take the bait. Stay calm. Stay collected. Your lawyer should drill you beforehand like a Marine boot camp instructor, so you don’t flinch when the heat is on.

When you take the stand, own it. Rise with confidence. Smile. Walk briskly to the witness box like you belong there—because for a few minutes, that courtroom is yours. Speak clearly. Look those jurors in the eye. This is your one chance to be heard. Make it count.

And here’s something most people never understand until it’s too late: Nothing speaks louder to a judge or jury than the presence of respectful, supportive family and friends sitting behind you.

It’s human nature—when people see you’re not alone, not abandoned, and not the menace the state claims you are, it shifts perception. You suddenly look more human, more grounded, and more worthy of mercy or benefit of the doubt. Defendants who show up with visible support almost always fare better—either by winning acquittals or receiving more lenient sentences.

But there’s a catch: they must behave impeccably. No outbursts, no sighs, no dirty looks. Their role is silent strength—well-dressed, calm, respectful presence. That visual can be more powerful than any testimony.

The courtroom is a stage. Your life is the script. Play it right—or risk everything.

Chicago Cops Slammed with Sudden Ban on the Sig/Sauer P320—And the Officers Will Pay thePrice

In a move that’s rocking the rank and file, the Chicago Police Department has abruptly banned the use of the once-trusted Sig/Sauer P320 pistol as an authorized duty weapon. The order came down swiftly, leaving thousands of officers scrambling. The official reason? Alarming reports that the weapon can fire without the trigger being pulled.

For years now the gun-maker has brushed off horror stories about negligent discharges, usually blaming human error. After all, it’s easier to blame the gun than admit to a deadly mistake. Just think back to Alec Baldwin’s tragic shooting on a New Mexico movie set—he insisted he never pulled the trigger, yet a woman lost her life. But experts were quick to point out that the revolver in question simply doesn’t fire on its own.

This, however, isn’t Hollywood.

The Sig Sauer P320 has a documented pattern of discharges—many occurring while holstered. Lawsuits are piling up, and the manufacturer continues to deny fault, but the incidents are too numerous, too consistent, and too dangerous to ignore.

In a city already struggling to staff its police force and control spiraling violence, CPD brass made the call: better to pull the plug than risk another injury or death. The P320 is now officially de-authorized.

But here’s the real gut punch: the officers themselves may be expected to foot the bill for replacing their sidearms. That’s right—these public servants, already asked to put their lives on the line, may now have to reach into their own modest uniform allowance to buy new duty weapons. A quality firearm will run close to $1,000, and that’s just the start. Each will require a fitted, holster—another hefty expense.

This decision, made at the top, may land hardest on young officers, those with families, or anyone already struggling to make ends meet. For them, this isn’t just an administrative change—it’s a financial crisis.

Meanwhile, Sig/Sauer remains knee-deep in litigation, fiercely defending a weapon that also happens to be the U.S. military’s standard issue. But for the boots on the ground in Chicago, the question isn’t about military contracts or legal spin—it’s about safety, survival, and now, personal sacrifice.

This controversy is far from over. And for the officers forced to pay the price—literally—it’s more than just a story. It’s a bitter reality.

Update:  Under the current fraternal order of police labor contract, the City of Chicago is required to cover the cost of a new service weapon if the police department deauthorizes a previously approved firearm. Officers are not financially responsible when the department mandates a change in duty weapons.  However, this is only for officers below the rank of Sergeant.  Calculating the average replacement weapon cost indicates the city will be paying upwards of $1 million to affect this change.