Maggie’s Funny & awesome pics, vids and memes thread (work safe, no nudity)
- Thread starter Lawless
- Start date
Sam’s Club has this little pressure washer on sale now(or at least last weekend) that has an included foam cannon to wash cars. Pretty handy and it’s especially nice to exploit the labor of your children
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Currently watching Blackadder 2
All four seasons were enjoyable. For anyone that only knows of Rowan Atkinson from Mr. Bean it is quite different.
Made by Cat, should be good.
My experience is 2100-2200 is enough for washing your car or really lightweight jobs but for tough jobs you really need 3200. Adjustabel is nice so you can use lower pressure when needed.
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They gonna be having an Ugly baby , if he’s capable! He’ll the spitting image of his piece of shit dad.Clintons now control Soros , they hitched him with Wieners ex that was for decades Hillary Clinton's right hand
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I sold it to my wife for a bunch of jobs around the house but the main thing in my mind was washing cars
There are zero romantic reasons a 39 yr old rich guy would marry a 49 yr old skeletor woman.Clintons now control Soros , they hitched him with Wieners ex that was for decades Hillary Clinton's right hand
She is 49. Her shit is dried up. They may purchase some babies, but not to raise.They gonna be having an Ugly baby , if he’s capable! He’ll the spitting image of his piece of shit dad.
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50 BMG Drum Mag dump. Rounds look kind of tame, compared to the one I had. I wonder if they're lower power reloads. An FRT would be nice.
Y'a'll remember the video where they lock the thief in the back of the UHaul? Give him this ride at 300 mph. In fact we could fill it with illegals and launch it south across the border
When Paul Newman first launched "Newman’s Own" in 1982, it started with a joke. He and his friend A.E. Hotchner were bottling salad dressing in old wine bottles to hand out as Christmas gifts. Friends loved it so much they urged them to sell it commercially. Most would have seen this as an entrepreneurial opportunity. Newman saw something else, a chance to give.
He had no interest in keeping the money. As the product line grew to pasta sauce, popcorn, lemonade, and more, Newman made a quiet but life-defining decision. Every single cent of post-tax profit from "Newman’s Own" would go directly to charitable causes. Not a portion, not a cut. All of it.
This choice wasn’t a marketing strategy. In fact, Newman avoided attention for it. He didn’t want the spotlight on himself, only on the causes he was helping. A.E. Hotchner recalled Newman’s words during their earliest days of the venture, “Let’s give it all away to those who need it. We’ll make it good. We’ll make it honest. And we’ll keep it fun.”
That decision sparked a ripple effect. By the early 1990s, the foundation had quietly donated tens of millions to education, nutrition programs, medical research, and children’s camps. Newman personally reviewed the list of causes. He didn’t just put his name on a bottle and walk away. He read letters from grant applicants, often scribbling handwritten notes on the margins about how a small community center in the Midwest or a children’s hospice in Boston could benefit from a check.
One of the most profound projects he supported was the creation of the “Hole in the Wall Gang Camp,” a summer camp for children with serious illnesses. Located in Ashford, Connecticut, it gave critically ill kids a place to laugh, swim, and feel normal for a week. Newman didn’t merely fund it. He visited, spent time with the children, watched their plays, and even cooked meals. Camp counselors often remembered how he would quietly sit by a child in a wheelchair, not saying much, just being there, his presence more powerful than any speech.
By the time of his death in 2008, over $250 million had been given away through "Newman’s Own" Foundation. But it wasn’t the number that defined him. It was the philosophy behind it. Newman believed money could be a tool, not a reward. He often said, “I’m a guy who makes salad dressing to help someone else’s kid.” That line wasn’t scripted. He meant it. He repeated it to journalists, staffers, even to campers when they asked why an actor was suddenly running a food company.
Even during his Hollywood years, Newman had been quietly funding scholarships and civil rights initiatives. He once paid off the mortgage of a struggling school in the South after learning they were on the verge of closing. He never wanted credit. When the school tried to thank him publicly, he asked that the announcement be withheld until the graduation ceremony was over.
Those who worked closest to him saw a man who gave not from excess, but from intent. It wasn’t that he had too much money. It was that he believed others needed it more. He lived modestly, drove an old car, and preferred handwritten letters to emails or press releases. To him, philanthropy wasn’t performance. It was duty.
His quiet generosity changed thousands of lives. But what made it extraordinary wasn’t the size of his fortune. It was how personally invested he was in ensuring that every dollar helped someone. In a world eager for attention, Paul Newman gave silently, persistently, and wholeheartedly.
He transformed a bottle of salad dressing into a lifeline for those who had none, and never asked for a thank you in return.
He had no interest in keeping the money. As the product line grew to pasta sauce, popcorn, lemonade, and more, Newman made a quiet but life-defining decision. Every single cent of post-tax profit from "Newman’s Own" would go directly to charitable causes. Not a portion, not a cut. All of it.
This choice wasn’t a marketing strategy. In fact, Newman avoided attention for it. He didn’t want the spotlight on himself, only on the causes he was helping. A.E. Hotchner recalled Newman’s words during their earliest days of the venture, “Let’s give it all away to those who need it. We’ll make it good. We’ll make it honest. And we’ll keep it fun.”
That decision sparked a ripple effect. By the early 1990s, the foundation had quietly donated tens of millions to education, nutrition programs, medical research, and children’s camps. Newman personally reviewed the list of causes. He didn’t just put his name on a bottle and walk away. He read letters from grant applicants, often scribbling handwritten notes on the margins about how a small community center in the Midwest or a children’s hospice in Boston could benefit from a check.
One of the most profound projects he supported was the creation of the “Hole in the Wall Gang Camp,” a summer camp for children with serious illnesses. Located in Ashford, Connecticut, it gave critically ill kids a place to laugh, swim, and feel normal for a week. Newman didn’t merely fund it. He visited, spent time with the children, watched their plays, and even cooked meals. Camp counselors often remembered how he would quietly sit by a child in a wheelchair, not saying much, just being there, his presence more powerful than any speech.
By the time of his death in 2008, over $250 million had been given away through "Newman’s Own" Foundation. But it wasn’t the number that defined him. It was the philosophy behind it. Newman believed money could be a tool, not a reward. He often said, “I’m a guy who makes salad dressing to help someone else’s kid.” That line wasn’t scripted. He meant it. He repeated it to journalists, staffers, even to campers when they asked why an actor was suddenly running a food company.
Even during his Hollywood years, Newman had been quietly funding scholarships and civil rights initiatives. He once paid off the mortgage of a struggling school in the South after learning they were on the verge of closing. He never wanted credit. When the school tried to thank him publicly, he asked that the announcement be withheld until the graduation ceremony was over.
Those who worked closest to him saw a man who gave not from excess, but from intent. It wasn’t that he had too much money. It was that he believed others needed it more. He lived modestly, drove an old car, and preferred handwritten letters to emails or press releases. To him, philanthropy wasn’t performance. It was duty.
His quiet generosity changed thousands of lives. But what made it extraordinary wasn’t the size of his fortune. It was how personally invested he was in ensuring that every dollar helped someone. In a world eager for attention, Paul Newman gave silently, persistently, and wholeheartedly.
He transformed a bottle of salad dressing into a lifeline for those who had none, and never asked for a thank you in return.
