*Joke of the day* Kim Jong UN decided to send Donald Trump a letter in his own hand writing to let him know he was still in the game. Trump opened the letter which appeared to contain a single line coded message: *377OH SSV - O773H* Trump was baffled, so he emailed it to his aides, who had no clues either. So they sent it to the FBI. No one can solve it at FBI, so it went to the CIA. With no clue as to its meaning, FBI finally asked MSS (Ministry of State Security) in China for help. Within a few seconds, MSS cabled back with this reply : "Tell the President he's holding the message " *Upside down"* " 😂🤣😂🤣🤣😂🤣

Journalist Javed Rana explains on how Israel and the US have finally joined hands to have audacity to demolish the long nurtured Zionist plan to demolish Al-Aqsa mosque, the third holiest site of Islam and replace it with so-called third Jewish temple !

In 1995, Pepsi ran a campaign that promised the impossible: a $33.8 million fighter jet. A 21-year-old student found a loophole to claim it for just $700,000. He gathered investors, followed every rule, and waited for his jet. But Pepsi refused to hand it over. What followed was a legal battle that became the stuff of legend: The "Pepsi Stuff" campaign was straightforward: Buy Pepsi products, collect points, and redeem them for prizes. A T-shirt? 75 points. Sunglasses? 175 points. A leather jacket? 1,450 points. Then came the ad that changed everything. A teenager lands a Harrier Jet at his school, and the screen flashes: "Harrier Jet – 7,000,000 Pepsi Points." Pepsi thought it was clearly a joke. But not everyone saw it that way. Enter John Leonard, a 21-year-old business student from Seattle. He noticed something in Pepsi’s fine print: You could buy Pepsi Points for 10 cents each. The math was simple: 7 million points x 10 cents = $700,000. A Harrier Jet was worth $33.8 million. This wasn’t just a good deal—it was the opportunity of a lifetime. But he needed help. Leonard convinced five investors to back his plan. He followed Pepsi’s rules to the letter: • Secured an original order form from the Pepsi Stuff catalog • Collected 15 original Pepsi Points • Wrote a check for $700,008.50 (including shipping) Then he waited for his jet. Pepsi panicked. They sent Leonard a letter, calling the ad a "joke" and offering him free Pepsi instead. Leonard wasn’t having it. He wanted his jet. So he sued, and the legal battle that followed was epic. In court, Pepsi argued the ad was "obviously hyperbolic" and not meant to be taken seriously. Leonard fired back: If it was a joke, why specify 7 million points? Why allow points to be purchased for cash? Why not include a disclaimer? The case dragged on, exposing a harsh truth: Companies love making outrageous promises to grab attention. But when someone tries to claim those promises? They backtrack and call it "hyperbole." In the end, the judge ruled in Pepsi’s favor. Judge Kimba Wood stated that "no reasonable person" would believe the ad was a real offer. Leonard lost the case. But the story didn’t end there. The lawsuit forced companies to rethink their advertising strategies. Here’s why this story matters today: In 1995, Pepsi controlled the narrative. In 2024, the story would play out completely differently. Leonard would’ve gone viral overnight. The internet would’ve rallied behind him. Pepsi wouldn’t just face a legal battle—they’d face the court of public opinion. The power has shifted. Today, one person with a bold idea and an audience can challenge a billion-dollar company. It’s not about who has the biggest budget anymore. It’s about who controls the narrative. So, here’s the question: When someone Googles your name, what do they see? Are you waiting for recognition, or are you owning your story? The biggest opportunities don’t go to the smartest people. They go to the most visible. How visible are you? In a world where attention is the most valuable currency, your visibility is your superpower. John Leonard saw an opportunity and took a shot—even if he didn’t win, his story lives on. What’s your Harrier Jet moment? What bold move could you make today that people will talk about tomorrow? The tools are in your hands. The platforms are waiting. The question isn’t can you—it’s will you? Don’t wait for permission. Don’t wait for recognition. Own your story. Build your audience. And when the moment comes, be ready to land your jet. #wfwizzy190

God bless the work of your hands

I went from church boy to what I can no longer predict or recognize My soul is in your hands

Education is a weapon, whose effect depends on who holds it in his hands and at whom it is aimed.

The rain hammered against the windowpane, each drop a tiny drumbeat against the silence of the old house. I sat huddled in the corner of the attic, a dusty blanket pulled tight around me, the scent of mothballs and forgotten dreams clinging to the air. My heart thumped a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the rain's steady beat. I was trapped. My family, they were gone. Vanished. Just like that. One day they were bustling about the house, their voices filling the rooms with laughter and the clatter of dishes. The next, an empty silence, punctuated only by the creak of the old floorboards and the wind whistling through the cracks in the windows. They had left me a note, scrawled in my mother's familiar hand, a single sentence that sent a shiver down my spine: "We had to leave. We'll be back for you soon." But how soon was soon? Days? Weeks? Years? The thought of them, of their faces, their voices, fading into the mists of time, filled me with a dread that gnawed at my insides. I clutched the worn teddy bear, its fur matted and faded, a silent witness to my childhood. He was all I had left. He smelled of my mother's lavender perfume, a faint whisper of her presence that kept me clinging to hope. The attic, once a haven of forgotten treasures, now felt like a prison. The cobwebs draped across the rafters like ghostly shrouds, the shadows in the corners seemed to dance and writhe, whispering secrets I couldn't understand. I was a prisoner in my own home, surrounded by memories that both comforted and terrified me. I longed for the warmth of my mother's embrace, the reassuring rumble of my father's laughter, the mischievous twinkle in my brother's eyes. But they were gone, swallowed by the storm that had swept through our lives, leaving me stranded in a sea of uncertainty. I had to be strong. I had to find them. I had to believe their promise, to cling to the hope that they would return. But the rain kept falling, a relentless reminder of the darkness that had descended upon our lives. And in the silence of the old house, I felt a growing fear, a fear that whispered, "What if they never come back?"

The bustling marketplace buzzed with the energy of a thousand lives. A symphony of sounds filled the air: the clanging of metal, the chatter of vendors, the laughter of children. Amidst the chaos, a young street artist named Maya painted vibrant scenes on canvases stretched across the cobblestones. Her brush danced across the canvas, capturing the essence of the city in a swirl of colors. Each stroke told a story, a glimpse into the lives of the people who walked by. There was the baker with his flour-dusted hands, the flower girl with her fragrant blooms, the old man with his weathered face and a lifetime of stories in his eyes. One day, a wealthy merchant, drawn by the beauty of Maya's art, approached her stall. He offered to buy all her paintings, a fortune that would set her free from the life of a street artist. But Maya hesitated. She knew the true value of her art lay not in its monetary worth, but in the stories it told, the emotions it evoked, the connection it fostered with the people who saw it. She refused the merchant's offer, choosing instead to continue painting for the people, sharing her art with the world, one brushstroke at a time. The marketplace, once just a place of commerce, became a canvas for her art, a testament to the power of creativity to touch the lives of others.

The old clock tower stood sentinel over the bustling city, its hands frozen at precisely 10:17. A single, cracked bell hung silent, its tongue rusted and still. Legend whispered that the clock had stopped the moment the city's greatest inventor, Elias Thorne, vanished without a trace. He had been working on a revolutionary invention, a time-bending device, and rumors swirled that he had somehow become trapped in his own creation. A young, curious apprentice named Lily, fascinated by the legend, decided to unlock the clock's secrets. She spent weeks poring over Thorne's cryptic notes, deciphering his intricate diagrams and unraveling the complex mechanisms of the time-bending device. She discovered that the clock was not merely a timepiece but a portal, a gateway to a parallel dimension. With a mix of trepidation and excitement, Lily set the clock in motion. The gears whirred, the bell chimed, and the world around her shimmered. She stepped through the portal, into the unknown, ready to unravel the mystery of Elias Thorne and the secrets of time itself.

The air hung heavy with the scent of pine needles and damp earth as Elara crept through the ancient forest. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the forest floor in a mosaic of light and shadow. She clutched a worn leather map in her hand, its edges frayed and its markings barely visible. It was her only guide, a legacy from her grandmother, leading her to the hidden heart of the forest, where legend whispered of a magical spring. The map spoke of a hidden path, guarded by ancient trees and whispered secrets. Elara followed its cryptic clues, her heart pounding with anticipation. She navigated tangled roots and overgrown paths, her senses heightened, listening for the rustle of leaves and the call of unseen creatures. Finally, after hours of searching, she reached a clearing bathed in an ethereal glow. In the center stood a crystal-clear spring, its water shimmering with an otherworldly luminescence. Elara knelt beside the spring, its cool water whispering secrets of ancient magic. She dipped her hand into the water, feeling its energy pulsate through her veins. The legend was true. The magical spring existed.