Clavicular got SURROUNDED after dropping BIG money at the most expensive club 💸 Bro stepped outside and instantly became the main character 😭 Was this the craziest club entrance ever?

Every year NBA 2K makes you do this and every year it's still funny — xQc getting his face scanned into 2K27 live 💀

Arther and Julia just vibing on a pool float, and somehow the foot-holding is what broke chat 💀

FlightReacts Blasts Lonzo Ball and Ronnie2K for Defending NBA 2K27, Says Fans Praising It Are "D--k Riding"

GTA 6 trailer has Jason, Lucia, a whole cinematic universe — and Kai Cenat lost it over a buffalo 🐃

Kai Cenat pauses the stream just to replay the GTA 6 car chase scene three times in a row

Clavicular

A TWO-TIME PULITZER WINNER STARTED DIGGING INTO A 19-YEAR-OLD COLLEGE DROPOUT'S BLOOD-TESTING COMPANY BECAUSE AN OBSCURE PATHOLOGY BLOGGER CALLED HIM OUT OF NOWHERE, KEPT GOING EVEN AFTER HIS OWN BOSS'S BOSS QUIETLY BECAME THE COMPANY'S BIGGEST INVESTOR, SURVIVED A FIVE-HOUR STAREDOWN BY A FAMOUS TRIAL LAWYER SENT TO MAKE HIM STOP, AND WATCHED HIS MOST FRAGILE SOURCE — THE FOUNDER'S OWN GRANDSON — GET AMBUSHED BY HER ATTORNEYS AT HIS GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE AND STILL REFUSE TO TALK In December 2014, Wall Street Journal reporter John Carreyrou read a New Yorker profile of Elizabeth Holmes on his subway ride home to Brooklyn and got stuck on one detail: a college dropout with two or three semesters of chemical engineering had supposedly pioneered breakthrough medical science. He'd covered healthcare for a decade and knew that unlike software, medicine didn't work that way. He filed the feeling away and might have done nothing more with it, until a pathologist named Adam Clapper, who ran an obscure blog under the misspelled name "pathology blawg," called him a few weeks later. Clapper had read the same profile, recognized the central claim as implausible, and posted his skepticism online — which brought him a call from a Theranos patent litigant named Richard Fuisz, who in turn connected Carreyrou to a former Theranos lab director hiding behind the pseudonym Alan Beam. Beam was terrified when Carreyrou first reached him. Theranos's lawyers were already pressuring him to sign a new confidentiality affidavit and delete work emails he'd forwarded to his personal account. He talked anyway, describing a company running most of its "revolutionary" fingerstick blood tests on hacked commercial machines from the German manufacturer Siemens rather than its own technology, while telling Walgreens customers and investors otherwise. One anonymous source wasn't enough to publish, so Carreyrou spent months finding a second: Tyler Shultz, a 20-something Theranos employee who happened to be the grandson of former Secretary of State George Shultz, one of the company's own board members, and who lasted only eight months at the company before concluding it was committing fraud. While Carreyrou dug, in March 2015, Rupert Murdoch — who controls the Journal's parent company and is, functionally, Carreyrou's boss's boss — quietly invested $125 million in Theranos, becoming its single largest shareholder. Carreyrou didn't find out for another year and a half. Holmes, for her part, knew exactly who Murdoch was to the paper investigating her, and met with him repeatedly, including once two weeks before publication, explicitly asking him to kill the story. Murdoch told her he trusted his editors to handle it fairly and let it run. Theranos's counterattack, once it came, was built around David Boies, the celebrity litigator, and his firm. Boies and his associates showed up at the Journal's offices and staged what Carreyrou describes as a five-hour standoff meant to intimidate the paper into backing off. Simultaneously, the company's lawyers identified Tyler Shultz as a likely source and went after him directly: pressuring him for months, and at one point ambushing him with two attorneys at his own grandfather's house. His parents hired him lawyers. He didn't recant, and he didn't give up Carreyrou's sourcing. Carreyrou published his first story in October 2015, nine months after he'd started. The fallout took years to fully unfold: two federal regulators inspected Theranos's lab operations, the SEC and prosecutors opened investigations, Holmes was banned from owning or running a lab for two years, and tens of thousands of blood test results had to be voided. In August 2016, Holmes tried to turn the tide with a public demonstration of a redesigned prototype in front thousands of lab scientists — only for a panel member, Dr. Stephen Master of Weill Cornell, to tell her on stage that what she'd just shown didn't come close to what she'd actually claimed for years. Along the way, Carreyrou learned Theranos employees had built a version of the arcade game Space Invaders using his own Twitter photo as the falling aliens and a miniaturized lab device as the machine gun firing sample vials at his face — the sort of detail that reads as comic only because everything around it wasn't. He also came to believe Holmes had deliberately deepened her voice for public appearances: former colleagues, a family member, and a surviving 2005 NPR radio interview all show a normal-pitched, fast-talking young woman, nothing like the low, deliberate register she used once she became famous. By the time Carreyrou spoke about the book in mid-2018, federal prosecutors had just filed criminal wire fraud charges against Holmes and her former partner and Theranos's president, Ramesh "Sunny" Balwani. Both eventually went to trial rather than plead out. Holmes was convicted in January 2022 on four counts of defrauding investors and sentenced that November to more than eleven years in federal prison; Balwani was convicted on all counts and sentenced separately to nearly thirteen years. The board of former cabinet secretaries and retired generals that had lent Theranos its credibility for over a decade never faced any comparable reckoning. Watch the full talk, in which the reporter who broke the story walks through exactly how a single skeptical blog post turned into the investigation that ended a $10 billion company.

Kai Cenat sat right next to Tyla and had her laughing so hard she covered her face on stream, and chat STILL brought up the friendzone 😂 "wait... so are they actually just friends or not?"

HE STAGED A VIDEO OF HIS TRUCK DRIVING UNDER ITS OWN POWER BY TOWING IT TO THE TOP OF A HILL AND FILMING IT ROLL DOWNHILL, BUILT A COMPANY BRIEFLY WORTH MORE THAN FORD ON THE STRENGTH OF THAT LIE, WENT TO PRISON FOR IT, AND WALKED FREE ON A PRESIDENTIAL PARDON MONTHS AFTER HIS OWN COMPANY COLLAPSED INTO BANKRUPTCY In 2016, engineers at a small Utah startup filmed a promotional video of their Nikola One semi-truck cruising down a desert highway under its own power. It wasn't. The truck couldn't move on its own; it had been towed to the top of an incline and simply let roll downhill, propelled by nothing but gravity and edited to look like something else entirely. His name is Trevor Milton, born in Layton, Utah, raised Mormon, who dropped out of college, sold home alarm systems, and built and sold a business retrofitting diesel trucks to run on natural gas before founding Nikola Motor Company in 2015 with a $2 million investment, naming it after the same inventor whose name Elon Musk had already borrowed for Tesla. Nikola went public in June 2020 through a merger with a shell company, and within days its market value touched nearly $30 billion, briefly worth more on paper than Ford, a hundred-year-old automaker that actually built and sold cars. Milton's stake made him a billionaire almost overnight, and that September General Motors agreed to take an 11% stake in the company in a deal worth up to $2 billion, betting its own fuel-cell technology on Milton's still-unproven trucks. Three days after the GM deal was announced, the short-seller Hindenburg Research published a report calling Nikola "an intricate fraud" built on dozens of false or exaggerated claims, chief among them the staged truck video and Milton's repeated assertions that Nikola had working hydrogen production technology it did not actually have. Milton resigned as executive chairman within two weeks. By the end of November, GM had quietly walked away from taking any equity in the company at all. Federal prosecutors indicted Milton in July 2021 on securities and wire fraud charges built directly on the claims Hindenburg had surfaced. He pleaded not guilty and remained free on $100 million bail through a trial that ran into October 2022, when a jury convicted him on one count of securities fraud and two counts of wire fraud, acquitting him on the rest. Prosecutors asked for eleven years, comparing him to Theranos founder Elizabeth Holmes. Milton's lawyers called the comparison unfair, arguing that unlike Theranos, Nikola was "still a real business." In December 2023 he was sentenced to four years in prison, fined $1 million, and ordered to forfeit property, with the judge leaving the restitution owed to his victims, whom prosecutors said had lost more than $660 million, to be calculated later. He stayed free on bail throughout his appeal and never spent a single day inside a federal prison. In February 2025, Nikola itself filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy and began liquidating its factory and remaining trucks, the company Milton's fraud had built now worth essentially nothing. Weeks later, on March 27, 2025, President Trump granted Milton a full pardon, erasing both his conviction and the restitution still owed to the investors who had lost money on his word. Milton and his wife had donated more than $1.8 million to Trump's campaign before the election, and his defense team included Brad Bondi, brother of the sitting attorney general; Milton said the donations had nothing to do with the pardon. By October 2025 he had bought a small aircraft manufacturer and installed himself as its CEO, while the company whose name had once made him a billionaire finished selling off its assets piece by piece to pay down what was left of its own debts. The video that made Nikola believable was never anything but a truck rolling downhill under its own weight. Nine years later, the fraud built on top of it came down the same way, gathering speed entirely on its own, right up until the moment someone reached in and simply stopped it before it ever hit the ground. Watch the full story, built from the engineers, short-sellers and investors who spent years trying to prove that a driving truck had never actually been driving.

HE WENT PERSONALLY BANKRUPT FLIPPING HAMBURGERS AFTER HIS GYM CHAIN COLLAPSED, REBUILT HIMSELF AS A BILLIONAIRE BANKER ON A CARIBBEAN ISLAND HE ALMOST RAN LIKE A PRIVATE KINGDOM, GOT KNIGHTED BY ITS GOVERNMENT, AND WAS RUNNING THE SECOND-LARGEST PONZI SCHEME IN HISTORY THE ENTIRE TIME In 1982, a Texas gym-chain owner who had once landed his own helicopter outside his flagship club filed for personal bankruptcy with $136 million in debts, and the last anyone saw of him for a while, he was flipping hamburgers behind a fast-food counter in his hometown. His name is Allen Stanford, born in 1950 in Mexia, Texas, the son of an insurance agent who was also the town's mayor. Determined not to stay broke, in 1985 he took a trip to the Caribbean, where a stranger explained offshore banking to him over a conversation he reportedly took notes on right there on a legal pad. In 1986 Stanford opened his first bank on the island of Montserrat, staffing its board with people who knew nothing about finance, his own father among them, and recruiting an old college friend, James Davis, to serve as accountant and lend the operation some credibility. From day one, the bank told clients their money was going into safe investments like equities. In reality, less than 20% of it ever was. The rest simply disappeared into Stanford's pocket and his growing empire, in a scheme as old as the 1920s Ponzi swindle it was named after: pay old investors with new investors' money, and keep doing it as long as the money keeps coming in. When Montserrat's regulators tightened their rules and discovered his hidden Texas bankruptcy, they forced him out. He relocated to Antigua and Barbuda in the early 1990s, where he bought and propped up the failing Bank of Antigua, cultivated the ruling family, and built himself a marble-columned headquarters for the newly renamed Stanford International Bank. He also invented a family history to go with it, telling audiences for years that his grandfather had founded an insurance company during the Great Depression, a story that wasn't true. Through the 1990s and 2000s, Stanford's bank sold certificates of deposit to middle-class savers across Latin America, offering interest rates just a percentage point or two above ordinary banks, low enough to seem plausible, high enough to be attractive. One Venezuelan client, an IT consultant named Jaime Escalona, put in $1.2 million of his family's savings, drawn in by the marble lobbies, the glossy brochures, and a search for stability that Venezuela's own financial system couldn't offer. Stanford spent lavishly to keep the illusion running: corporate videos, CNN ad spots, a $1.5 million party in Manhattan built around a recreation of Studio 54, and eventually a fortune's worth of mansions, private jets, and a yacht he had extended by 10 feet at a cost of more than $100 million. He bought his own private island for $65 million. In Antigua, he became the country's second-largest employer after the government itself, bankrolled a professional cricket tournament that briefly made global headlines, and in 2006 was knighted by the Antiguan government, insisting afterward that people call him Sir Allen. Warning signs had existed for over a decade. The SEC's Fort Worth office had suspected Stanford of fraud since 1997, but the examiner in charge of the case later tried to go to work for him after leaving the agency, and no investigation was ever opened. Stanford also gave more than $1.6 million to both political parties, and was publicly thanked by both Bill Clinton and George W. Bush. By 2008, Forbes ranked him the 205th richest American, with an estimated fortune of $2.2 billion, all of it built on client money and fabricated account statements showing an $8.5 billion bank that, in reality, held about $20 million. When the financial crisis hit and Bernie Madoff's own $65 billion Ponzi scheme collapsed publicly that December, nervous clients everywhere started asking for their money back, and Stanford's bank could no longer cover the withdrawals. In February 2009, prosecutors arrested his chief investment officer over false statements to regulators. Days later, accountant James Davis, facing his own arrest, admitted to authorities that Stanford International Bank had been a Ponzi scheme from its very first day, roughly 25 years earlier. Stanford himself was arrested on February 17, 2009, hiding at a girlfriend's house in Virginia, and while awaiting trial he was severely beaten by a fellow inmate. In 2012 he was convicted and sentenced to 110 years in federal prison. He has continued to deny wrongdoing ever since, and in 2023 a judge denied his bid for compassionate release, noting he still owed his victims $5.9 billion in restitution. Of roughly 21,000 victims, most have recovered only a few cents for every dollar they lost. The regulators who could have stopped this had a decade of warning and a small island's worth of paperwork to work with, and none of it mattered as long as new deposits kept arriving fast enough to cover what the old ones were owed. Watch the investigation built from the inside, the employees, the prosecutor, and the victims who describe exactly how a man who went broke running gyms convinced middle-class families across an entire continent that his bank was the safest place to put their life savings.

IN 1994 SHE BUILT A TOOL TO COVER ONE $4.8 BILLION LOAN, AND BY 2007 IT HAD GROWN INTO A $62 TRILLION MARKET THAT HELPED BLOW UP THE WORLD ECONOMY In the summer of 1994, a group of JPMorgan bankers checked into a resort in Boca Raton, Florida, most of them barely out of their twenties, to spend a weekend throwing each other in the pool and trading ideas. Her name is Blythe Masters, a 25-year-old trader on JPMorgan's derivatives desk, a Cambridge economics graduate three years into the job, with no idea the idea she was about to help build would end up in front of Congress. JPMorgan had just handed Exxon a $4.8 billion credit line, right as Exxon faced up to $5 billion in punitive damages over the Exxon Valdez oil spill. Instead of holding reserves against the risk of Exxon defaulting, Masters' team sold that risk to another bank for a fee. They called it a credit default swap. She said later: "I think these products appealed to me because I had a quantitative background. But they are also so creative." Other banks copied it within a few years, then insurance companies, then hedge funds, until the credit default swap wasn't protecting one loan anymore, it was insuring slices of mortgages nobody in the chain had actually read. By the end of 2007 the market built on that one Exxon deal had a notional value of $62 trillion, roughly four times the size of the entire US economy. AIG alone sold protection on securities its own traders didn't fully understand, and when American homeowners started defaulting in 2007 and 2008, the tool built to move risk quietly off one bank's books turned out to have wired every major bank on earth to every other one. Lehman Brothers collapsed. AIG needed a $182 billion bailout to avoid taking the whole system down with it. Selling a risk doesn't make it disappear. It just moves to whoever understands it least, and in 2008 that turned out to be almost everyone. When Congress finally asked who had invented the credit default swap in the first place, one member of the committee didn't want an explanation. He wanted a name: "Who was the brilliant person who came and said, 'Let's do credit default swaps?' Find him! Fire him!" The Guardian later called her one of "the destroyers of the world." Vanity Fair ranked her 100th on its list of people most to blame for the crisis, just behind Bernie Madoff. Watch the JPMorgan team who built it explain, in their own words, how a weekend at a resort turned into the tool that broke the banking system.