• McDonald's brought back the McRib for a national farewell tour in the fall of 2022. 
• The McRib has had at least three other farewell tours and has been on and off menus since 1981.
• It's returned to menus every year since 2023 and is back in select cities on October 27.

When bidding fans a final goodbye, the McRib appears to be taking cues from rock bands like The Who and KISS. The bands are known for farewell tours that didn't stick. The iconic McDonald's sandwich is also pulling a fast one with fans. 

In 2022, McDonald's said the barbecue-slathered boneless pork hoagie would say goodbye to fans in an event billed as the McRib's farewell tour. But the McRib returned to select McDonald's locations in November 2023, and has made similar returns every year since. In fact, the chain announced it will release the McRib again in October in select cities.

For 45 years, the McRib sandwich has been popping up randomly on the McDonald's menu. 

Here's a look at the history of the sandwich. 

Mary Meisenzahl and Nancy Luna contributed to an earlier version of this story.

No single Argentine capability shaped British planning during the 1982 South Atlantic conflict more than the pairing of the Dassault Super Étendard strike fighter and its deadly AM39 Exocet anti-ship missile. Against that threat, the British launched a series of special forces operations, all with the same objective: kill the Argentine pilots and destroy their aircraft and missiles before they could be used again. Together, the strike fighter and missile pairing had proven to be the biggest threat to the Royal Navy task force that had been sent to recapture the islands.

Five Super Étendard aircraft and five AM39 Exocet missiles had been delivered to Argentina before a French embargo took hold. The jets were flown by the Argentine Navy’s 2nd Naval Fighter and Attack Squadron out of Río Grande, on Tierra del Fuego, a region at South America’s southernmost tip, shared by Chile and Argentina. The Super Étendard/Exocet combination had already cost the British the destroyer HMS Sheffield on May 4 and the container ship Atlantic Conveyor on May 25.

The special forces operations were broken down into four phases — named PLUM DUFF, MIKADO, KETTLEDRUM, and IMPI — the last of which is the least well-documented, and the focus of this article.

PLUM DUFF was the insertion phase and was a reconnaissance mission. On May 16, an RAF Hercules airdropped eight special forces troops onto RFA Fort Austin to form a recce party. On the night of May 17/18, a Sea King HC4, ZA290, lifted off from the aircraft carrier HMS Invincible for a one-way flight to Tierra del Fuego, where the men were to observe Río Grande and report back. The patrol was set down far from the objective and never completed the reconnaissance; the helicopter crew flew on into Chile, where the aircraft was deliberately burnt to try and hide the evidence, while they tried to evade capture.

MIKADO was the planned attack phase, and it depended on that missing intelligence. Two Hercules were to air-land up to 70 men of B Squadron, 22 Special Air Service (SAS), directly on Río Grande — the air operation order of May 19 also named Río Gallegos, further up the Argentine coast, as an alternative. The men would destroy the Super Étendards and their Exocets on the ground, kill the pilots, and then withdraw overland into Chile. Commander Task Force 317, at Northwood, accepted from the outset that the mission could well cost both Hercules.

The aircrew did not refuse the task, but they were blunt about what it demanded: formation landing by two heavy transports on a possibly heavily defended, icy military runway, with a probable 20-knot tailwind, at night and on passive night-vision goggles in minimum light levels, with intelligence that was inadequate to support any air-land option at all. The RAF planning team recommended an airdrop as the better way to maintain a covert posture, and the Senior Air Staff Officer at Headquarters 38 Group warned the Air Commander to watch for overambitious schemes coming out of the SAS.

The U.K. Ministry of Defense formally cancelled MIKADO on June 4.

KETTLEDRUM was planned as the third of the set. It was aimed at Puerto Deseado, Santa Cruz Province of Argentina, and would have inserted a Special Boat Service party (SBS, the Royal Marines’ special forces unit) from the submarine HMS Onyx — a boat that will reappear before the end of this story.

None of the three was executed as planned.

Less well-known is that the cancellation of MIKADO produced a fourth project: Operation IMPI, named after a Zulu fighting force.

Cancelling MIKADO did not mean the wider operation was over. Also on June 4, the U.K. Ministry of Defense tasked CTF 317 to produce a new plan for special forces to destroy the combat effectiveness of the Super Étendards.

CTF 317’s staff went to work on what became IMPI. The planning document, Ops 1/3, is dated June 14 — the day of the Argentine surrender in the islands. In broad terms, the objective was to be attacked by special forces arriving both by air and by sea.

That much has been known, in fragments.

What has not been published until now is the fact that the operation had already been resourced.

At 2240Z on June 12, Maj. Gen. Jeremy Moore, commanding the land forces as CTG 317.1, signalled Rear Admiral Sandy Woodward’s battle group (CTG 317.8), with Admiral Sir John Fieldhouse at Northwood (CTF 317) and Commodore Michael Clapp’s amphibious group (CTG 317.0) as information addressees. The message called for B Squadron, 22 SAS, to be made available for operations as soon as possible: cover was needed against rapid developments of an unfavorable nature in West Falkland (Gran Malvina), and the theatre’s existing special forces assets were fully absorbed supporting the battle for Stanley — and IMPI. Operation IMPI, Moore noted in passing, was by then self-sufficient.

Examining two lines of routine signal traffic settles several things at once. Forty-eight hours before the surrender, IMPI was not a staff study but an operation that had been resourced, and that was enough to consume the theatre’s special forces and justify calling a fresh SAS squadron forward. It is also the only contemporary, operational-level reference to IMPI released so far: everything else comes from a narrative written years afterwards.

As that later narrative describes it, the concept behind IMPI was much leaner than MIKADO. Against two Hercules and 70 men, the air element of IMPI rested on a single RAF Hercules.

The aircraft was to fly from Ascension Island, refuel in flight, and then track east of the Falkland Islands and south of Cape Horn before making a low-level approach below Argentine radar cover for a night landing of special forces at the airfields codenamed San Jose and Arco Iris. Other special forces would have been inserted by sea. That air element, as will be seen, is the most questionable part of the entire file.

The routing is worth attention, because it rules out the intuitive picture of a direct run south from Ascension. Instead, the aircraft would have entered from the least-covered and least-expected direction, coming around the bottom of the continent rather than from the northeast.

The precise identities of San Jose and Arco Iris are not established in the declassified record.

The most likely reading is that they stand for Río Grande and Río Gallegos — the airfields at which the planned navigation ended, and the two named in MIKADO’s air operation order a month earlier. For a document circulating through restricted channels, encrypting the names of the two targets was an elementary precaution, although it should be noted that an operational order would more commonly have designated them simply as Target One and Target Two.

None of this rules out Chilean participation in other phases of the operation; if anything, it suggests it’s more likely. The narrative survives inside a folder classified Top Secret and restricted to the Chief of the Air Staff, whose declared subject is cooperation with Chile. That setting contrasts with the earlier stage of the planning, when mounting and recovering a special forces insertion from a Chilean airfield was considered and expressly discounted on political grounds — much as the use of an Antarctic strip was discounted after the New Zealand High Commission advised that the Antarctic winter precluded safe trans-polar flight.

The maritime half of IMPI can be traced in the records of those who were there.

Navigational support for the final phase was to come from the nuclear attack submarine HMS Conqueror. On June 9, 1982, Conqueror was off Bahía Camarones, working as an advanced picket and hunting targets of opportunity that ventured outside the 12-nautical-mile limit of Argentine territorial waters, with authority to sink any civilian vessel judged to be running to the Falklands/Malvinas; that same morning the sub had in fact entered Argentine territorial waters trying to locate the Argentine Navy’s Task Group 79.2.

That day, Conqueror received preparatory information on IMPI. The sub’s task was to come to periscope depth and act as a radio beacon, giving the Hercules a radio reference against which to refine a navigation that, low and at night, allowed no error. The resulting picture is an odd one: a nuclear submarine deployed on interdiction off the Patagonian coast, turned into a navigation aid for a transport aircraft.

The insertion itself fell to HMS Onyx, the Oberon class diesel-electric boat that had already taken part in Operation KETTLEDRUM and the only conventional submarine Britain deployed to the South Atlantic. On June 14, at 0815Z, lying in San Carlos Water, Onyx embarked a party of 10 men from B Squadron, 22 SAS and the SBS for the mission. The timing matches Moore’s signal of two days earlier almost exactly.

The plan called for the submarine to surface some two nautical miles offshore at night. The troops would close the beach in Gemini inflatables and destroy the objective — aircraft and missiles, if any were there — using anti-tank weapons and demolition charges.

What happened next illustrates the inertia of military machinery. The Argentine surrender in the islands came on that same June 14, hours after the party had gone aboard Onyx. Even so, preparations did not stop at once: on June 15 the embarked troops carried out practice landings from a Gemini. That does not mean IMPI was ever executed — it was not — but it does show that with the strategic outcome already settled, the machine was still rehearsing.

The British record closes the matter with administrative dryness: the surrender of the Argentine forces in the Falkland Islands and the cessation of hostile activity by Argentine aircraft resulted in the operation being cancelled.

The air part of the mission is another matter entirely and is where IMPI becomes more uncertain.

The only link between IMPI and an aircraft is a single paragraph in an RAF historical narrative. The folder that holds it was opened on April 18, 1986 — four years after the war — as an eyes-only briefing file for the Chief of the Air Staff, and the pages appear to be a working draft rather than a finished submission, carrying pencil amendments throughout.

Had a Hercules been earmarked, there is no doubt which unit would have provided it. The Special Forces Flight that runs through the whole chapter — five crews, commanded by a squadron leader, exercising regularly with SAS and SBS Sections — appears with its squadron number blanked out, yet the number surfaces a few paragraphs later, where two of its crews are described training on the probe-fitted Hercules C1P. The unit was No. 47 Squadron, RAF, home-based at Lyneham, and it would keep the special forces air support role for decades afterward.

The men who were at Ascension with that detachment, however, say they had nothing to do with it. Reliable sources with direct knowledge of the flight’s activity state that they never saw the codeword at the time, had never heard of the operation until this file surfaced, and consider it inconceivable that a special forces Hercules and crew could have been earmarked for a mission of this kind without the flight — a community of five crews that has stayed in touch ever since — learning of it at some point in the intervening four decades. By June 14, at most one aerial-refueling-qualified special forces crew was at Wideawake.

That skepticism is reinforced by the way the same narrative handles events those crews lived through. Its account of their own work-up does not survive contact with their logbooks.

For example, a practice infiltration into RAF Laarbruch in Germany that the narrative describes as successful had in fact been detected; the Hercules was notionally shot down about two miles out on the approach. The ramp toes (attachable extension plates located at the very end of the rear cargo ramp) it describes as droppable at 20 to 30 knots were never meant to be lowered with the aircraft moving, which would have been unsafe and risked the airframe. There are other anomalies, too.

A document that misstates the squadron’s own exercises is thin evidence on which to place that squadron over Tierra del Fuego.

What is not in question is what the Special Forces Flight could have done, had it been asked.

By mid-May the flight had two crews qualified in air-to-air refueling — one deployed to Ascension, the other held in the United Kingdom to train the others — flying Hercules C1s fitted with probes and, where the task required it, additional fuel tanks in the fuselage. It had rehearsed stream landings and rapid offloads, parachute insertion below radar cover to a pinpoint coastal feature, as well as flying on ANVIS goggles at 250 feet over sea and land. The goggles themselves were fitted to the crews’ helmets by RAE Farnborough specialists in a single day in mid-April. The reach was demonstrated on May 16, when the sortie that dropped the PLUM DUFF party stayed airborne for 24 hours and five minutes, with Victor tankers refueling some 1,800 miles from Ascension. Almost none of it was routine: nearly everything the force did during the conflict was improvised, at speed, in a matter of weeks.

What never had an answer — not for MIKADO, and not for whatever IMPI intended — was the other end of the problem. Putting men ashore deep inside Argentine territory was the solvable half. Getting an aircraft and its passengers out again after a direct action, from a strip in range of the Argentine Air Force, was not.

All of the above is reconstructed from lateral references: the RAF’s narrative in file AIR 20/13036 at the National Archives, unit records, submarine logs, operational signal traffic, and the accounts of participants.

The specific file — the one holding the complete plan with its annexes, the identification of the airfields and the execution sequence — remains closed. It is DEFE 71/980, titled Operation Corporate (Falklands Conflict): Operation IMPI, retained at the National Archives at Kew with no announced opening date. Until it is released, the air element of IMPI cannot be settled either way.

Forty-four years after the conflict, the last British special operation of the war is still, in essence, a document the British state is not prepared to show. That is not a trivial detail: the files touching on cooperation with Chile have consistently been the most reluctantly opened of all.

What remains is an operation of two halves. One of them is solid: a resourced plan, declared self-sufficient on June 12, with a nuclear submarine briefed to act as a beacon, 10 men of the SAS and the SBS embarked in a conventional submarine in San Carlos on the morning of the surrender, and rehearsals continuing the following day. The other half — a lone Hercules coming round Cape Horn to land on a codenamed strip — rests on one paragraph of a flawed staff narrative and is rejected by the only men who could have flown it.

Either way, the obsession is the same.

Between June 4 and June 14, 1982, while the final battle for Port Stanley/Puerto Argentino was being fought and the Argentine land campaign was collapsing, part of the British planning effort was still revolving around five French-built aircraft, their 10 aircrew, and their missiles. That the plan carries the date of the surrender itself, that it was still being rehearsed the following day, and that it remains classified today says a good deal about how far the British were prepared to go to destroy the Super Étendards and their Exocets.

Contact the editor: thomas@thewarzone.com

Mariano Sciaroni holds a master’s degree in Strategy and Geopolitics as well as a postgraduate diploma in Contemporary Military History, both earned at the Argentine Army’s Military Academy. Sciaroni has published five books and numerous articles on military and naval history. He is also an active member of the Argentine Institute of Military History and serves as a sub-lieutenant in the Argentine Army Reserve (Army Aviation Reserve Squadron). You can find out more about his books here.

The post Britain’s Final Plan To Kill Argentina’s Super Étendard Attack Jets appeared first on TWZ.

• The US has diverse architecture and building designs across the 50 states.
• History, art, and local aesthetics are all reflected in some of America's most unique buildings.
• From prehistoric dwellings to kitschy designs, these buildings make for unique tourist attractions.

Throughout its 250-year history, the US has produced some striking and unique architecture that you can't find anywhere else — and lots of it can look wildly different across state lines.

Defining what we consider "coolest" is hard. We evaluated every state on its own terms and found that the architecture across all 50 states and Washington, DC, can be as diverse as the country's population.

In states like California and Massachusetts, picking the most striking building meant finding ones that look futuristic and elegant, like something out of a science-fiction movie. In other states, like Maine and the Carolinas, we found that the coolest buildings are distinctive because of their place in history or their states' cultures.

Whether you're looking for a piece of history or a glimpse into the future, these buildings can show you what different worlds look like.

James Grebey and Jacob Shamsian contributed to an earlier version of this story.

The article examines how editorial disputes, legal restrictions and institutional decisions shape the way Palestinian history, suffering and political expression are presented to the public.

by Patti Johnson, Glory To God Studio: As a baby boomer raised in a sheltered, church-going family, I loved the Beatles like every other teenager. I wore out my copy of Sgt. Pepper and sang “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” I had zero idea that “Lucy” stood for LSD, or that John Lennon was […]

Hungary’s Western anchor is set. The rest depends on pipelines, not speeches.

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The days of October

“Magyarország nem kompország”: Hungary is not a “ferry country”; it cannot drift between East and West. With this statement, delivered on October 23 before the Parliament in Budapest, Prime Minister Péter Magyar set the political tone for the 70th anniversary of the 1956 revolution. Immediately afterward, he added that in ’56 the Hungarians had already made their choice: “We belong to a free and democratic Europe.”

The phrase is no accident. The kompország is an image coined by Endre Ady, who in 1905 described Hungary as a ferry doomed to shuttle back and forth between East and West without ever docking permanently on either shore. For sixteen years, Viktor Orbán had overturned that assessment, transforming the oscillation into a strategy: Hungary as a bridge, Moscow’s interlocutor within the European Union, a hub of “opening to the East.” The new government chose the day most steeped in memory on the national calendar to declare that era over. This is the political significance of the day, and it is the appropriate place to begin.

On October 23, 1956, students from the Budapest University of Technology took to the streets in solidarity with Polish workers. The procession gathered in front of the statue of General Bem, then headed toward the Parliament; among their demands were free elections and the withdrawal of Soviet troops. In the evening, part of the crowd moved to Városliget, where the monument to Stalin stood. The Budapest police chief, Sándor Kopácsi, provided a detailed account in his book *Au nom de la classe ouvrière*: the demonstrators wrapped a steel cable around the neck of the statue—which, including its pedestal, stood about twenty-five meters tall—while others, who had arrived in trucks loaded with oxygen tanks and cutting torches, began cutting through the bronze at the level of the boots. It took about an hour for the statue to collapse. Only the boots remained on the pedestal, into which a Hungarian flag was planted. At the same time, in front of the Radio headquarters, the political police (ÁVH) opened fire on the crowd, and the protest turned into an armed uprising.

On October 25, in Kossuth Square, shots fired at demonstrators gathered in front of the Parliament caused a massacre whose death toll, even today, ranges from a few dozen to several hundred. This year’s state ceremony took place in that same square.

The revolution was not a bloodless affair on just one side. In the alleys of the 8th and 9th districts, around Corvin Passage, groups of insurgents—many of whom were boys barely out of their teens—attacked Soviet tanks with Molotov cocktails, and many crew members were burned to death inside their vehicles. Total Soviet casualties exceeded seven hundred. The fiercest violence, however, was directed at the men of the political police. On October 30, in Republic Square (Köztársaság tér), the insurgents stormed the party headquarters in Budapest: more than twenty ÁVH officers and conscripts were killed, some lynched and hanged from trees, along with City Secretary Imre Mező. The revolution’s own leaders condemned these acts and called for an end to summary justice.

The October 28 ceasefire marked the beginning of the withdrawal phase. Moscow agreed to withdraw its units from Budapest on the condition that they be replaced by Hungarian units and that the insurgents surrender their weapons. The columns in direct contact with the fighters left their positions on October 30; the last ones departed from the Parliament area in the early afternoon of the 31st. It was a retreat carried out in an openly hostile atmosphere. The groups at the Corvin Passage, convinced that this was a ruse, refused to assist in securing the convoys, and their suspicion was not unfounded: several armored vehicles remained hidden in Népliget and other parts of the city. However, the available sources—both Hungarian and Soviet—do not document any systematic attacks against the departing troops during those two days. The most harrowing accounts—those of Soviet soldiers killed while fleeing from burning vehicles—pertain to the clashes that occurred after November 4. Meanwhile, on October 31, the Presidium of the CPSU had already overturned the decision.

On November 1, Imre Nagy’s government proclaimed the country’s neutrality and its withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact. At dawn on November 4, Operation “Turbine” brought seventeen Soviet divisions back to Budapest. The final toll included approximately 2,500 Hungarian deaths, about 200,000 exiles, tens of thousands of convictions, and more than two hundred executions; Nagy, Pál Maléter, and Miklós Gimes were hanged after a secret trial in June 1958.

Three squares, three memories

Magyar said that for years Hungarians had been led to believe that the national holiday belonged to a single political party. The day showed that the memory of ’56 remains divided, even if the roles have been reversed. The state held its celebrations in Kossuth Square, with the morning flag-raising ceremony and a solemn session of Parliament. Fidesz, KDNP, and Mi Hazánk did not participate because they do not recognize the legitimacy of the new President of the Republic, András Baka.

Fidesz organized its own “March of the National Flag” from the Technical University to Bem Square, following the route taken by the students in 1956. Speakers included former President János Áder, historian Mária Schmidt, and parliamentary group leader János Bóka. For the first time in many years, Orbán did not deliver the October 23 speech: he was in Paris and limited himself to sharing Bóka’s video on social media. The slogan chosen for the demonstration—“No war, no gender, no migration—God, homeland, family”—makes it quite clear which interpretation of 1956 the opposition intends to uphold: that of a revolt for the nation, faith, and family against ideology—an interpretation to be revived today against Brussels.

Mi Hazánk has taken this interpretation to its logical conclusion. Its leader, László Toroczkai, has argued that in 1956 the Hungarians did not rebel against Russia but against an internationalist empire—and that today that empire is called the European Union—which reveals that, at least for a segment of the Hungarian right, 1956 has become an anti-Western symbol.

Magyar’s speech in Kossuth Square addressed this contentious issue. He recalled Erika Szeles, Péter Mansfeld, István Angyal, Nagy, and Maléter; he said that military superiority was able to crush the revolution and execute “the martyred prime minister,” but could not extinguish the desire for freedom. Then he turned to the present. Those who seek support against their own people “in Moscow or elsewhere,” he said, should remember that power sustained by foreign backing lasts only a short while. Anyone who, after 1956, parades an aggressor through the streets or subordinates the nation to foreign empires “has understood nothing of the message of ’56,” and Magyar added: “whether in Budapest or on a Parisian terrace” . The target was Orbán.

The section on foreign policy was brief and clear: Hungary wants to be a reliable ally and an equal partner, not a country that follows an isolated course. The speech never explicitly mentioned Russia, nor did it speak of neutrality. This choice is significant. In 1956, neutrality was Nagy’s ultimate demand; seventy years later, the Hungarian government interprets that same legacy as an anchor to the West, not as equidistance.

Brussels in Budapest

The presence of Commission President Ursula von der Leyen and European Council President António Costa gave the day an explicitly European framework. Von der Leyen, on her first visit to Hungary since 2024, spoke in Parliament of a return “to a reborn country.” She said that in 1956 even the Soviets were afraid, because a victory by the Hungarian people would have spread the desire for democracy. She then directly linked the anniversary to the April 12 election: in April, Hungary would once again send a message of hope, demonstrating that democratic regression is reversible. She had already made the same comparison between Orbán’s defeat and the 1956 revolution in the aftermath of the elections, sparking protests among the Hungarian right.

The rest of the guest list was more modest than the government had led people to believe. Delegations were sent by some forty countries, almost all at the level of ministers or parliamentary speakers; Moldovan President Maia Sandu and Georgian Prime Minister Irakli Kobakhidze were in attendance. Emmanuel Macron, whose attendance Magyar had announced in an interview, did not attend: the French embassy clarified that the visit had never been confirmed, following days of tension over certain comments by the Hungarian prime minister regarding the unrest in France. Also absent were Giorgia Meloni, who was visiting Kuwait, and Donald Tusk, who was in India. Volodymyr Zelenskyy was not present; Ukraine was represented by the Speaker of Parliament. Vladimir Putin was the only head of state from Europe to not receive an invitation.

On October 23, he symbolically confirmed a shift that had already begun in practice. The Magyar government has classified Russia as a security threat, given the green light to open four negotiation chapters for Ukraine’s accession to the European Union, and set the 2027 defense budget at 2% of GDP. The role of bridge between Europe and Russia—which Orbán had made the hallmark of Hungarian foreign policy—is no longer government doctrine.

It remains to be seen to what extent this can be achieved in practice. Last April, Magyar pointed out that Hungary is “close to Russia” and that paying more for raw materials harms European competitiveness; he said he was ready for pragmatic cooperation with Moscow and wanted to renegotiate the terms of Paks II with the Kremlin. Oil still comes via the Druzhba pipeline, and the country’s only nuclear power plant burns Russian fuel. Energy Minister István Kapitány maintains that, starting in October 2027, gas could come entirely from non-Russian sources, and a decision on Paks II is expected by the end of the year.

The 70th anniversary thus leaves one question unanswered. Ady feared that Hungary would remain a ferry forever. Orbán had tried to turn the ferry into a bridge. Magyar now promises a permanent landing on the western shore. Whether that landing will be stable will be determined more by geography and infrastructure than by speeches.

The two squares on October 23—Kossuth and Bem—did not celebrate the same revolution.

Twenty years since the DPRK’s first nuclear test is a good occasion to recall things that seemed far from obvious at the time. To begin with, had the United States and the collective West been less inclined to view North Korea as a tyrannical regime on the verge of collapse, and had they therefore faithfully […]

10/27/1787: First Federalist Paper is published.

The post Today in Supreme Court History: October 27, 1787 appeared first on Reason Magazine.