You know what, HELL YEAH.

Driving along Mississippi’s Gulf Coast. Our fifth state of the trip.☀️ Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to stop, but the beaches looked incredible. Guess we’ll have to come back someday.

USA. There is a beast that lives beneath the American sink. It is always hungry. I have chosen to honor it. The young man showing me the apartment said it casually, as if it were nothing. "Oh, and there's a disposal." He flipped a switch, and the drain ROARED — a grinding, growling thunder, hungry and alive — and then, at another flick, fell silent. Waiting. I did not flinch. But I understood at once what I was dealing with. For it is written that the oldest houses keep a guardian at the threshold of fire and water: a spirit of the hearth, fed in exchange for protection. Here, that spirit lives beneath the sink. It does not ask for prayers. It asks for scraps. And in return it devours what would rot, and keeps the whole house clean and sweet. So I fed it, with respect. The rind of an onion. A bow. The switch. The roar of a grateful god. I thanked it each time. I named it. I began to leave it the best scraps, not the worst — for a guardian deserves the finest tribute a kitchen can give. And here my heart rose, and I declared the thing a calmer man would not: "I will feed this hungry spirit so faithfully, and so well, that on the day misfortune finally comes for this house, it will rise from the drain in a column of righteous thunder and devour my every enemy whole — and I will stand calmly beside the sink and say, 'this one has been with me from the beginning.'" My landlord, doing the final walkthrough, heard the disposal roaring at midnight and knocked, concerned. "Everything okay in here?" "We are well," I said, gesturing to the sink. "He and I." He did not understand. But he nodded slowly, and left us to it. The drain has never clogged. The kitchen has never smelled of anything but morning. We have an understanding now, the beast and I. So tell me, America. You call it a garbage disposal. An appliance. A switch you flip without a thought. I call it the loyal hearth-beast of every house — fed in scraps, paid in thunder, asking nothing but to be remembered at supper.

USA. A backyard. One man guarding a grill for four hours. He never left it once. Everyone else drifted and drank and laughed. But one man stood alone before the flames, turning meat with a long fork, immovable. I knew him at once. The keeper of the sacred fire. I took my place beside him and said nothing. After a while, he spoke. "Low and slow," he said, eyes on the coals. "You can't rush it. Rush it, you ruin it." I bowed my head. A blade, a tea, a life. None can be rushed. I had crossed four thousand miles to hear my grandfather's words from a man in a "KISS THE COOK" apron. "Everything worth doing is slow," I agreed. He glanced at me. Something passed between us. "My wife says just use the oven." He shook his head at the fire. "She doesn't get it." "They never do," I said. And this is where it turned. For the first time in years, this man had been understood. And he rose to meet it. His back straightened. His voice dropped low. A teenager reached for the grill and the man lifted one hand without even looking. "Not yet." The boy retreated. He was becoming what I already believed him to be. A woman asked when the food would be done. "It's ready when it's ready," he told the flames. Three people approached. Three were turned away with a single word. By the fourth hour, no one questioned him. The whole party had arranged itself around the man and his fire, the way a village arranges itself around a shrine. Then he handed me the fork. "Watch it a sec. I gotta pee." I have been trusted with castles. I have never been more honored. He served everyone before himself, and ate last, standing, still watching the coals. We never traded names. We did not need to. He believed he had finally met a man who took his cooking seriously. I believed I had finally met America's last samurai. Neither of us will ever correct the other. So tell me, America. Who is the man at your gathering who will not leave the grill? Have you ever once asked him why? I think he is still standing there. Guarding the fire. Waiting for one person to understand.

My dumb idea of the day: We should establish something like birthstones, but for men. Instead of each month getting a gemstone, each month gets assigned a cut of meat. January: New York Strip February: Filet Mignon March: Porterhouse And so on. You’d ask a guy his birthday and instead of saying, “Oh, you’re an amethyst,” you’d say, “Ah, February. Filet Mignon. Sensitive, expensive, and a little smaller than expected.” I can hear the commercials already “Celebrate his birth month with the timeless elegance of brisket.”

buddy, I was writing 10 page papers without having read the book.

My brother is paying me $100 for every Wu-Tang lyric I use in grandpa's eulogy today. Scriptures about to hit the body like sawed-off shotties!

Listen idk the science behind this, but if you are naked and want to feel even MORE naked, just put on a pair of shoes.

Feel the what

“The right think guns are used for hunting and protection, because that’s what the right uses them for. The left think guns are used for murder, because that’s what the left uses them for.” (Matt Tabor) Few statements capture the divide between right and left on guns more truthfully than this.

When your daughter wants you to play the menacing kidnapper in the short film she’s shooting, but you dress up as Bill Murray in Caddyshack instead because she’ll never know😂

when will these storage wars end? theyve taken the lives of too many good men

Wake me up when it affects the world’s average condom maker

please can you guys not post my lowest moment all over the internet? none of you even know the real story

As a native Mississippian, this warms my redneck heart.

Just all day bangers coming out of Japan!

The law of averages says that some shitty Japanese X accounts must exist, but so far I haven’t seen them.

Just as the Mysterious Gypsy Woman foretold