Is this permission to make out with her sister and friends? Since it’s non-sexual and all.

Brb booking a ticket to Korea

I’ve been watching this show with my family. This dude is AWESOME. He and his sis are great

"Dear Jeff Metcalf: Your Son Is Dead Because You Failed to Teach Him That Black Boys Have Boundaries" If you don't understand reactions like these, it's worth studying critical race theory and the language of anti-racism discourse. A few quotes from Prof. Patton's article: 1/

Cute theory, let's play it out. A monkey hoards a trillion bananas. The troop, enraged, beats him to death. They gather around the pile to feast at last. But... oh wait, there is no pile. It turns out the "bananas" were shares in a banana-launching company the dead monkey founded. The shares were worth a trillion because he was alive to run it. Now he is dead and the stock is worth $0. The retarded monkeys have clubbed their way into a recession. But it gets worse. Half the "bananas" were tied up in a rocket that supplies bananas to monkeys on the far mountain who had no bananas at all. Another chunk was tied up in a little satellite dish that beamed banana coordinates to the troop after a flood took out their trees. So now they realized they beat to death the only monkey who knew how the dish worked. So the monkeys sit there. No bananas. No rockets. No coordinates to get more banananas. Just a dead body and a powerful sense of fairness as they all now became infinitely poorer. OH And somewhere a smaller monkey watches the whole thing and quietly decides he will never build anything in front of these animals again.

Might as well face it… you’re addicted to love

My whole timeline is full of millionaires complaining about a trillionaire

Elon is now worth a trillion dollars which means Dave Ramsey may actually be okay with him buying a new car at the sticker price.

USA. A hibachi restaurant. My American friends brought me here to enjoy the cuisine of my homeland, and I witnessed a ritual I have never seen in eight hundred years of being Japanese. The chef stacked onion rings into a tower. He filled it with oil. And he set it on fire. "THE VOLCANO!" my friends cheered. They knew the ritual. They had seen it many times. In Japan, I have eaten ten thousand meals. No one has ever built me a volcano. I said nothing. A guest does not question the ceremony. "Is this how they do it back home?" my friend asked, glowing with joy. "...The technique is flawless," I said. A samurai may retreat. He may not lie. He may, however, aim the truth very carefully. Then the chef flicked a shrimp through the air at my face. "Catch it!" the table roared. In my land, food is set before you with two hands and an apology for the wait. Here, the shrimp attacks. I caught it. With my mouth. The table erupted. The chef saluted me with his spatula. I have received medals with less pride. "You're a natural," the chef said. "My family has trained for this for generations," I said. It was not technically a lie. We trained. Just not for this. My friends drove me home, full and happy, honored to have shown me my own country. A man does not question the volcano. He catches the shrimp. Whatever this cuisine is, wherever it was truly born — the fire is real, the joy is real, and I caught what was thrown at me. That is Japanese enough.

USA. A Mexican restaurant. We had not yet ordered anything, and the food was already arriving. Chips. Salsa. Unrequested. Free. I stopped the waiter. "We have not earned these." "They just come with the table, man." They come with the TABLE. In my land, hospitality is a debt. Every gift creates an obligation, weighed carefully, returned in the proper season with interest of feeling. Here, the gift arrives before you have even proven you can pay for dinner. This is not an appetizer. This is a declaration: we trust you. Eat. I ate with the gravity the moment deserved. And then — I must report this calmly — the basket emptied, and a new one appeared. "Did we…?" "Refill," the waiter said. "It's bottomless." Bottomless. They have wells of salsa. The supply lines of this nation are beyond anything my ancestors imagined. My friend warned me. "Don't fill up on chips, dude." Too late. I had accepted three baskets. Honor demanded each one be finished — an unfinished gift is an insult. By the time my actual food arrived, I was a ruined man. I was not hungry. I was not comfortable. I had been defeated by a courtesy. Generosity that arrives before the request cannot be repaid. It can only be survived. I know the rule now. I have made my peace with the basket. One basket. Two at the most. Who am I deceiving. There is no number of baskets I would refuse. The trust of a nation is in that salsa, and I intend to honor all of it.

This is my first article to really blow up. I'm glad you liked it, and shared it. this one was kind of important to me, so I really appreciate it.

How much do you pay and contribute, Bernard?

I think I found someone I can duet “Broken” with!!!!!

Should I defile “Dirty Little Secret” and sing it at karaoke? Of course I should.

I’ll give you one guess what the main demographic in common with them overwhelmingly was.