My political philosophy by example... D: Guns should be banned/regulated! Me: Go fuck yourselves. R: Porn should be banned/regulated! Me: Go fuck yourselves. Hope that clears things up.

ダリと猫

I stood before a long glass counter, and behind it a line of cooks waited for my command, asking me, one by one, what should be done. I had thought I was merely buying lunch. A bowl, I was told. But this was no bowl handed down finished. This was a bowl built before my eyes, by my word, item by item, down the line. The first cook lifted his scoop. "Rice or no rice?" I went still. He was not telling me. He was asking me. As if my answer governed what came next. "Rice," I said. It was done. He stepped aside. The next stood ready. "Beans? Chicken? Steak?" "What is asked of me here," I said slowly, "is to decide each thing, and watch it obey." "Uh — yeah," she said, scoop hovering. "It's your bowl, man. You build it." You build it. I understood then. This was a procession of the will. Each cook a faithful retainer, each holding their station, awaiting one word from me, and at that word, acting — without question, without delay. My smallest wish, "a little more of that," landed in the bowl like a decree obeyed. (I confess my voice shook on the salsa. To command without trembling, when six attendants await your judgment and a line forms behind you — this is harder than any council of war. I kept my chin level. I chose the medium.) A man behind me shifted his weight. I turned and bowed. "Forgive me. Please — you, take your turn. I am still learning to lead." I stepped back. He laughed and waved me on. A woman further down hesitated at the choices, lost, and I leaned in: "Begin with the rice. The rest will follow. They will wait for you." When my bowl was full, I looked at the cooks who had built it — six of them, each who had taken my word and made it real — and I pressed my hand to my chest. "You followed every command I gave," I said. "I have led armies who listened worse." The man at the register rang me up. "It's eleven fifty." I carried the bowl with both hands to a table, set it down, and bowed to it before I ate, because every single thing in it had been placed there by someone who waited, patiently, to hear what I wanted.

I came to lift one weight. I left a legend. Four times over. Against my will. It started small. A modest weight. Then a man the size of a door walked past and roared: "LET'S GO, BEAST!" Beast. Me. Mid-lift. From a stranger. A beast does not set the weight down. So I did not set the weight down. (I wanted to set the weight down.) Then — "Get it, CHAMP." A woman this time. A second rank, conferred in passing. I bowed mid-repetition, which is far harder than it sounds. Then — "ONE MORE, WARRIOR. You GOT this!" Warrior. That one I earned across an entire lifetime. He handed it to me for a single rep. I could not insult it by failing. So I did one more. Then another. Beast. Champ. Warrior. Killer. Big guy. They would not stop naming me — so I could not stop deserving it. My arms were gone. My spirit was on fire. I said nothing. A warrior does not announce that he can no longer feel his hands. I racked the bar. The whole corner of the room — strangers, all of them — clapped. For the beast. For the champ. For the warrior. The big one slapped my shoulder. "Same time tomorrow?" "...Yes," I said, with great and total calm, while every muscle I own filed a formal complaint. I will be there. A man who has been called Warrior cannot, in good conscience, skip leg day.

🌏 Assuming your national GDP would decline by 5% for the next 5 years, would you still agree to stopping most immigration to your country?

The girl at the coffee counter asked for my name. So I gave her my name. Not the small one. In my country a man does not offer his given name to a stranger; he offers the name of his house, the banner his ancestors died beneath. "Oda," I said. Three letters. Eight hundred years. She wrote it on the cup and called it out. "Ota?" I turned to the cup. There, in black ink, was the house she had given me. OTA. I went still. One stroke of her marker, and I had been adopted into another family. In my country this is not done lightly. To enter a new house takes a marriage, a war, or a death, and the approval of elders who argue for a year. This woman did it in three seconds, with a pen, while steaming milk. A lesser man would have corrected her. I did not. Who was I to refuse the house? She had looked at me, weighed my whole bloodline, and judged me an Ota. The cup does not lie. The cup is the document. I was holding, still warm, the deed to a family I had not known that morning. So I bowed. "Thank you," I said, "for the house of Ota." She said, "no worries!" and called the next name. She did not know she had married me into a new clan. They never do. The ones who rename us never feel the weight of the banner they hand us. I sat by the window and drank the coffee of the house of Ota. It was, I confess, a fine house. Quieter than my own. Fewer enemies. That night I wrote to the elders of Oda, to explain, with honor, that I had been received into another family by a barista, and that I would carry both names with equal pride, and bring no shame to either. They have not written back. Eight hundred years of Oda, ended at a coffee counter, is a great deal to take in. I give them time. I keep the cups now. ODA. OTA. ODE. Once, gloriously, ODER, which I am fairly sure is a third house entirely. A lesser man would mourn the name he lost. I have decided I am the head of every house the cup grants me, and I will defend them all, one cup at a time, to the last drop.

We. Are. So. Back. 😍

It's a @JimBeam and @FLOW_official night. youtube.com/watch?v=AE4b9jO1…

In America, two strangers will speak with great feeling for several minutes, and the entire conversation will be about a dog. A woman approached me in the park. Her dog approached first. She crouched, beaming, and said, "he likes you! He never likes anyone!" I was honored. I bowed to the dog. Then I bowed to her, for I believed introductions would now begin, as honor demands between two souls who have shared a moment. They did not begin. She asked the dog's opinion of me. The dog gave it. She thanked the dog. She told me his name, his age, his breed, and the food he prefers. She did not ask mine. She did not offer hers. I learned that the dog is named Biscuit, that he is seven, that he fears the vacuum, and that he once ate a sock and survived. I know this dog's medical history. I do not know this woman's name. Then she said "well, say bye, Biscuit!" and they left. I stood there, fully acquainted with a dog I will never see again, and a perfect stranger to the human who loves him. So tell me honestly. I have lived here one month. I have met forty dogs. I know all of their names. I have not learned a single human one. Am I making friends, or am I simply being slowly introduced to every dog in the city, one at a time? Because Biscuit, at least, will remember me.

I may have an old POS car, but at least it’s not a Ford🤣🤣

We had those too. They were the inside toys. Outside we shot each other with BB guns.

言ってもわからない奴はぶん殴ればいいんだよ。昔はテレビだってそうやって直してたんだから。

Just know that there's someone out there who thinks you are amazing and truly believes you have made a positive impact on their life. But it's not me though, I think you're a fucking retard.

Marxists are just the incels of economics.

Boobs. That's all. I don't have anything else to say.

鶏ガラ卵グリッツ 今日は鶏ガラスープの素と早煮昆布の出汁をグリッツに吸わせ、チューブの生姜を少し入れて煮た。溶き卵と刻みネギを加えて緩めに作り、最後にごま油を少し。味は塩と醤油で調整。卵粥らしく朝食や体調が悪い時の食事に向きそう🥹

Trying to get 12 tiny little pills sorted out after six shots of rye is annoying.

Shit, it's eleven o'clock, I'm pretty drunk, and I haven't taken my heart medicine yet. Being old is annoying.

Something for the Japaniki this evening. This is Roy Clark. He was one of the best guitarists to ever live. He was also an enormous goofball. youtube.com/watch?v=xlrcNtH5…