Thomas Sowell: “Evidence is too dangerous—politically, financially and psychologically—for some people.”

Bye

I am not in fact anonymous. That is my real name. I have given you my real face.

1111

Gimli & Frodo at Mirrormere 🎨Ted Nasmith

How’s it going there hotel Jesuit? I don’t want to debate you. If you have a problem with me let’s fight no rules you little fucking bitch

I still won’t use the N-word because it’s only for the monkeys

Ram Jam - Black Betty Ram Jam (1977) Woah, Black Betty, bam-ba-lam

USA. I went to a shooting range in Nevada. The instructor pointed at a gun that was half the size of my torso and said, “This is the .44 Magnum.” I did not understand what a Magnum was. In Japan, Magnum means ice cream. A delicious, chocolate-coated ice cream bar. I assumed this was some kind of American dessert ritual. I held it with both hands, the way you hold a very large, very important ice cream. The instructor said, “Are you ready?” I thought he was asking if I was ready to eat. I said yes. The gun went off. My arms went back. My body went back. My soul briefly left the building to file a complaint. I looked at the target. There was a hole the size of my ambitions. The instructor was impressed. He said, “Nice shot.” I said, “It does not taste like chocolate.” He did not respond for a long time. I have returned to Japan. My wrists are fine. But I think about that ice cream every day. Is this normal? What flavor is the .357?

Shadow work or therapy. Which one actually changes you?

The menu said “Sloppy Joe.” I closed the menu. Slowly. A food had been named like a warning from HR. Sloppy Joe. Who was Joe? Why was he sloppy? Was this a sandwich, or evidence from a difficult Tuesday? The waitress came over. I pointed to the name. “Is Joe okay?” She said, “What?” I said, “The sloppy one.” She stared at me the way people stare at a parking meter that has started asking about grief. “It’s a sandwich.” That did not answer the question. The sandwich arrived. It had no posture. Meat falling sideways. Sauce everywhere. Bun holding on like a single parent at a water park. I respected the bun immediately. The bun knew this was not going to end well. I picked it up. Joe began leaving. Not all at once. Strategically. A little beef to the plate. A little sauce to the thumb. One mysterious drop to a place I still cannot explain. This was not eating. This was crisis management with bread. A man does not ask sloppy food to stand straight. He only becomes the napkin commander the moment requires. I took one bite. The sandwich made a sound. I made a different sound. Neither of us was proud. The waitress passed by and said, “Need extra napkins?” Need. A beautiful understatement. I needed cloth. I needed training. I needed to know what happened to Joe in childhood. But I only nodded. “Yes.” She brought napkins. Reinforcements. I finished the sandwich with both hands and reduced expectations. From now on, when America serves me Sloppy Joe, I will not ask for order. I will accept the mess, command the napkins, and remember that some men are not broken. They are just served on a bun.

Some love for the Denver Steak.

Golden Corral slander will not be tolerated. It may not be as good as it used to be but it held down family gatherings, after church Sunday visits, and grandparents spoilering their grandkids for generations. Show some respect!!! 😤

On this day in 1775, George Washington took command of the Continental Army. All he wanted his whole life was a British officer's commission. The Empire's inability to recognize and reward merit would become the most disastrous military personnel decision in human history.

Important detail

Too easy.

Practice failure and left-handed drills

I don’t regret those times at all. I got a PhD in human psychology