@iowahawkblog#WhyYouShouldReadMe.
I’m a man with a Master of Divinity who discovered theology because of Xenogears and Evangelion. Because I write the kind of stories I want to read, and those stories take both metaphysics and fun seriously.
In Nashville I ordered hot chicken.
The woman at the counter was named Brenda. She did not ask if I wanted it spicy.
She asked how much of my afternoon I was willing to lose.
"Mild, medium, hot, XXX, or the one we do not put on the menu?"
A guest does not choose the lightest blade.
"XXX," I said.
Brenda looked at me the way a smith looks at a man who has asked for a sword sharper than his hands.
"You ever had this before?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"I am sure."
She wrote it down. No mercy.
It arrived. Red. Gleaming. Beautiful the way a warning is beautiful.
I took one bite.
For three seconds there was chicken.
Then there was only light.
A child at the next table whispered, "Mama, that man is glowing."
Brenda glanced once. "You good?"
I could not feel my tongue. I nodded anyway. A samurai does not negotiate with poultry.
She set down a glass of milk I had not ordered.
"On the house. Everybody gets one lie. Yours was XXX."
I finished it. The chicken won.
I returned the next day.
Brenda smiled, not unkind.
"Medium?"
"...Medium."
She nodded like a teacher watching a student finally read the room.
In Japan we test a blade by cutting, then leave the student alone with the lesson.
In Nashville they test a man by fire—
then set the milk down like a hand on his shoulder.
That is not cruelty.
That is belonging.
America does not ask if you can take the heat.
America brings the heat.
Then America brings the milk.
@BadgerSensei@restart_rec I grabbed randomly from the shelf. First Lodoss Wars, next Slayers, then..... La Blue Girl.
I do not know why those were so together on the same shelf.
I learned a lot.
I went to In-N-Out and ordered a cheeseburger. The cashier, a calm young woman named Destiny, asked me a question I did not expect.
"You want that Animal Style?"
I paused.
I did not know what this meant. But a samurai does not admit he does not know. So I answered with weight.
"...Animal Style."
"Cool. So that's mustard-grilled, extra spread, grilled onions, pickles. Yeah?"
I understood now. This was a sacred permission. For one meal, I was being told to put down my manners at the door. To eat the way a beast eats, without shame. I had waited my whole life for someone to give me this order.
"Yes," I said. "I will become the animal."
Destiny did not blink. "...Okay. You want your fries Animal Style too?"
I stopped. Even the potatoes?
"The potatoes also become animals?"
"I mean, they get cheese and sauce and grilled onions, so..."
"Then yes. Let the potatoes abandon their restraint as well."
"...Got it." She was the calmest woman I have ever met. "3x3, 4x4, or just the one?"
I did not know these numbers, but I knew a challenge when I heard one. "How many must I face?"
"It's, like, how many patties you want."
"How many is the most honorable?"
"...Four is a lot."
"Then four. A warrior does not ask for fewer."
She wrote it down without argument. A 4x4, Animal Style, with animal fries. She warned me once, kindly. "That's gonna be huge." I told her I was counting on it.
It arrived. It was a tower. Cheese and sauce ran down my hands the moment I lifted it. There was no clean way to eat it. There was no dignified way. That was the entire point.
I ate it like a beast. Both hands, no honor, grilled onion on my chin, and I have to be honest with you, it was the best thing I have ever put in my mouth.
For thirty years I have kept my manners at every table in the world.
They handed me a burger and told me to be an animal, and I have never felt so free.
So tell me, America.
The whole country knows the secret menu. What else are you hiding in plain sight?
And "Animal Style." Was I eating the animal, or finally becoming one?
Rabbi Shmuley is demanding on Easter that all Christians accept that it was the Romans, not the Jews, who murdered Jesus.
Shmuley says the New Testament is clear: the Romans murdered Jesus, not the Jews, and this must be accepted as fact.
What's your message to Rabbi Shmuley?
To be fair, my son’s love language is violence. He was about four years old when he looked at me and said, “daddy. I’ve got a great idea. I want you to punch me in the face.”
Chill out Tyler Durden.
@richey_paula@TheGr8Scot I used to have the demon dreams too. I remember being to petrified to speak while they screwed with the furniture in my grandma’s house.
“Seriously! Can you all stop expecting me to work 16 hours of the seventeenth I’m awake? *five minutes later* …..Man, I want a farmstead in the middle of nowhere.”