How do you think your dad convinced himself to fuck your mom, bro?
That’s right. Same way I convince myself to fuck your mom.
Now turn off the lights. She’s busy.
GP One word for you: Obamacare.
Health insurance wasn't nearly as big of a shitshow prior to the ACA. And you could get cheap catastrophic only coverage, which makes sense for young, healthy people.
A Waffle House at three in the morning. I ordered hash browns. The waitress, Charlene, turned toward the kitchen and shouted.
"Scattered, smothered, covered!"
I rose from my stool.
These were battle commands. Shouted across a room, fast, in code, the way a captain calls a line into position. Something was happening. I prepared myself.
"Who is under attack?" I asked.
Charlene turned back. "Huh? Oh. That's just your hash browns, baby."
I sat back down slowly. "...The potatoes have their own commands?"
"Mhm. Scattered means on the grill. Smothered's onions. Covered's cheese."
"And there are more?"
She counted them off without looking at a menu. "Chunked is ham. Diced is tomato. Peppered's jalapeños. Capped's mushrooms. Topped's chili. Country's sausage gravy."
I was silent for a moment. Nine words. Nine fates, for one potato.
In my homeland, a man earns a name through a lifetime of deeds. Here, a hash brown can earn nine in a single night. I had badly underestimated this country.
"I want all of them," I said. "Every word. The potato has earned them."
"...You want it all the way?"
"All the way. To give it fewer would be an insult."
Charlene shouted the whole thing back into the kitchen, the full litany, and the cook answered without turning around, and I stood again and bowed to him, sergeant to sergeant. He did not see it. It did not matter. I knew.
It came buried. Onions, cheese, ham, tomato, peppers, mushrooms, chili, gravy. You could barely find the potato underneath, which seemed correct, because by then the potato was no longer a side dish. It was a decorated soldier.
I ate the whole thing with a fork in both fists. It was hot and filthy and magnificent. I have eaten in palaces. I have never eaten anything that was honored this thoroughly.
So tell me, America.
You can shout the same potato into nine different lives.
Who wrote this language, and where can a foreigner learn it?
And the cook who answers in code at three in the morning. Is that a kitchen, or a war room?
@japan_nobunaga Between the time when Hennessy was drank and the handcuffing of wrists, there was a battle yet undreamed.
Unto this, a Waffle House chef was reforged into a mighty warrior, tempered under a hail of chairs flung in anger.
BEHOLD! Let me tell you of the days of high adventure…
@PolitiBunny Five hour plane flight last week with Mrs. Kahuna. Held her hand at takeoff and she would squeeze my hand during rough turbulence.
It’s weird that Casey (she/her) thinks couples touching each other is weird.
No rich person has ever told me "You owe me X amount of your paycheck" so they can pocket it and do whatever they want with it.
The government has.
You're never going to get me to join this anti-rich bandwagon.
@shoveitjack Sometimes I’ll say something witty to a lady customer, she’ll giggle and give me googly eyes, and my day is made.
Today, my new socks and tea mug are arriving and I can’t wait.
@CyborgPeds Mrs. Kahuna likes to scold me, yet I’ve charmed her family and coworkers with my antics. I’m an absolute treat and she’s flinging amateur diagnoses like, “This is why we think you’re autistic.”
The scandal is the utter arrogance you’re entitled to take what you didn’t create, combined with the damnfool notion that you — very specifically you, Red, plus your fellows — will somehow manifest panacea with it.
You’re already wasting MY taxes. You’ll only waste more.
Katie thinks the scandal is that I want billionaires to pay a little more in taxes.
The real scandal is that a handful of billionaires now hold vastly more wealth than millions of working Americans.
I believe those who have succeeded through work and entrepreneurship, including my family, should support our nation that made that success possible.
That’s the difference in our philosophy.
Meet Graham Platner:
Every military unit has one. Graham’s the living legend of every squad bay from Ramadi to wherever the hell else he rotated through.
While the rest of the platoon was wiring money home to the wife, fixing the truck, or pretending to save for that mythical “house,” Platner was the guy who treated his entire paycheck like a two-day liberty pass in Bangkok.
First and fifteenth? Straight to the ATM, then straight to the bar. Beers for the whole damn platoon (until the tab hit four figures), followed by the kind of “romantic investments” that left him broke, hungover, and explaining to the First Sergeant why his dress blues smelled like regret and regret’s cheaper cousin.
Other Marines came home with stories of valor. Graham came home with stories, a new tattoo he “doesn’t remember getting,” and the financial stability of a Somali pirate on shore leave.
Now he’s running for Senate as the working man’s champion.
Brother, the only thing you’ve ever championed is happy hour and poor decisions. The oyster farm must be doing real well to launder all those years of “supporting local talent.”
Semper Fi, you magnificent degenerate. Just don’t check your campaign finance reports for “entertainment expenses.”