Hugo Cabrera

[ceciarmy @ceciarmy]

El jefe de la mafia canina

[Sopitas @sopitas]

Yo cuando me dicen: “que baile, que baile”

[Indie 505 @Indie5051]

JAJAJA

[Martinalgui @MartinoliCuri]

ÚLTIMA HORA: Personal de SEMEFO retira el cuerpo de Santi Giménez del Estadio Azteca.

[sasha @lobotosasha]

HAHAHAHAHA OS CARAS ESTÃO INDO LONGE DEMAIS NOS MEMES

[🇲🇽 🤠 Ubi El Regio. @UMG2018]

Se pasan deveras . 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 Empate. 😝

[Barça Worldwide @BarcaWorldwide]

Cabo Verde players on Instagram 🥺

[𝕏 Karligrafia 🥨 @Karligrafia]

Me iba a sumar a la campaña de NO inglés, pero tengo planeado ir a las alitas y me rehuso a pedirle al mesero el 'Sin Hueso' 😑

[Global News Monitor @GlobalNewsMontr]

Azteca stadium, incredible🥹

[Piloto Memes Latino @pilotomemeslat]

El wey que traía la pirotecnia afuera del hotel de Inglaterra

[semanario mexicano @semanariomex]

🚨CONVOCADO🚨

El Gullit Peña amanece completamente MIADO en las puertas del Centro de Alto Rendimiento:

“ando chido pa' jugar contra Chipre o como se llame ese pendejo país”

[semanario mexicano @semanariomex]

🚨LO LAMENTA🚨

El Gulit Peña asegura que él también estaría jugando su SEXTO mundial si no hubieran inventado “el mezcal, las cubas, fourloko, oso negro, rancho escondido, parís de noche, perico, vino de serpiente o besar en la boca a las putas”

[Chilangoense @LoganVF]

Me mama que le hayan puesto la bandera de Korea de capa porque somos compas.

[PabloW @pablowasserman]

Infantino: ahora poné 10 minutos adicionales y que jueguen 15, pero después anulalo

[Yersinia @Yerxinicolitis]

Debe ser horrible no tener Twitter en época de mundial.

[NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依 @japan_nobunaga]

I went to Katz's Deli on Houston Street. The man at the door, an older guy in an apron, handed me a paper ticket with a grid of numbers on it. He said one thing I did not expect.

"Don't lose it."

I paused.

I did not know why this was being said with such gravity. But a samurai understands a vow when he hears one. So I answered in kind.

"I will not."

"Cool. If you lose it, it's fifty dollars."

I understood now. This was no receipt. This was a covenant. I had carried letters of state across mountain passes that asked less of me than this small ticket.

"I will guard it as if it were the seal of my house."

"...you can just keep it in your pocket, man."

"My pocket will become the seal of my house."

"...okay."

The line at the counter was twenty deep. Behind it, a cutter in a paper hat was hand-slicing pastrami by the pound. A glass jar on the counter beside him. Bills folded inside. A sign on the jar: "Tip the cutter."

A donation, on the way in, to the temple of the meat.

I folded a five into the jar.

The cutter, without looking up: "That's the way."

"...I have given offering. I expect to be tested."

"It's mostly so I give you a little extra meat."

"Then test me with the extra meat."

"That's literally what I was going to do."

He carved a thick slice off the pastrami in front of him. He lifted it across the counter on the flat of his blade and held it out to me.

I took it. I ate it standing. Warm, salt, smoke, pepper.

I gave my order.

Pastrami on rye. Mustard. Half-sour on the side.

"You been here before?"

"This is the first time I have stood on this street."

"You ordered like a regular."

"I have, in another life, been a regular at many counters I have never visited."

"...I'm just gonna make the sandwich."

He built it in front of me. Three quarters of a pound of pastrami, hand-cut, each slice falling at the same angle. A thin band of mustard the color of a winter sun. One green pickle on the plate.

He stamped my ticket.

"Eat it warm. Pastrami remembers being warm. Cold, it forgets."

I bowed.

I ate the sandwich at a long shared table. Both hands. No plate, no posture, no honor.

It was the best thing I have put in my mouth on this continent.

For thirty years I have read every menu in my country with caution.

They handed me a sandwich and a paper with one rule on it, and I have never felt so trusted.

On the wall behind the cutter, in red script, a sign read: "Send a Salami to Your Boy in the Army."

A wartime promise, kept on a wall, since 1942.

I have no son.

But the offer stood.

At the door, on the way out, the guard held out his palm.

I placed the ticket in his hand. Every station stamped. Every number marked.

"Clean ticket."

"It is the only kind I carry."

"You want it back? People keep 'em as souvenirs."

I paused.

I had been prepared to surrender the artifact. I had not been prepared to be offered it back. A guard at a gate, returning the seal you arrived with, is a thing that happens only to ambassadors and to friends.

"...I would be honored."

"Cool."

He handed it back.

So tell me, America.

You hand a stranger a ticket and tell him not to lose it.

You keep a wartime promise on a wall for over eighty years.

You give the ticket back at the door, because a man might want to keep it.

What other vows are you handing out, and then quietly letting people keep?

And "Don't lose it." Was I keeping the ticket? Or, for one meal, was the ticket keeping me?

[NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依 @japan_nobunaga]

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?

[Don Justin Compean @DonJustino_]

-Por qué no te rindes?
-Por qué el nunca lo hizo

[Diego @DiegoDidago]

Me dijo "desnudate" y yo le mostré este video del Tala Rangel sacando una pelota en la línea de último minuto. Me puse a llorar y ella se burló. Quería ver la desnudez de mi cuerpo; yo, tonto, le mostré la desnudez de mi alma