USA. A Mexican restaurant. We had not yet ordered anything, and the food was already arriving.
Chips. Salsa. Unrequested. Free.
I stopped the waiter. "We have not earned these."
"They just come with the table, man."
They come with the TABLE. In my land, hospitality is a debt. Every gift creates an obligation, weighed carefully, returned in the proper season with interest of feeling. Here, the gift arrives before you have even proven you can pay for dinner.
This is not an appetizer. This is a declaration: we trust you. Eat.
I ate with the gravity the moment deserved. And then — I must report this calmly — the basket emptied, and a new one appeared.
"Did we…?"
"Refill," the waiter said. "It's bottomless."
Bottomless. They have wells of salsa. The supply lines of this nation are beyond anything my ancestors imagined.
My friend warned me. "Don't fill up on chips, dude."
Too late. I had accepted three baskets. Honor demanded each one be finished — an unfinished gift is an insult. By the time my actual food arrived, I was a ruined man.
I was not hungry. I was not comfortable. I had been defeated by a courtesy.
Generosity that arrives before the request cannot be repaid. It can only be survived.
I know the rule now. I have made my peace with the basket. One basket. Two at the most.
Who am I deceiving. There is no number of baskets I would refuse. The trust of a nation is in that salsa, and I intend to honor all of it.
@Radovan33936785@Westernwolf1@layinbricks6 Your chance of doing anything next round is like zero too, if you even happen to make it out of this round it’s over for both teams let’s be real here
Today made it clear to me. There are storm chasers, and storm chaser chasers.
If you have to rely on following another chaser all day. Hear me when I say this. STAY YOUR ASS AT HOME.
#wxtwitter
We all know someone like Dianna Russini and, if my radar is correct, she’s having a great day and loving the attention while Mr. Vrabel, Mrs. Vrabel, and Mr. Russini are not.
@ESPNAssignDesk You do not have permission to use it — as I’ve told you numerous times in DMs. Shouldn’t have laid off all those reporters if you wanted locker room content.
Joe Pohlad and the Pohlad family aren’t just a disgrace to baseball, they’re a stain on the entire state of Minnesota.
Their story starts in the Great Depression, not as scrappy underdogs, but as profiteers who made their fortune foreclosing on homes of desperate families who had lost everything. From day one, they were taking from the poor to enrich the rich, and that ethos has never left them.
For decades, the Pohlads have been infamously cheap, demanding that Minnesota’s taxpayers and fans foot the bill for their every whim. They’re not savvy businesspeople, they’re parasites.
In the early 2000s, they nearly let the Twins die. Attendance was down, they refused to invest, and the team was on the chopping block to be contracted alongside the Expos. The only thing that saved the franchise was a court injunction forcing them to honor their Metrodome lease.
By 2006, they convinced Minnesota to cover seventy-five percent of Target Field’s cost. A billion-dollar family, holding out its hand to working-class Minnesotans and demanding payment.
Fast forward to 2016, Jim Pohlad hires Derek Falvey to modernize the organization. For a moment, there was hope. Player development technology, advanced analytics, and a revamped coaching staff started to pay off. By 2019, the Twins won 100 games. By 2023, they broke their playoff curse. The arrow was pointing up.
Then Joe Pohlad took over, and steered the ship straight into the iceberg. He “right-sized” the team, gutted investments in talent and infrastructure, and erased the analytical and developmental edge the Twins had built.
By July 31, 2025, the gut punch landed: an all-time pathetic trade deadline where they dumped eleven players in a payroll purge disguised as a “fresh start.” It wasn’t a reset, it was a surrender.
The final hope Twins fans clung to was the idea that the Pohlads might finally sell. Now we know they won’t.
Joe Pohlad, and the rest of your dynasty of leeches, you are nothing more than generational thieves. You take from people who make less than you, give back nothing, and expect them to be grateful. Minnesota doesn’t owe you thanks. Minnesota owes you the door.
Fuck you, Pohlad family.