Just some weirdo on the internet. Sometimes I give horrifying advice on topics. Team Løøt Crew. Don't make me shitpost again. Certified Forklift Operator.
I am too tired anymore for news politic shit.
From now on just pure schizo shitposting, unhinged rants, and other nonsense.
I saw the fucking oh fuck memo. I don't care about politics for the immediate future. It's all bullshit anyways.
Now that we’ve had a good 24 hours of debate over whether the Latter Day Saints are properly Christian or not I say it’s time we move the discussion along and start asking if the Amish are
I came to lift one weight. I left a legend. Four times over. Against my will.
It started small. A modest weight. Then a man the size of a door walked past and roared:
"LET'S GO, BEAST!"
Beast. Me. Mid-lift. From a stranger.
A beast does not set the weight down. So I did not set the weight down. (I wanted to set the weight down.)
Then — "Get it, CHAMP." A woman this time. A second rank, conferred in passing. I bowed mid-repetition, which is far harder than it sounds.
Then — "ONE MORE, WARRIOR. You GOT this!"
Warrior. That one I earned across an entire lifetime. He handed it to me for a single rep. I could not insult it by failing.
So I did one more.
Then another. Beast. Champ. Warrior. Killer. Big guy. They would not stop naming me — so I could not stop deserving it.
My arms were gone. My spirit was on fire. I said nothing. A warrior does not announce that he can no longer feel his hands.
I racked the bar. The whole corner of the room — strangers, all of them — clapped.
For the beast. For the champ. For the warrior.
The big one slapped my shoulder. "Same time tomorrow?"
"...Yes," I said, with great and total calm, while every muscle I own filed a formal complaint.
I will be there.
A man who has been called Warrior cannot, in good conscience, skip leg day.
And people like @MorosKostas, @2Aupdates, and I aren’t the only ones yelling about this anymore.
Louis Rossmann, a YouTuber with 2.5 million subscribers, is not a gun guy. He is not a partisan political guy. He is totally outside our sphere.
He starts talking about New York and California’s 3D-printed gun laws. Some... people... reach out to him and drop some hints.
So he goes, of his own volition, as an outsider, and looks up Everytown.
His conclusion?
Yeah, this is entirely astroturfed bullshit.
"Name for the waitlist?"
I straightened. This man would carve my name into the record of the evening. It deserved my full voice.
"Nobunaga."
He smiled, clicked his pen, and called past me into the room:
"BONANZA! Party of one!"
Bonanza.
I have led ten thousand men. I have burned temples. And tonight a steakhouse will seat me under the name of a cowboy from an old television show.
He handed me a small black disc. "It'll buzz when your table's ready, Bonanza."
I took it like a medal.
The truth, because a samurai does not lie: it stung. For one breath, eight hundred years stung.
Then I decided. If this room would have a Bonanza, it would have a magnificent one.
I held the disc before me in both hands, like a hawk awaiting its moment. When a small child stared at it, I knelt and let her behold the sacred device, and told her, solemnly, that it would soon wake with fire. She gasped. Her father thanked me, unsure for what.
A couple had been waiting longer than I. So when my disc at last erupted — buzzing, glowing, alive — I rose, walked over, and pressed it into their hands. "Your need is the greater. Go. Bonanza yields his table."
The host blinked. "Sir, that's — that's not really how the —"
"Bonanza insists."
They went, laughing, blessing my strange name. And I waited again, with the patience of a man who has all the time in the world and a brand-new name to be worthy of.
When they called me a second time, the whole room had heard the story. A dozen strangers turned to watch Bonanza, party of one, walk at last to his table.
I paused at its center, raised a glass of water to them all, and said, with the gravity of a man addressing history:
"A great name opens doors. A kind one is remembered after the door has closed."
The waiter wiped his eye. "...welcome to the steakhouse, Bonanza."
Best meal of my life.
I have not corrected them once.
USA. Summer. It is 95 degrees outside, and I am shivering inside a sandwich shop.
I have discovered how Americans forge strong souls.
Outside, the sun is trying to kill everyone. Inside this small restaurant, it is winter. My breath does not fog, but it is thinking about it. A man near me is eating a cold sandwich while wearing a jacket. In summer. Indoors.
In Japan we would simply turn it down. Americans do not turn it down. And now I understand them better than they understand themselves.
This cold is not an accident. This cold is a gift.
The owner has built, inside his shop, a second season. He invites you in from the brutal heat and hands you the one thing the sun has denied you all day: a reason to be cold. To endure it is to be tempered. You walk in soft and sweating. You walk out sharp and clear, a slightly stronger person than you were.
So I did not complain. I removed my outer layer and offered it to the woman at the next table, who was hugging herself. She said, "Oh, no, I'm fine, thank you." She was not fine. Her lips were blue. But she, too, understood the training. She would not break first. I respected her deeply.
The owner asked if everything was okay.
"It is perfect," I said, through my teeth, which were chattering. "Thank you for the winter."
He said, "...I can turn the AC down if you want?"
I told him no. A man does not ask the mountain to be shorter.
I stayed two hours. I ordered a hot coffee to survive. Then a second one, to hold. By the end I could no longer feel my hands, but my spirit had never been clearer.
So now, on the hottest days, I seek out the coldest rooms. I sit. I shiver. I sharpen.
And when I finally step back out into the summer heat, and it wraps around me like a warm bath, I feel it.
Reborn.
A man who has survived the winter, in August, indoors, for the price of a sandwich.
Sorry you're not allowed to do nuance in the dinnertime coliseum. Despite me telling people how I eat, how I save money while not always cooking for myself, people still insist it's brokie gen z eating door dash all the time vs totally rich from penny pinching and not 50% retiring broke boomers.
saying MUH DOOR DASH AND AVOCADO TOOOOAST ignores that the avg spent on takeout is still <1200 a year which is exactly what boomers spent on vices and they could still afford all the things.
No one is advocating eating take out all the time either, but everyone repeatedly defends something no one is saying and puts up a strawman. Which is why I made this joke.
🇯🇵 If Muslims are allowed to build mosques here on our holy sites then we must be given permission to build shinto shrines in Mecca.
We need some right next to the Kaaba. It's only fair.