Cody Clancy @cmclancy612 - Twitter Profile

cmclancy612 retweeted

alexjm 🇺🇸

@alexjmingolla

24 days ago

Me when the cameras try panning to Freddy after Germany’s loss

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cmclancy612 retweeted

Big Cat

@BarstoolBigCat

24 days ago

What does @FreddyLA7 do now? I don’t want him to stop complimenting our country

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cmclancy612 retweeted

NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依

@japan_nobunaga

about 1 month ago

USA. A stadium parking lot. I came to watch a battle, and found the army feasting three hours before it. Hundreds of tents. Grills. Clan flags flying from trucks. Men in war paint handing food to strangers. I assumed the game had been cancelled and this was the consolation. "When does the battle begin?" I asked a man tending an enormous grill. "Kickoff's at one. We've been here since seven." Seven. In my land, an army eats quietly before war, in case it is the last meal. Here, the meal IS the war. The enemy parking lot is doing the same thing forty yards away. Nobody is fighting. Everyone is grilling. A man handed me a plate. I had not asked. I was not known to him. The plate held more meat than my ancestors saw in a winter. "You with us or them?" he asked. "I am with whoever fed me," I said. It is the oldest law. "Good answer," he said, and gave me more. Then I learned the terrible truth. The man at the grill — the general of this feast — was not going inside. "You will not watch the battle?" "Nah. I'll catch it on the radio. Somebody's gotta watch the grill." He marches to the war. He feeds the army. He does not enter. In eight hundred years of my family's records, there is no rank for this man. There should be. I was full. I was confused. I was, somehow, home. An army that eats together has already won. The game is a detail. When the crowd roared inside the stadium, the grill man nodded once, and flipped a burger. Next week I am bringing my own tent. He said I could park beside him. We are allies now. The terms were ribs.

japan_nobunaga's tweet photo. USA. A stadium parking lot. I came to watch a battle, and found the army feasting three hours before it.

Hundreds of tents. Grills. Clan flags flying from trucks. Men in war paint handing food to strangers. I assumed the game had been cancelled and this was the consolation.

"When does the battle begin?" I asked a man tending an enormous grill.

"Kickoff's at one. We've been here since seven."

Seven. In my land, an army eats quietly before war, in case it is the last meal. Here, the meal IS the war. The enemy parking lot is doing the same thing forty yards away. Nobody is fighting. Everyone is grilling.

A man handed me a plate. I had not asked. I was not known to him. The plate held more meat than my ancestors saw in a winter.

"You with us or them?" he asked.

"I am with whoever fed me," I said. It is the oldest law.

"Good answer," he said, and gave me more.

Then I learned the terrible truth. The man at the grill — the general of this feast — was not going inside.

"You will not watch the battle?"

"Nah. I'll catch it on the radio. Somebody's gotta watch the grill."

He marches to the war. He feeds the army. He does not enter. In eight hundred years of my family's records, there is no rank for this man.

There should be.

I was full. I was confused. I was, somehow, home.

An army that eats together has already won. The game is a detail.

When the crowd roared inside the stadium, the grill man nodded once, and flipped a burger.

Next week I am bringing my own tent. He said I could park beside him. We are allies now.

The terms were ribs.

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cmclancy612 retweeted

NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依

@japan_nobunaga

about 1 month ago

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.