HALO, once one the largest names in entertainment history and cemented Xbox as a gaming platform has shit the bed so hard we now have fans who are happy to get “something”
Grind up boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Froot Loops, and fruity pebbles into dust.
Bottle it under the name Big Mommas Breakfast and Desert seasoning.
Sell it in the ghetto at $35 a bottle
A young woman at the counter offered me a better destiny for thirty cents, and I nearly wept.
I had asked, simply, for one sandwich. A humble order. A warrior eats what he needs and no more. But she looked at me, kind and unhurried, and said the words that would change my afternoon:
"You want to make it a meal?"
Make it a meal. As if what I held in my hand were not yet whole. As if my fate, as ordered, were incomplete — and she, the keeper of this counter, was offering to finish it.
"What does that grant me?" I asked.
"You get fries and a drink. It's only thirty cents more."
Thirty cents. A sum so small it could not buy a single arrow in my time. And for it, she would elevate my simple meal into something abundant. This was not a sale. This was a bargain with fortune itself, dressed in an apron, asking only that I be brave enough to say yes.
"Then I accept," I said, with the full weight of a man accepting a quest. "Make it a meal."
She smiled and tapped the screen. "Easy."
Easy. They make the raising of one's fortune so cheap, so light, so free of shame, that anyone — the rich man, the tired man, the man down to his last coins — may reach up and seize the larger portion. No one is too low to be offered more.
(I confess: I did not need the fries. I ate every one. A warrior finishes what fortune grants him.)
I have spent my life believing the bigger destiny was the one you bled for. Climbed for. Earned over decades. And here, a young woman in a paper hat hands it across a counter for the price of a smile, and calls it easy.
A people who decided that everyone, every single soul in line, deserves the chance to make it more — has understood generosity better than every lord I ever served.
What is the smallest sum that ever changed your whole day? I want to hear it. Make it a meal, friends. Always make it a meal.
@TobyTurner Im unfortunately cursed with a below average sized length but scarily above average girth weenie so I just pee outside my back door.
Beaches are nice though.
@TobyTurner Honestly same but I skipped tonight because after 3 nights in a row i got a pain in my lower left abdomen when using force in my right arm and shoulder.
If you don’t like Kraft Dinner, you’re lying.
You’re lying to yourself because you want to feel superior.
“Oh, I don’t eat cheap food like that.”
Us Kraft Dinner enjoyers have nothing to hide. We know who we are. We are honest with ourselves, and therefore honest with the world.
Never trust someone who says they don’t like Kraft Dinner.
If they can lie about that, they can lie about anything.
God of War Laufey's director, Ariel Lawrence, has addressed "skepticism" following the game's reveal, hoping fans give it a chance. https://t.co/ewwVc2rboZ
#IGNSummerOfGaming
USA. A diner. I ordered a cola, and they handed me a cup that was ninety percent ice.
I have learned how to measure an American's honor.
The drink came in a cup the size of my helmet. Inside: a mountain of ice, and somewhere beneath it, a rumor of cola. I tilted it. The ice did not move. It was load-bearing.
In Japan, a few cubes, politely. Here, an avalanche. And once I stopped being confused, I was moved.
Ice is not free. Someone must make it, store it, guard it through the heat. To bury a man's drink in it is not stinginess disguised. It is the opposite. It is a lord opening his treasury and saying: take all of it, take more than you need, I have so much that I do not even count.
The ice is the boast. The drink is just the excuse to deliver it.
So now I judge every establishment by the ice. A weak handful, and I know the house is humble, careful, perhaps struggling. A roaring glacier, and I know I am in the presence of abundance, and I bow before I drink.
The waiter came to refill me. He lifted the scoop, and he gave me more.
More. I had not finished. He gave me more anyway. I nearly stood and saluted.
"Most generous," I told him. "Your house is rich beyond measure."
He said, "...you want less ice next time, buddy?"
Less ice. As if I would insult him by refusing his treasure. I told him no. I told him to bury me.
I drank for forty minutes. The cola lasted four. The remaining thirty-six were spent honoring the ice directly, one melting cube at a time, until the cup held only cold water and my own deep respect.
I left the fullest I have ever been, having ordered almost nothing.
A man does not come to America for the drink.
He comes for the mountain it is hidden under.