BA

@DavidJHarrisJr Likely by another communist though.

Yes!

A Five Guys in a strip mall. I had heard the burgers here were honest. A samurai goes where the food is described in the smallest number of words. At the door, a barrel. A wooden barrel, knee-high, full of raw peanuts in the shell. A small wooden scoop. A sign: FREE PEANUTS - HELP YOURSELF I stopped. I read it three times. In my country, when a host places food at the threshold of his house and tells you to take it, he is testing whether you understand the difference between hospitality and theft. The wrong man takes too much. The wrong man takes nothing. The right man takes a small handful, bows, and proceeds. I took a small handful. I bowed to the barrel. I proceeded. At the counter, a young man, name tag MARCUS. "Hey man, welcome to Five Guys, what can I get you?" "...I have taken your peanuts." "Yeah, that's what they're there for." "What is the obligation." "...The what?" "What do I owe." "Nothing, man. They're free. Help yourself." "...Help yourself." "Yeah." "Marcus. In my country, when a stranger is told to help himself, it is a kindness given to a man who is far from home. I have not yet introduced myself. You have already addressed me as a man who is far from home. You are correct. I am." Marcus smiled the way you smile at someone you have decided you like. "Hell yeah. What can I get you?" "A cheeseburger." "Want any toppings? They're free." "...Free." "Yeah. Lettuce, tomato, onion, pickle, mushrooms, jalapeños, green peppers, mayo, mustard, ketchup, BBQ, A1, hot sauce, relish. All free. Bacon's the only thing extra." I had not been read a list this long since I was made to recite the names of my ancestors. "...You are giving a man as many options as he has weapons." "Pretty much. What you want?" "All of them." "All the way?" "All the way." "You got it. Fries?" "Yes." "Regular or Cajun?" I stopped. The word landed somewhere inside me that had been arranged, recently, by a different meal. "Marcus. Cajun is a people. From Louisiana." "...Yeah?" "I have eaten with them. They served me crawfish on newspaper. They called me brother. I did not know I had brothers in that country." "Damn, sir. That's beautiful." "Then bring me their salt. I will not refuse the seasoning of a people who fed me on a table without plates." "Cajun fries it is." "Size?" "The smallest. I am one man." "You got it. Little Cajun." I paid. I sat at a small table by the window with my brown paper bag. The bag was heavier than I expected. The boy at the counter had told me, as I picked it up, "bag's heavier than you think, sir." I had taken this as a piece of philosophy. It was, I now understood, a literal report. I opened the bag. The Cajun fries were in a cup. The cup was inside the bag. Around the cup, the bag was full of more fries. Loose. Spilling. As if the cup had given up trying to contain itself, and the bag had taken the overflow without complaint. I lifted the bag and looked at Marcus across the room. "...Marcus." "Yes sir?" "You give the man who asked for little, more." "Yeah, that's how we do it." "That is the most American sentence I have heard this week." He laughed. I looked at the bag again. I lifted one fry. The seasoning came off red on my fingertips. I ate it. I had to set the cup down. This was not the salt of the Cajun people. This was the war salt of the Cajun people. The men who had fed me on newspaper had been holding back. Marcus was not. My eyes filled with water. Not from feeling. From paprika. I lifted the burger. Two patties. Lettuce, tomato, onion, mushrooms, jalapeños, green peppers, pickles, mayo, mustard, ketchup, BBQ, A1, hot sauce, relish, and cheese. The thing was a small mountain wrapped in foil. I held it with both hands, the way a man holds the head of his enemy after a long battle, with respect and a small amount of fear. I ate. The bun was sweet. The patty was salty. The peanut oil it had been cooked in was, by some quiet miracle, present in everything. I was eating, I realized, a burger that had been raised on the same oil the fries had been raised on, and that oil had been raised on the peanuts in the barrel at the door, which were free, which were the same peanuts that were now still in my coat pocket because I had not eaten them yet. I stopped chewing. "...The barrel. The fries. The burger. They are all one animal." The man at the next table, a man in a work shirt with the name CARLOS embroidered on it, who had been eating fries with one hand and looking at his phone with the other, looked up. "Cajun fries, huh? Those'll get ya." "Carlos. I have been gotten." "Right? Best in the game." "I yield. I have been ambushed by salt three times in one meal, and twice by people I did not see coming." Carlos laughed, the small full laugh of a man who is finally understood. "Welcome to Five Guys, man." I finished. I finished everything. The cup. The loose fries. The burger. Even the small flecks of seasoning that had fallen onto the paper of the wrapper. A samurai does not leave the field with the enemy's salt still on the ground. I crumpled the foil. I rose. I bowed to Carlos. Carlos raised his half-finished Coke and tipped it slightly toward me. I bowed once more, to the barrel at the door, which I now understood was the beginning of the meal and not merely the lobby of it. I took out the peanuts I had stored in my pocket, cracked one shell, and ate it as I walked out. The salt of the peanut. The fourth salt. This entire restaurant was a single quiet declaration: that a man should not be allowed to leave hungry, that nothing he eats should cost the dignity of being measured, and that the smallest order in the house is still more than one man can finish alone. This is a country that puts a barrel at the door and trusts you with it. This is a country that gives a man as many weapons as he has options, and charges him for none of them. This is a country that overfills the bag of a man who asked for little, on principle. Tomorrow I will return. I will order the same. I will eat the same. I will lose the same battle. A man does not flee from a salt that has already named him. The Cajun fed me crawfish on newspaper. The man at Five Guys fed me their war salt on a fry. I have eaten with the same people, in two states, on two coasts, and they did not know they were the same. I knew. I have been gotten.

@Daffan578648 @tuuu28283 Anything besides traditional Mexican food is fusion. Combining things with traditional. Still good, but not the original. Fusion has occupied all foods.

@tuuu28283 All the Mexican food I’ve had in Texas was at a restaurant owned and operated by Mexicans. Seemed pretty much like the food I’ve had in Mexico and California. So, what is Tex Mex? Taco Bell? There used to be a place called Poncho’s, a chain. That wasn’t real Mexican food.

Is it true that Tex-Mex is completely different from authentic Mexican food?

@warDaniel47 @PatrioticGrams 130 gods have spoken.

🚨BREAKING: Over 130 retired judges file a legal brief demanding that Judge Hannah Dugan's charges be dropped, after she was caught aiding and abetting an illegal alien. They say she has "absolute immunity for her official acts."

@JPavidis3 @ApexSeeker_ True

@ApexSeeker_ Why are you waiting for opportunity? Go create it. That's the point. Nothing is ever handed to you, even opportunity. That's the whole point. You have the opportunity to do anything you want and no one will stop you, within the bounds of the laws of course.

🇯🇵 I am Japanese. Question for Americans. If America is the land of opportunity… why am I still waiting for my opportunity?

A sandwich shop in New Orleans. I ordered a fried shrimp po'boy. The man behind the counter, Marcus, asked me something gently. "You want it dressed?" I looked at the sandwich on the counter. Shrimp. Bread. Nothing else. It was naked. I understood at once. In this city, they do not let a sandwich go out into the world undressed. A people who give clothing even to their lunch. I was moved. "It is not dressed now?" I asked, carefully. "Nah, right now that's just the shrimp and the bread." "Then yes. I cannot let it leave this counter naked." Marcus nodded slowly. "...So, lettuce, tomato, mayo, pickle?" "Whatever it needs to be decent." He started building it. I watched each layer go on like a garment. The lettuce was its robe. The tomato, a sash. I bowed my head a little, out of respect for the dressing of a thing. "You good?" Marcus asked. He had stopped, mid-mayo. "Do the other sandwiches know," I said quietly, "that this one was almost sent out bare?" "...They don't really, uh. Know things." "You protect its honor anyway. You are a kind man." He finished dressing it without another word. A patient man. He even laid the pickles on like he meant it. I took a bite, and the shrimp were hot and crisp and the bread cracked and gave way, and the whole thing was, I will be honest with you, perfect. I ate the rest standing up, shrimp falling, mayo on my thumb, completely content. A man, a blade, a sandwich. None of the three should ever be sent into the world undressed. So tell me, America. You ask if the sandwich would like to be dressed, as if it could feel shame. Who decided a sandwich had dignity worth protecting? And when it sat there bare on the counter. Which of us looked away first?

@DataRepublican Seems like it costs lives to continue running USAID.

The Root Beer Float Identity Crisis An American friend said, “You have to try a root beer float.” I heard the words. Root. Beer. Float. This was already three problems in one sentence. Root sounds like medicine. Beer sounds like alcohol. Float sounds like something that failed to sink. Then the glass arrived. Dark brown soda. Vanilla ice cream on top. Foam everywhere. A straw. A spoon. Both weapons. I stared at them. If something needs a spoon and a straw, it is not food. It is a custody battle. I smelled it. My brain immediately opened a meeting. Candy? Medicine? Toothpaste? An antique shop? Why does this drink smell like a grandfather’s cabinet learned how to sparkle? I asked, “Is this beer?” My friend said, “No.” “Is it medicine?” “No.” “Is it dessert?” “Kind of.” Kind of. The most suspicious answer in American cuisine. I used the straw first. Cold. Sweet. Carbonated. Confusing. My mouth said soda. My nose said pharmacy. My childhood memories said, “We have never been here before.” Then I used the spoon. Ice cream. Foam. Root beer. Now the dessert was drinking the drink. The drink was melting the dessert. Everyone at the table acted like this was not a public food identity crisis. A kid nearby finished one calmly. That scared me. American children are trained early to accept chaos in a glass. By the third sip, I stopped trying to understand. By the fifth spoonful, I was defending it. “That smell is actually… interesting.” This is how America wins. First you are confused. Then you are sticky. Then you are loyal. Root beer float is not a drink. It is not dessert. It is a cold civil war between soda and ice cream, supervised by bubbles. And somehow, I lost to it. NyanChuu will no longer mock food that cannot choose a category. If America hands me cake soup next, I will not panic. I will simply ask, “Does it come with a spoon, a straw, or emotional damage?”

@japan_nobunaga A revolution happened. The revolution took place inside universe and EU conferences and Britain was conquered. Its leaders were conquered. Each one they replace is followed by someone worse. But the people were not conquered or even informed. Until now.they are just finding out.

Maybe if it were the daughter of a people who had spent generations killing your ancestors, I could at least understand where the hostility comes from. But she is a British girl. Your own people. And yet the police seem far more concerned about protecting Muslims from criticism than protecting a British girl from harm. This is the part Japanese people cannot understand. Not by one micron. How can you look at your own citizens and decide they come second? How can you see a young British girl suffer and worry more about the reaction of others? In Japan, people would be furious. Many would rather walk away from their jobs than take part in something like that. So from a Japanese perspective, the question is simple: What on earth has happened to Britain?

@japan_nobunaga How do you put gas in the car?

A bagel shop, just after it opened. I was the first one in. The board on the wall held more than twenty kinds. Plain. Sesame. Onion. Poppy. Rye. And one, near the bottom, simply called Everything. The woman behind the counter wiped her hands and asked what I wanted. In my country, no one asks a man what he wants. Everything is simply what is asked of him. The duty. The weight. All of it, without a name. So when I saw the word, I understood it as a question I had answered my whole life. I straightened. 「Everything.」 She nodded. 「Everything bagel. Good choice. Toasted?」 Toasted. To be put to the fire until I am ready. 「...I have been. But yes. Again.」 「...Okay, hon.」 She smiled and reached for it. Then she asked, 「Schmear?」 A word I did not know. But it landed like a command. A name called out before a duel. I rose from the stool. 「Whom do I strike.」 「Cream cheese, hon.」 She did not flinch. 「A schmear is just a spread. We put it on.」 I sat back down. A pause. 「...Then spread it. Over everything.」 「That's the idea.」 She split the bagel and I saw it then. Every seed at once. Sesame, poppy, garlic, onion, salt. Nothing left off. The whole field, baked onto one small ring. This is what I have carried. All of it. Every grain of it. But mine was never this small. Mine never fit in one hand. An old man at the counter was working through a paper bag. 「Buy a dozen,」 he said, not looking up. 「Nobody eats everything alone. You bring the rest to the others.」 A dozen. Twelve. To carry, and then to give away. I lowered my hand from my side. 「...You give the weight away?」 「That's the whole point of a dozen, friend.」 The woman set the plate down. The seeds caught the morning light. Over all of it, she had spread something soft and white, edge to edge, so that not one grain was left bare. I lifted one bite. I had to set the fork down. This is not bread. This is everything I have ever carried, made small enough to hold, softened by a stranger so it would not cut my mouth, and sold by the dozen so I would not eat it alone. For thirty years, everything was mine to bear. No one spread anything over it. No one told me to buy extra and pass it down the counter. I will carry it still. All of it. Every grain. But now I buy twelve. Everything.

@TechOperator Everyone doesn’t wait at Costco.

Imagine waiting 20 minutes in line at Costco for gas when you can charge at home instead.

@blueskypinit Seems staged. Sorry

She didn’t stay for the thank you

@CA_Dem Sure Jan.

There’s no better place to grow a business, raise a family, or build a career than California. Voters choose Democrats time and time again to run the most powerful state in the nation because we get the job done.

@Rizzo20Gina Because they got rid of them in the first place.

Syria has refused to accept repatriation of 800,000 of its own citizens from Germany "because they are ill equipped to receive them". This is the problem, once you take in these 3rd world refugees in you can't get rid of them! Their home nations do not want them back.

@Crazymoments01 AI

COMMUTERS STOPPED FOR THIS! 😱 Electric Scooter Folded Into Rolling Cabin Luggage

@kaps2000_e @Jennifer55gt Agree. This didn’t happen.

@Jennifer55gt Bull shit post. When will these end? A waiter will not REFUSE to accept a tip of (anything) 20%.

My husband and I went out for dinner last night, and something happened that honestly left me confused. Our bill came to $70, and we left $20 on the table as a tip. In my mind, that felt reasonable. It was not meant to be disrespectful, and we were not trying to make any kind of statement. We simply paid the bill and left what we thought was a fair tip. But the waiter refused to take it and told us that if we were not willing to tip at least $35, then we should not be dining out. I was surprised, because $20 on a $70 bill is still a real amount of money. Maybe it is not what some people expect now, but it also does not feel like nothing. I understand that servers work hard. I know tips matter, and I respect the people who do that job. But I also think moments like this show how tense tipping culture has become. What used to feel like a thank-you now sometimes feels like a demand. Customers feel pressured, servers feel underpaid, and everyone ends up frustrated with each other instead of questioning the system that created the problem. So I am genuinely asking: was $20 on a $70 bill really that bad, or have tipping expectations gotten out of hand..., 🤔🤔🤔?

@itsrosesm @propitious20 I am in favor of closing all corrupt tax consuming agencies. I worked in education. The only thing the federal Ed dept did was give out grants with idiotic strings attached that consumed more resources than it paid. Plus politics. So yes.

What's your response?

@Sassafrass_84 A prisoner

A democrat. What about you?

@japan_nobunaga Outstanding. Be the animal 🐅

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?