TimmytheTurtle @TurtleTimmythe

There is a MUCH stronger case to be made for invading the UK, toppling its tyrannical government, and liberating its people than for pretty much any regime change war (to include Iran) over the past 30 years

Not sure people understand the CATASTROPHIC consequences of the global oil reserves running dry. I think if more people grasped the fallout from that, they’d understand Trump’s desperation to take a bad deal. The mistake wasn’t ending it. The mistake was going to begin with.

This Iran deal is about as far removed from ‘unconditional surrender’ as any deal in the history of Planet Earth. I’m glad President Trump is getting out of this fiasco, but I bet if he had his time again, he’d have never got into it or believed Netanyahu’s bullsh*t.

USA. A Southern restaurant. My glass was still half full, and the pitcher was already in motion. Sweet. Tea. Unrequested. Refilled. I lifted my hand. "I have not finished this one." "Oh, hon, I'll just top you off." Top you off. As if I were a canteen. As if thirst were a hole that must never show daylight. In my land, tea is poured once, with ceremony, and the guest is left in peace. Here, the tea is sweet, the pitcher is enormous, and the woman who carries it treats an empty inch of glass like a wound that must be closed immediately. I drank to be polite. She refilled. I drank again. She refilled. My friend watched me drown in hospitality. "Just put your hand over the glass." Over the glass. Block the kindness. In America, refusing a refill is considered ruder than accepting six. By the third pitcher I understood the system. This was not service. This was a declaration: you are not leaving thirsty on our watch. The food arrived. I looked at it the way a man looks at land he can no longer reach. "Y'all good on tea?" "We are drowning," I said. "Perfect," she said, and walked away. I was not hungry. I was not comfortable. I had been defeated by a beverage. Sweetness that arrives before thirst cannot be refused. Generosity poured faster than a man can drink cannot be repaid. It can only be survived. I know the rule now. Hand over the glass. One glass. Two at the most. Who am I deceiving. There is no number of refills I would refuse. The pitcher of this nation is always moving, and I intend to honor all of it.

Iran war pissed off element of coalition that likes Trump, and ending it is pissing off the never Trump’ers who pretended to like Trump. Never get in bed with people who see American forces as “toy soldiers” for them to move around.

Tell you what, Mr Furious, why don’t we take this to the airwaves? Come on @PiersUncensored .. then call me a Nazi to my face, and see how you get on.

Mark R. Levin @marklevinshow

4 months ago

Piers Morgan denies he’s Woke Reich. Ok, I stand corrected. He’s just a straight up piece of sh*t who sounds Woke Reich. I always want to be accurate.

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Not in 100 years has a German guy been so charismatic that an entire nation waits excitedly to hear what he’s going to do next

Freddy🇩🇪 @FreddyLA7

4 months ago

WE’RE GOING TO AN ELLA LANGLEY CONCERT ON THE 18TH AND WE’RE EVEN GOING TO MEET HER!!!!

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USA. A small eating house. Before I could present my purpose, I was asked to declare my allegiance to a location. "For here or to go, sir?" This was the Trial of the Setting. In my land, one enters the eating house and it is understood: you are here. To declare otherwise is to imply flight, or perhaps a hidden ambush. Yet, this American asked me to choose. To declare myself for 'here' meant committing to the physical space, to endure whatever fortunes might unfold within its walls. To choose 'to go' was to take the provisions and retreat, to conquer hunger on a battlefield of my own choosing. I considered the gravity of the decision. "For here," I said, with the weight of generations in my voice. The server, a young woman with a kind smile, merely nodded and punched a button. "No worries, man. It's just a sandwich." But it was not merely a sandwich. It was a commitment. A man does not choose a 'here' lightly. He chooses a 'here' because he intends to hold that ground. And I will hold this ground until the last crumb has been vanquished.

USA. A breakfast counter. The waitress recommended the biscuits and gravy, and when the plate arrived, I thought something had gone wrong in the kitchen. I say this with shame. The dish looked like a construction site after rain. Pale mounds. Gray ladle-fall. Speckles I could not identify. In my land, the eye eats first. A meal is arranged like a garden. This meal was arranged like weather. "Is it… finished?" I asked, carefully. "Honey, that's what it looks like." The man beside me was already eating his. He did not look up. "Just try it." I am a man who has charged hillsides at dawn. I raised the fork. I tried it. I must now formally apologize to the biscuits, the gravy, the waitress, the kitchen, and the entire breakfast tradition of the American South. It was magnificent. Warm. Peppered. The biscuit drank the gravy the way a field drinks rain — THAT is why it is shaped like that, you fool — and every mound I had insulted was a soft fold of comfort that my homeland, in eight hundred years, never once thought to invent. "Well?" the waitress asked. "I judged it," I confessed. "By its appearance. I am ashamed." "Everybody does, hon." Everybody does. A national dish that forgives you for doubting it. It expects the doubt. It waits for you on the other side of it. Do not judge the gravy by its face. Judge yourself, for hesitating. I order it every Saturday now. I no longer see the construction site. I see only the garden. It was a garden the whole time. The eye must be trained.

Stateside, a gas station. I drank a frozen blue beverage too quickly, and was struck down by a punishment this entire nation knows, and accepts, and has named. The drink is called a slush. Ice, sweetness, and a blue that does not occur in nature. The day was hot. I was thirsty. I drank like a soldier at a river. The pain arrived in my skull like a war horn. Behind the eyes. Above everything. Total. I gripped the roof of my car. I may have made a sound. "Brain freeze," said the cashier through the door, with no urgency whatsoever. It has a NAME. The affliction is so common it has a household name, like a cousin. "Tongue on the roof of your mouth," called a man at the pumps. He did not look over. He prescribed the remedy mid-pump, casually, the way one mentions weather. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth. The war horn faded. The healer nodded at his pump, finished, and was gone in a Chevrolet. In my land, punishment follows crime by way of courts and seasons. Here, the sentence is instant. Drink with greed, and the ice strikes the mind directly. No trial. No appeal. Perfectly fair. And here is what moves me. EVERYONE has felt it. The cashier. The healer. Children. Elders. An entire nation united by the same small lightning, all taught the same cure, all passing it on to strangers at gas stations, free of charge. You cannot fully distrust a country once you know it shares one pain. The freeze does not punish thirst. It punishes haste. I finished the slush slowly, like a scholar. Blue tongue. Clear mind. Then at the door I forgot everything, drank deeply, and was struck down again. "Tongue, hon," said the cashier, without looking up. Discipline is a journey.

This account is such a joy

NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依 @japan_nobunaga

4 months ago

In America, a warehouse store. A fully roasted chicken costs five dollars, the raw chicken beside it costs seven, and I stood between them like a man between two truths. Golden. Hot. Seasoned. Spinning in glory under the lights, in a line of its brothers. Four dollars and

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In America, a warehouse store. A fully roasted chicken costs five dollars, the raw chicken beside it costs seven, and I stood between them like a man between two truths. Golden. Hot. Seasoned. Spinning in glory under the lights, in a line of its brothers. Four dollars and ninety-nine cents. I checked the raw birds. Seven dollars. Pale. Cold. You must do everything yourself. This is not commerce. Commerce does not move backward. Somewhere in this building, mathematics lies defeated. I asked the man at the counter. "How is the cooked bird cheaper than the raw bird?" "Been five bucks forever. They keep it that way." "But the store loses." "Yep. On purpose." On purpose. I held my receipt with both hands. In my land, a lord who lowered the price of rice in a hard winter was remembered for generations. They built him a small shrine. This store does it every day, with chicken, and tells no one. A woman behind me grew tired of my reverence. "It's just a chicken, sir." It is not just a chicken. It is a wound the merchant takes on purpose, so that anyone, on any day, with five dollars, eats like a lord. The bird is the message. The price is the vow. I will confess: I bought two. I did not need two. The second was not hunger. It was gratitude, and it was delicious. Some prices are not prices. They are promises. I return every week now. I take one bird. I bow toward the deli, briefly, so as not to alarm the staff. They have begun nodding back. The vow holds. The bird turns. Five dollars. Long may it spin.

“You knew the first trillionaire?” “I didn’t say I knew him. I said he replied ‘Wow!’ on my post once.”

As a Waffle House connoisseur, if the dining area of a WaHo is closed, you need to get out of there immediately

Freddy🇩🇪 @FreddyLA7

4 months ago

Late night snack in New Orleans at Waffle House again. Unfortunately we had to eat in the parking lot this time because they closed the dining area and only allowed takeaway.

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Every Scottish person in America needs to immediately try Chicken Fried Steak, and you’ll realise we and the Americans are kindred spirits

A man who eats 🤤

This meme is never going away.

Freddy🇩🇪 @FreddyLA7

4 months ago

Late night snack in New Orleans at Waffle House again. Unfortunately we had to eat in the parking lot this time because they closed the dining area and only allowed takeaway.

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He’s a McDonalds sprite away from shredding his passport and starting a new life here

Freddy🇩🇪 @FreddyLA7

4 months ago

Late night snack in New Orleans at Waffle House again. Unfortunately we had to eat in the parking lot this time because they closed the dining area and only allowed takeaway.

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1K 717 43K 6.3M 572