JimT @RealWGLB

😂😂😂

The Athletic @TheAthletic

2 days ago

Michigan AD Warde Manuel is stepping down at the end of the calendar year. Announcement of his departure comes after an investigation into the actions of former football coach Sherrone Moore and the broader culture of the athletic department. nyti.ms/4b1HLET

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@JoePompliano Best fkn day of my life @JoePompliano

@ClaireMPLS Mr Jones by Counting Crows will now mean something else to me for the rest of my life

They don’t make game shows like they use to

Todd Spence @Todd_Spence

7 days ago

I was not fully prepared for this WIN LOSE OR DRAW clip from 1988 💀💀💀

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@Serge_H_El @_kennythoughts She’s pretty much covered up compared to what she normally wears at any PLE

Please imagine his wife’s face when he tell her he needs new clubs because “a bear stole them”

When you shut the water park down🤣🤣 sound up🤣🤣

@Breaking911 *record scratch* *freeze frame* Yup, that's me. You're probably wondering how I ended up in this situation.

@TiffanyFong What ever happened to the days when celebrities did coke to lose weight? At least they looked healthy

@comicjeenyus @SULLY10X The only reason is to eat it like a caveman

When it felt good off your hand.. you just know

Jonathan Slater @slater57649

2 weeks ago

At 93 you literally don’t have to care

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I can't stop listening to this song. Best thing that came out of the World cup being in the United States this year. 🇺🇸 Watching this compilation of fans from all over the world at the 2026 World Cup in America is so heartwarming. USA USA USA 🇺🇸

@GuardsJoey

Dear Sophie Cunningham, You absolute chaotic saint, thank you. While the rest of the WNBA was busy doing boring things like dribbling and scoring, you ascended Mount Petty and delivered the single greatest athletic achievement of the 21st century: the 22-second Point Heard ‘Round the World. DeWanna rolled up with big emotions; you just hit her with the slow, unblinking finger of doom like a disappointed Victorian ghost who’d had enough of everyone’s nonsense. No words. No touching. Just pure, concentrated shade channeled through one perfectly extended index finger. I haven’t been this proud since the invention of sarcasm itself. And now, right on schedule, I’m on the edge of my seat waiting for the left to have a full meltdown. Any second now some blue-check PhD in Grievance Studies will publish the groundbreaking essay “The Racialized Finger: How Sophie Cunningham’s Point Perpetuates White Supremacy in Women’s Sports.” They’ll claim your gesture was a “microaggression with macro consequences,” demand sensitivity training for all index fingers, and probably launch a Change.org petition to ban pointing unless it’s been pre-approved by a DEI consultant and performed only in the approved “non-threatening” direction. “This isn’t just a point,” they’ll sob on MSNBC, “this is violence. This is erasure. This finger is literally the new burning cross.” Bonus points if they somehow tie it to climate change or student loan debt. You turned a basketball game into performance art so powerful it broke the internet, launched a thousand memes, and made grown adults point at each other in grocery stores like it’s the new national greeting. The arena laughed until they cried. Your teammates looked like they wanted to give you a standing ovation. And somewhere right now a group of very serious people are writing strongly worded letters about how your finger is problematic, triggering, and needs to be canceled immediately for the good of democracy. Never change, Sophie. Keep wielding that lethal weapon of silent judgment. Keep protecting your squad with the world’s most elegant non-contact foul. And when the inevitable congressional hearing on “Toxic Pointing” begins, just walk in, look every senator dead in the eye, and give them the treatment they so richly deserve. We’re all out here practicing in the mirror like idiots, rewatching the clip on loop, and loving every glorious second of the mayhem you unleashed. This point didn’t just go viral, it went legendary. With breathless, slightly unhinged admiration and oceans of affectionate sarcasm.

A gas station in Texas, called Buc-ee's. A hundred and twenty fuel pumps. A building the length of two villages. A grinning beaver, three stories tall, painted on the wall, holding a corn snack and saluting the parking lot. I read the signs three times. This was not a gas station. This was a temple, and the bathroom was its inner shrine. A man in a cowboy hat named Hank was refueling beside me. He saw me bow to the beaver and lit up. "Hey buddy, first time at Buc-ee's? You came for the bathroom, didn't you?" "...I came to relieve myself." "Yeah. Same thing. Wait till you see it. We got two awards. Two years running." "...I will pay my respects first." "You don't have to pay nothin', it's free." "I am not paying with money, Hank. I am paying with respect." Hank stopped. He looked at me, slowly. "Buddy, I have been coming to this Buc-ee's every Tuesday for nine years. I drive an hour out of my way. Nobody has ever said that to me about the bathroom, but it is exactly correct." A trucker at the next pump, named Carl, leaned out of his cab. He had been listening. "Hank's right. I run this route twice a week. Always stop here. Always." I followed the painted arrows inside. RESTROOMS. I rounded the corner. I stopped. Sixty stalls in a single row. Marble underfoot. An attendant in a yellow shirt wiping a counter that was already clean. Two framed awards on the wall: CLEANEST RESTROOM IN AMERICA. I removed my hat. I bowed at the threshold. I stayed bowed for a long second. A boy of perhaps seven, clutching a brown paper bag, watched me bow from beside the sink. He raised his bag with both hands. "Sir. Beaver Nuggets." "...A bag of small valors named after the beaver." "...What?" "Nothing. They are the offerings of this temple." "They're really good. Get a bag." His mother, behind him, smiled apologetically. "He has been talking about them all week. I told him we would get one bag. He has already negotiated me up to three." I used the facility. I washed my hands. I bowed to the attendant in the yellow shirt, who nodded back the way temple keepers nod at a pilgrim who has performed the rite correctly. I returned to the great hall. I bought six bags of Beaver Nuggets. The cashier, a kind woman named Becca, rang them up with a smile. "Big day, huh? You drove a ways to get here?" "...I drove from New Jersey." "Oh honey. That's a haul." "...I will return next Tuesday. Hank told me he comes Tuesdays." Becca paused. She looked at Hank through the window, who was still by his pump, waving at me. She looked back at me. "Honey, I have been at this register for four years. People drive in here from Arkansas, from Oklahoma, from Louisiana, on a Tuesday, because of the bathroom. You are not the strangest thing I have heard this week. But you are the kindest. Drive safe now." I walked out with my six bags. Hank was leaning on his pickup, finishing a cup of coffee. "See you next Tuesday, buddy." "...Until Tuesday, Hank-san." A temple does not visit you. You visit it. And the temple, in its kindness, places a man named Hank at the gate every Tuesday, so that the pilgrim is not, on his second visit, entirely alone. I have visited the bathroom in Texas. I will visit it again.

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.