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Graham's transformation from "gay John McCain" to "gay Devin Nunes" over the past year or so is truly something to behold.

We have that. My wife tried to use it one day but forgot the code. The code is her birthday.

People who aren’t aware enough of their surroundings to know when someone else would like to get through without having to be told. Wife and I had this tonight at dinner. Some fucking guy and his daughter taking forever to get their shit together, clueless that we wanted to get by. Finally the dumb fuck realizes there are other people in a public space outside of just him and his daughter and tells her to scoot over. Apparently he needed it spelled out in crayon for him.

Did that happen in THIS senate or THAT senate? HUGE difference, HUGELY!

HAMBERDERS!

Delete thread [1]. [1] Ban user.

Nug Life

for whatever reasons, texas didn't work out for him. i''ll go against the grain. good luck to this young man. go make the most of this opportunity.

Real question is why you are hanging out at a high school at 3:00 in the afternoon on a Tuesday. And another question is why you didn't invite me.

Yes. But I bet a lot of those people that pay no attention do so because they don’t have to. Christian, white, straight, relativity middle class males (and a lot of the women associated with them) have never been a marginalized group. No matter whose been in power in Washington, those people have always been just fine. When the president and the party in power openly speaks about grabbing pussy or nominating and defending a creep like Kavanaugh, you tend to care. When they say you don’t have the right to marry who you love and consider you an abomination and want to send your kind to conversion camps, you tend to care. When they speak of your ethnicity as invaders and imply you’re not real Americans and call a judge unfit solely because of his ancestry, you tend to care. When young men of your race are being harassed and shot by police at an alarming rate and when they lose their mind over one football player peacefully protesting such, you tend to care. When your entire religion is the subject of a literal ban from entering the country when statistics show right wing terrorists have committed more acts than your extremists, you tend to care. People always get defensive and brush off the notion of “white privilege” but the luxury of being able to not care about politics is a perfect example of white privilege in action.

A day later and I still can’t get over this pic. Brisket nailed it already, but it is a perfect encapsulation of our times and should be a defining image of Trump’s fast-food Presidency. The huckster offers America his Faustian bargain: a delicious meal: all we can eat and it will cost us nothing. In reality, it is unsubstantive, poisonous and will kill us if we consume too much. Fuck it, we feast anyway. Meanwhile, honest Abe looks down in contemplative judgment. Judging not so much the huckster but *us* and the decision we have made. Fucking brilliant. Should win a Pulitzer Prize.

1000 HAMBERDERS!!1!1!

It was my daughter's 12th birthday a few days ago. My wife bought her balloons in the shape of a "1" and a "2". They have kept their helium since we bought them. My wife decided to throw them away today. I come home to find the two balloons floating above our garbage can with the ribbon stuck inside the can to keep them from flying away.

so i was at heb, waiting to buy a sixer of lone star in the express aisle. i glance over to the self-check aisle and see a uniformed TSA officer buying a handful of items obviously for her dinner. then i witnessed a guy about to check out notice her, and he took his few items over to her and (i couldn't hear what he said, so this is assumption) "let's combine these and let me pay for them." i watched as she scanned her items, then he scanned his and paid for all of it. now it wasn't much - she probably had $10 worth of items. but it kind of made my day. people are still good out here.

Everyone who cites the homogeneity of the Nordic countries as a reason for why we can't have successful socialistic policies in America always backs off the second you question them. We get it -- you don't want your tax money going to Chuy, Abdul or LaKeisha.

I'm sorry, but whatever elementary-school teacher taught you (and millions of kids like you) this stupid thing needs to be slapped. It's not that it's unnecessarily pedantic. It's just wrong. Whether we're a "democracy" or a "republic" simply depends on whether you favor Ancient Greek or Latin. The word "democracy" derives from the Greek terms "demos," meaning "people" and "kratia," meaning "power" or "governance." So a "demokratia" is literally a "government by the people." The word "republic" comes from the Latin "res," meaning "thing" and "publicus" meaning "of the people" or "public." So the Respublica was the "thing of the people." In other words, the two terms--democracy and republic--mean exactly the same thing in two different languages. Somewhere people got confused, because Athens was a direct democracy and Rome was a representative democracy. And since Rome gave rise to the term "republic," they erroneously concluded that a "republic" only meant a representative democracy. And if a republic is a representative democracy, then for some reason a "democracy" can only be a direct democracy. But that makes no sense, either linguistically, historically, or logically. We are a republic. We are also a representative democracy. It's the same fucking thing.

Cops should be on the lookout for perfectly-tailored NFL jerseys.

You fucks are missing the point. Rand Paul has to get Canadian surgery because he's a pussy and got his ass kicked by a 60 year old man. That is fucking hilarious.

They better not plant that fucking kudzu on the moon.

Way out yonder in the land of space cotton Old times there are not forgotten I make joke, I make joke, I make joke Pee in your coke

Is that Slingblade on the right?

We just beat OU, played for the Big 12 championship, and won the fucking Sugar Bowl. Don't do this.

Depends on who's doing the posting. Data-heavy posters like Huck need to use APA, since they are closer to scientific in perspective. Those who are simply spinning yarns belong in the humanities department, and should be using MLA. I, of course, will continue to never attribute anything. I've never met a joke I wouldn't steal and overuse to death. OK? Cool Hook'em.

LeT ME TELL YOU SOMETHING MEAN GENE

My wife is constantly walking around the house turning off lights when she gets hot. I tell her the light bulbs are not giving off enough heat to cause her to be hot, she needs to turn the air conditioner up. She believes I am completely full of shit and that by turning off the lights she will be cool and comfortable. Last night she was complaining about being cold and I told her to just turn on the lights and she should be fine. Tone.

Really surprised that I had never heard of this until now: https://www.lamag.com/longform/23-reasons-why-a-profile-of-pete-carroll-does/ theres much more in the link, this is a small portion of the piece. Pete Carroll Does Not Appear in This Space By J.R. Moehringer - December 1, 2007 1. Accepting His Loan of a Shirt Might Have Been an Ethical Violation (Especially Since I Kept the Shirt as a Souvenir) Pete Carroll, head coach of the football team at the University of Southern California, turns to me one night around 8 p.m. and says he’s got something to do, somewhere he needs to be. We’re standing outside his office at Heritage Hall, the redbrick headquarters of USC’s athletic program, the trophy-filled heart of Troy. I ask Carroll where he’s going, what he’s doing. He doesn’t answer. I ask if I can come along. No, he says, absolutely not. I ask again. Sorry, he says. I stare imploringly. OK, he says, looking me up and down—but you’d better change. He rummages through a small wardrobe in the corner of his office and finds a white polo, which he flips to me like a screen pass. Put this on. How come? Your shirt, it’s blue—you might get shot. Where the hell are we going? He walks quickly out of the office. 2. He Often Wouldn’t Let Me Take Notes, So Some Quotations Are Approximations from Memory While wriggling into Carroll’s shirt, I hurry to keep pace. It’s not easy. Carroll’s normal gait is what others might call a wind sprint. Down some stairs, around a practice field, through a parking lot, we zoom across campus. He tells me to stow my notebook. It might make the people we’re meeting uncomfortable. Who are we meeting? Look for a blue van, Carroll says. A blue van? There, he says. Sure enough, a blue van is double-parked at the corner, and beside it stands our driver and escort for the night, a deep-chested, gentle-voiced man named Bo Taylor. I climb into the backseat. Carroll rides shotgun. Along the way Taylor tells me that he and Carroll do this often. They make late-night journeys through the dicey precincts of Los Angeles. Alone, unarmed, they cruise the desolate, impoverished, crime-ridden streets, meeting as many people (mostly young men) as possible. The mission: Let them know that someone busy, someone famous, someone well known for winning, is thinking about them, rooting for them. The young men have hard stories, grim stories, about their everyday lives, and at the very least Carroll’s visit gives them a different story to tell tomorrow. Carroll says: “Somebody they would never think would come to them and care about them and worry about them—did. I think it gives them hope.” Few fans of USC, Carroll concedes, know that he spends his nights this way. He’s not sure he wants them to know. He’s not sure he wants anyone to know. I ask what his wife of 31 years, Glena, thinks of these excursions. He doesn’t answer. (Days later Glena tells me with a laugh that she doesn’t worry about Carroll driving around L.A., but she drew the line when he mentioned visiting Baghdad.) We start in east South-Central, a block without streetlights, without stores. Broken glass in the gutters. Fog and gloom in the air. We hop out and approach a group of young men bunched on the sidewalk. Glassy-eyed, they’re either drunk, stoned, or else just dangerously bored. They recognize Carroll right away. Several look around for news trucks and politicians, and they can’t hide their shock when they realize that Carroll is here, relatively speaking, alone. Carroll shakes hands, asks how everyone’s doing. He marches up and down the sidewalk, the same way he marches up and down a sideline—exhorting, pumping his fist. At first the young men are nervous, starstruck, shy. Gradually they relax. They talk about football, of course, but also about the police, about how difficult it is to find a job. They talk about their lives, and their heads snap back when Carroll listens. A car pulls up. Someone’s mother, back from the store. She freezes when she sees who’s outside her house. Carroll waves, then helps her with the groceries. He makes several trips, multiple bags in each hand, and the woman yelps with laughter. No, this can’t be. This is too much. Pete Carroll? Coach of the roughest, toughest, slickest college football team in the nation, schlepping eggs and soda from her car to her kitchen? Next we drive to the Jordan Downs housing projects, one of the most dangerous places in L.A. We find a craps game raging between the main buildings. Forty young men huddle in the dark, a different sort of huddle from the ones Carroll typically supervises. They are smoking, cursing, shoving, intent on the game, but most fall silent and come to attention as they realize who’s behind them. Pete Carroll, someone whispers. Pete Carroll? The most famous sports figure in the city, excluding Kobe Bryant? (Maybe including Bryant.) Pete Carroll, mentor to Carson Palmer, Matt Leinart, Reggie Bush, LenDale White—here? A sweet-faced teen named Jerome steps away from the game. He stares at Carroll, shakes his head as if to clear it. He says the same thing over and over. Pete Carroll in the ghetto. Man, this is crazy. Pete Carroll—in the ghetto! Crazy. Some time after midnight Carroll and Taylor head for the van. Time to get back to Heritage Hall, where Carroll will catch a few hours of sleep on his office floor before his assistant coaches start showing up. A young man stops Carroll, takes the coach aside and becomes emotional while explaining how much this visit has meant to him. He gives Carroll a bracelet, something he made, a symbol of brotherhood and solidarity. Carroll accepts the bracelet as if it were a Rolex. He’ll wear it for days, often pushing back his sleeve to admire and play with it. He gives several young men his cell phone number—something he’s never offered me—and tells them to call if they ever need to talk. One, an ex-con, will call early the next morning and confide in Carroll about his struggles feeding his family. Carroll will vow to help find him a job. (So far, Taylor says, Carroll has found part-time jobs for 40 young men.) Driving back to campus, Taylor is bleary-eyed, I’m half asleep, and Carroll looks as if he could go for a brisk 5K run, then start a big home improvement project. I ask Taylor if people on the streets ever seem suspicious of Carroll. Do they ever think he’s grandstanding or recruiting—or crazy? Taylor says he’s heard almost no cynicism, though he admits that he was doubtful at first. “Pete was like, ‘I want to go through the community with you,’ ” Taylor says. Sure, Taylor told Carroll, assuming it was just talk. Then, late one night, Taylor’s phone rang. Hey, Bo, what’s up? Not much. Who’s this? Pete. Pete who? Pete Carroll. Hey, man, I’m ready, man. When can we go out there? Taylor was stunned. Not only did Carroll follow through, but there was something in his tone. He was asking to visit neighborhoods where police don’t like to go, and he was asking without fear. “He asked like he wasn’t afraid,” Taylor says. He turns to look at me in the backseat, to make sure I’m sufficiently astonished or to make sure I’m still awake. “He asked that shit like he was not afraid."

You misspelled “shitshow.” We’re a “shitshow.” Pretty sure that’s Aramaic or something.

Can't really blame Giles for that. All the construction on I-10 around Sealy is really making traffic a pain in the ass. And no, he's not going to take 290, there are too many stoplights.

Trump probably thinks bi-cameral is a gay arab.

That might work if he painted the 4 digit code on the garage door right next to the keypad

C'mon y'all. Hamberders is obviosly the secret code word to signal the Q-Anon dorks to start pouring over the fast food wrappers & how the junk food items are stacked & arranged to find Trump's hidden message. You don't think the placement of the Fillet-o-Fish to the LEFT Lincoln's portrait isn't a huge tell? Or the sequence in which the aide lit the candles? Get woke, sheeple!

This, otoh, is more than a distraction: Trump lost the House, so he shuts down the government indefinitely.

Good thing I’m not famous so my normal looking family pictures could be ripped to shreds by a bunch of middle aged fat fuck nobodies.

That is a fucking puff piece exalting the mighty leader of the Trojans from over 11 years ago. It’s nauseating in its nut hugging of Carroll and absurd to review over a decade later. What the fuck is wrong with you and why would you possibly think this merited its own thread?

The people that come into my restaurant make me surly. They’re all clueless idiots who can’t figure out how to walk out the door without getting all in each other’s way and then staring at each other like they’re going to throw down. I keep a sawed off shot gun behind the counter for when it starts.

Nice post. Allow me to play devil's advocate with this gif of excellent qb play by Chad Kelly:

You know what I miss? Kicking off to start the first half. And the second half.