Divorce. Leaving the religion. No honor killings.
Sex in marriage based on consent. A honorable and faithful husband. Say as to whether the husband takes several wives. The ability to criticize the husband without fear of violent retribution.
You can't be serious with this.
Sex in marriage based on consent. A honorable and faithful husband. Say as to whether the husband takes several wives. The ability to criticize the husband without fear of violent retribution.
You can't be serious with this.
Apart from the freedom to walk around half naked, what other rights do you think you have that Muslim women don’t?
I’d genuinely like to know.
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Average Honkey retweeted
Le comportement de cet immigré vous rappelle-t-il quelque chose ?
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Average Honkey retweeted
For nine years, almost nobody in Japan has looked at my neighbor's daughter.
Not because they're cruel. Because they're polite.
Sana is nine. She uses a wheelchair. In Japan, when people see a child like her, they do the kind thing. The thing we're taught. They look away. They don't stare. They give her space.
So for nine years, Sana has gone everywhere being carefully not seen.
And her mother, Megumi, learned to help. At school events, at festivals, at the park, she always sat them in the same place. The very edge. The very back. Where they wouldn't be in anyone's way.
Last summer, Megumi's husband had to work for two weeks at a plant in a small town in Iowa. The whole family went. Megumi told me she dreaded it. New country. New stares. Or worse, new ways of not being looked at.
On the first morning, they went to a diner.
The waitress came over, looked at the table, and did something nobody in Japan had ever done.
She crouched down next to the wheelchair, eye level with Sana, and asked her what she wanted.
Not her mother. Her.
In Japan, waiters ask Megumi what Sana wants. Sana is nine. She knows what she wants. She wanted pancakes.
The waitress said, "Pancakes for the boss," and wrote it down. When the pancakes came, there was a mountain of whipped cream on top. The waitress pointed at the wheelchair and winked. "Extra for the driver."
Sana laughed so hard she got syrup in her hair.
Megumi tried to pay. An old man at the counter had already paid. She tried to pay the next day. A different old man. By the third day, she was sneaking up to the register before they even sat down, and the waitress just shook her head and said, "Honey, you're not gonna win this one."
A lady from the church down the road showed up at the motel with a whole pie. Megumi asked why. The lady said, "Y'all looked tired." They had been in town for three days. Nobody had told her they existed.
And then there was Tucker.
Tucker was seven. He lived next to the motel. On the fourth day, he walked straight up to Sana in the parking lot, looked at the wheelchair, and said, loudly:
"Why do you have wheels?"
Megumi froze. In Japan, a parent would have grabbed that boy and apologized for ten minutes.
Sana looked at him and said, in the English she'd learned at school, "My legs don't work."
Tucker thought about this for one second.
"Cool. Can I push?"
And then they were gone. Down the sidewalk. Way too fast. Tucker's mom was yelling, "TUCKER, SLOW DOWN!" Tucker was yelling, "SHE SAID FASTER!" Sana was screaming in Japanese, "もっと速く! もっと速く!" Faster. Faster.
Tucker didn't speak a word of Japanese.
He understood perfectly.
That night, after Sana fell asleep, Megumi locked herself in the motel bathroom and cried for an hour.
She told me it took her a long time to understand why.
It was because for nine years, without ever deciding to, she had been apologizing. For the wheelchair. For the ramp. For the space they took up. For being there at all.
And in four days, a whole town had made it very clear that nobody needed her to.
On the Fourth of July, there was a parade down Main Street.
Out of habit, Megumi found them a spot at the very edge. At the very back. Behind everybody.
A fire truck came down the street. Red, shining, lights going, kids running alongside it.
It stopped.
Right in front of them.
A firefighter climbed down. A huge man with a gray mustache and forearms like fence posts. Everyone in town called him Bud. Nobody, possibly including Bud, knew his real name.
He walked over, knelt down on the asphalt in front of Sana, and said:
"Ma'am, we're short a co-pilot today. You interested?"
Sana looked at her mother.
Megumi couldn't say a word. She just nodded.
Bud lifted Sana into the front seat like she weighed nothing. Two other firefighters lifted her chair onto the back of the truck. Bud took off his own helmet and put it on her head. It came down over her whole face. She pushed it up with both hands so she could see.
Then he leaned out the window and asked her name.
And he shouted it.
"EVERYBODY SAY HI TO SANA!"
And they did.
All the way down Main Street. People on both sides. Grandmas in lawn chairs. Teenagers on the curb. Men holding babies on their shoulders. Strangers who had never seen her before in their lives.
"HI, SANA!"
"HI, SANA!"
Sana waved with both arms. The helmet kept falling down. She kept pushing it back up. She did not stop waving for one second.
And running next to the truck, the entire length of Main Street, red in the face, out of breath, was a seven-year-old boy screaming at the top of his lungs:
"THAT'S MY FRIEND! THAT'S MY FRIEND!"
Megumi was standing at the back of the crowd, crying so hard she couldn't see.
An old woman next to her, a complete stranger, handed her a tissue. Then she squeezed her arm and said:
"Honey. That girl belongs up there."
They've been home in Japan for over a year now.
Some things changed.
This fall, at Sana's school sports day, Megumi did something she had never done in nine years. She pushed Sana's chair all the way to the very front row.
A few parents looked away, the polite way.
Sana waved at them anyway. With both arms.
Megumi told me something I keep thinking about.
"In Japan, I was taught that kindness means not looking. A little town in Iowa taught my daughter that kindness means looking right at her, and saying her name."
On a shelf in Sana's room, there's a plastic firefighter helmet. The kind you get at a dollar store. Bud sent it a week after they got home.
On the back, in black marker, it says:
"CO-PILOT. ANYTIME."
Not because they're cruel. Because they're polite.
Sana is nine. She uses a wheelchair. In Japan, when people see a child like her, they do the kind thing. The thing we're taught. They look away. They don't stare. They give her space.
So for nine years, Sana has gone everywhere being carefully not seen.
And her mother, Megumi, learned to help. At school events, at festivals, at the park, she always sat them in the same place. The very edge. The very back. Where they wouldn't be in anyone's way.
Last summer, Megumi's husband had to work for two weeks at a plant in a small town in Iowa. The whole family went. Megumi told me she dreaded it. New country. New stares. Or worse, new ways of not being looked at.
On the first morning, they went to a diner.
The waitress came over, looked at the table, and did something nobody in Japan had ever done.
She crouched down next to the wheelchair, eye level with Sana, and asked her what she wanted.
Not her mother. Her.
In Japan, waiters ask Megumi what Sana wants. Sana is nine. She knows what she wants. She wanted pancakes.
The waitress said, "Pancakes for the boss," and wrote it down. When the pancakes came, there was a mountain of whipped cream on top. The waitress pointed at the wheelchair and winked. "Extra for the driver."
Sana laughed so hard she got syrup in her hair.
Megumi tried to pay. An old man at the counter had already paid. She tried to pay the next day. A different old man. By the third day, she was sneaking up to the register before they even sat down, and the waitress just shook her head and said, "Honey, you're not gonna win this one."
A lady from the church down the road showed up at the motel with a whole pie. Megumi asked why. The lady said, "Y'all looked tired." They had been in town for three days. Nobody had told her they existed.
And then there was Tucker.
Tucker was seven. He lived next to the motel. On the fourth day, he walked straight up to Sana in the parking lot, looked at the wheelchair, and said, loudly:
"Why do you have wheels?"
Megumi froze. In Japan, a parent would have grabbed that boy and apologized for ten minutes.
Sana looked at him and said, in the English she'd learned at school, "My legs don't work."
Tucker thought about this for one second.
"Cool. Can I push?"
And then they were gone. Down the sidewalk. Way too fast. Tucker's mom was yelling, "TUCKER, SLOW DOWN!" Tucker was yelling, "SHE SAID FASTER!" Sana was screaming in Japanese, "もっと速く! もっと速く!" Faster. Faster.
Tucker didn't speak a word of Japanese.
He understood perfectly.
That night, after Sana fell asleep, Megumi locked herself in the motel bathroom and cried for an hour.
She told me it took her a long time to understand why.
It was because for nine years, without ever deciding to, she had been apologizing. For the wheelchair. For the ramp. For the space they took up. For being there at all.
And in four days, a whole town had made it very clear that nobody needed her to.
On the Fourth of July, there was a parade down Main Street.
Out of habit, Megumi found them a spot at the very edge. At the very back. Behind everybody.
A fire truck came down the street. Red, shining, lights going, kids running alongside it.
It stopped.
Right in front of them.
A firefighter climbed down. A huge man with a gray mustache and forearms like fence posts. Everyone in town called him Bud. Nobody, possibly including Bud, knew his real name.
He walked over, knelt down on the asphalt in front of Sana, and said:
"Ma'am, we're short a co-pilot today. You interested?"
Sana looked at her mother.
Megumi couldn't say a word. She just nodded.
Bud lifted Sana into the front seat like she weighed nothing. Two other firefighters lifted her chair onto the back of the truck. Bud took off his own helmet and put it on her head. It came down over her whole face. She pushed it up with both hands so she could see.
Then he leaned out the window and asked her name.
And he shouted it.
"EVERYBODY SAY HI TO SANA!"
And they did.
All the way down Main Street. People on both sides. Grandmas in lawn chairs. Teenagers on the curb. Men holding babies on their shoulders. Strangers who had never seen her before in their lives.
"HI, SANA!"
"HI, SANA!"
Sana waved with both arms. The helmet kept falling down. She kept pushing it back up. She did not stop waving for one second.
And running next to the truck, the entire length of Main Street, red in the face, out of breath, was a seven-year-old boy screaming at the top of his lungs:
"THAT'S MY FRIEND! THAT'S MY FRIEND!"
Megumi was standing at the back of the crowd, crying so hard she couldn't see.
An old woman next to her, a complete stranger, handed her a tissue. Then she squeezed her arm and said:
"Honey. That girl belongs up there."
They've been home in Japan for over a year now.
Some things changed.
This fall, at Sana's school sports day, Megumi did something she had never done in nine years. She pushed Sana's chair all the way to the very front row.
A few parents looked away, the polite way.
Sana waved at them anyway. With both arms.
Megumi told me something I keep thinking about.
"In Japan, I was taught that kindness means not looking. A little town in Iowa taught my daughter that kindness means looking right at her, and saying her name."
On a shelf in Sana's room, there's a plastic firefighter helmet. The kind you get at a dollar store. Bud sent it a week after they got home.
On the back, in black marker, it says:
"CO-PILOT. ANYTIME."
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What's your plan when the power goes out for 30 days?
I have my spot. I have defense. I have food. I wont be in the streets fighting for scraps.
Do you think the world just flushes your poops down the toilet?
Water and pepsi flow from the sky? You probably do.
How are you going to survive once it all falls apart because men like me refuse to build it for you anymore.
I have my spot. I have defense. I have food. I wont be in the streets fighting for scraps.
Do you think the world just flushes your poops down the toilet?
Water and pepsi flow from the sky? You probably do.
How are you going to survive once it all falls apart because men like me refuse to build it for you anymore.
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Europe is gone. We have guns here still. Freedom of speech.
America will be the last bastion on earth where free men can build a stable society.
When America is lost, the world is lost
America will be the last bastion on earth where free men can build a stable society.
When America is lost, the world is lost
You have multiple countries in Europe too go too where it’s like 90% white go there nobody holding you back
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He's 75% right.
Black Americans need to bury the hatchet with white Americans.
A post racial America will throw black Americans under the bus in about 5 seconds.
I do not like a lot of things about black American culture. But they are Americans. And they should be prioritized in any way we can against people who showed up yesterday.
Black Americans need to bury the hatchet with white Americans.
A post racial America will throw black Americans under the bus in about 5 seconds.
I do not like a lot of things about black American culture. But they are Americans. And they should be prioritized in any way we can against people who showed up yesterday.
Hes right on this...
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Maybe I can bridge the gap here.
I got really good at architecturing a thing. Troubleshooting.
Like really good.
It sucks to see part of that skill set "kind of" go away.
But at the same time, architecture got way more valuable. So yeah a part of me died, but the part I actually like and am best at got supercharged.
Maybe he saw value in carefully crafting objects, and apis and the way everything intertwined so he knew it intimately and planned for the future and fought for changes and was delighted when one of his past projections he fought for came true.
I certainly did.
I don't disrespect that.
But I know that my job is not that anymore.
My job now is harnessing and directing ai to implement my architecture faster than I can even think of it.
I know I have more harnessing to do. But. I understand both of your perspectives.
I got really good at architecturing a thing. Troubleshooting.
Like really good.
It sucks to see part of that skill set "kind of" go away.
But at the same time, architecture got way more valuable. So yeah a part of me died, but the part I actually like and am best at got supercharged.
Maybe he saw value in carefully crafting objects, and apis and the way everything intertwined so he knew it intimately and planned for the future and fought for changes and was delighted when one of his past projections he fought for came true.
I certainly did.
I don't disrespect that.
But I know that my job is not that anymore.
My job now is harnessing and directing ai to implement my architecture faster than I can even think of it.
I know I have more harnessing to do. But. I understand both of your perspectives.
It’s so crazy, the parallel universes we inhabit. As I’ve mentioned before I was once a very intense programmer, but I’ve been on a long dandelion break. Recently I finally put together a modern AI programming environment and I almost spontaneously combusted from the happiness
soul? What the fuck are you DOING, man? Everything I love about programming remains, and so much of what I didn’t love is gone. We have to get some observational studies going. I must know how he is using the LLM to have any hope of understanding
I should add that in my day, programmers were fairly sharply divided between IDE guys and others. For a lot of people the IDE was apparently a net positive, but it never cracked that threshold for me despite several attempts. I mention this because if there are two ways you can go on this, my predisposition is to go the other way
But it isn’t even close. You’re nuts if you write software and you ignore this power. It’s the most wonderful tool there has ever been. And I’m sorry but if you can’t see that inside of ten minutes with it, I would wager that the problem lies between keyboard and chair
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And is somehow backed by AIPAC?
And now he is head of the Oversight Committee?
Make it make sense.
And now he is head of the Oversight Committee?
Make it make sense.
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Average Honkey retweeted
Listen to every word
“I am holding in my hand the Muslim Brotherhood plan for the destruction of the United States. An explanatory memorandum for the general strategic goal for the group, the Muslim Brotherhood in North America, written 5/22/1991. The Ikhwan, which is the Arabic understand that their work in America is a kind of grand jihad in eliminating and destroying the Western civilization from within and sabotaging its miserable house by their hands, and the hands of the believers so that it is eliminated and Allah's religion is made victorious over all other religions”
“Going to the ballot and voting is now an obligatory action, fard 'ayn, and it is a jihad that now needs to be done because this is our modern jihad. You can elect a person who wants the Sharia Law”
“We're commanded to terrorize the disbelievers, and this is a religion, like I said, commanded to terrorize them. The Quran says very clearly in the Arabic language, this means terrorize them. It's a command from Allah.”
Americans needs to stop practicing individualism and recognize what’s happening to their country and come together and fight for it
You should also be aware that ‘Voting as a form of “jihad” to elect Pro-Sharia candidates’ is a longstanding strategy of Muslims. It’s been a documented strategy since at least the early 90s
So you understand what’s happening yet America??
“I am holding in my hand the Muslim Brotherhood plan for the destruction of the United States. An explanatory memorandum for the general strategic goal for the group, the Muslim Brotherhood in North America, written 5/22/1991. The Ikhwan, which is the Arabic understand that their work in America is a kind of grand jihad in eliminating and destroying the Western civilization from within and sabotaging its miserable house by their hands, and the hands of the believers so that it is eliminated and Allah's religion is made victorious over all other religions”
“Going to the ballot and voting is now an obligatory action, fard 'ayn, and it is a jihad that now needs to be done because this is our modern jihad. You can elect a person who wants the Sharia Law”
“We're commanded to terrorize the disbelievers, and this is a religion, like I said, commanded to terrorize them. The Quran says very clearly in the Arabic language, this means terrorize them. It's a command from Allah.”
Americans needs to stop practicing individualism and recognize what’s happening to their country and come together and fight for it
You should also be aware that ‘Voting as a form of “jihad” to elect Pro-Sharia candidates’ is a longstanding strategy of Muslims. It’s been a documented strategy since at least the early 90s
So you understand what’s happening yet America??
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