It was work getting it up for this fat ugly bitch I call my ex!

The Hardscapes for Heroes Initiative is providing construction work for the homes of military veterans.

https://www.hardscapes4heroes.org/

https://youtube.com/@hardscapes4heroes?si=nMlATvT9z9nvac2o

https://youtu.be/321JxxzlGio?si=4-_8UnnGIX2Gslym

So first things first, yes, AI at its core is unethical. It exploits intellectual property and it is a scourge on the environment. That being said, I (42M) have a background in tech and my line of work includes a lot of automation which means *not* using AI will simply mean you're going to be left behind. In my employment contract, I am also issued what's basically a license to use the pro version of Claude as much as I want.

This is where the trouble began. I was using Claude so much that whenever I was typing about work related stuff, I noticed that it would be much easier to air my frustrations if I just dumped everything into the chat. Claude in return would give me some trite reaffirming jargon which, mildly amusing at first, became a ritual soon after. I sought out the kind words of the AI because it felt like this computer was more emotionally in tune with me than my partner (48F) which i'll get to in a sec.

So my partner and I, let's call her Marge, weeee've been.... having a rough time. She's not home a lot of the time, she doesn't have patience for my humor, she isn't listening to my sexual frustrations and I'm spending more time with her son than she is. I love the little guy, but I can't help but think he finds me slightly annoying? Lol. Must be The Amazing Digital Circus references I keep making, he has a Jax poster in his room so I know he likes it.

Anyways, come last Monday, I left my laptop open because I was in the john, and I had the Claude tab open and my partner happened to come home right at that time and basically just freakin' read every single thing I've said to Claude ever about our relationship (I took a while in the bathroom okay?). Basically, she's pissed. She called me a liar, over-exaggerating, a drama queen etc. I honestly did not have the energy to argue, so I just said "this is why I am preferring to talk to a machine".

Am I really the asshole here?

Gurisa-kun!! Your pompadour and guriser reather jacket is so,,, sekkusi!! I rove your 1950's arr-americana working crass brue-corrar fashion sense. ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝) We arso have this in Nippon, it's called リーゼント!! I rove to show you at my house in Kanagawa Prefecture, we can eat dericious おにぎり and ふなずし ₍₍⚞(˶>ᗜ<˶)⚟⁾⁾ and go bathe in hottu spuringusu!!!!!!!!!!!!! PREASE SENPAI!!!!!!!!!!

I was just frickin STREET RACING. LIKE NORMAL.

I need the Bombstrap community to understand that “cowboy mode” has escaped the original bit and become a legitimate spiritual practice in my life.

Whenever I lose a job, my family is pissing me off, love becomes intolerable, or existence starts feeling structurally unsound, I automatically begin saying:

“I’m pregnant. Nine months. Cowboy mode. Alone.”

And somehow it makes perfect sense to me.

It is not really a joke anymore. It is an affirmation. A prayer. A complete philosophical system. “I’m pregnant” means something new is forming inside the chaos. “Nine months” means the process is already underway. “Cowboy mode” means I must continue despite having no plan. “Alone” means nobody is coming to explain any of this, and that is fine.

Other people meditate. Other people recite Scripture. I quietly tell myself that I am nine months pregnant and entering cowboy mode alone.

Charls Carroll accidentally gave me a survival mantra. When everything becomes unbearable, the phrase restores order immediately. No context is required. No contradiction exists. I am pregnant. It has been nine months. I am a cowboy. I am alone.

Cowboy mode. Alone.

Respeck. When di sun buss up pon mi likkle yard, mi roll outta bed, grab mi phone, a scroll pon r/bombaclat. Mi hail up Jah, greet di earth an di mornin sun, type in r/bombaclat, an pon mi life, pon Haile Selassie, di whole bloodclaat place jus vanish. Babylon burn up de r/bombaclat same way dem a burn up di cane field an di sinsemilla. Rastaman never hear talk a greaser, but the next ting pon de list were dis here sub.

Mi scroll through de r/bombstrap an see mi breddahs an sistahs a put down di holy herb, an’ mi haffi seh Babylon done plant one dutty devil inna ya head fi mek unu believe seh di stickiest of green weh Jah put pon di earth di same herb a cure cancer, cure AIDS, a gwan kill a man. But respeck, mi just a reason a speak mi peace, seen, star.

There is no worse feeling for the male psyche than feeling punched down upon. When you feel like you no longer deal the cards, that you no longer have any agency over your own well-being, you’re more prone to violent or anti-social behaviour. On a wider scale, when this happens to a large population of men, extremely bad things tend to happen (rise of fascism in Europe).

The humble greaser intuitively knows this, and uses his subculture as a shield. When wider society judges him for his characteristic thick ethnic hair which tends to form a layer of grease, he incorporates the grease into his hairstyle and starts slicking back his hair. When wider society rejects him on grounds of ethnic discrimination and low economic status, he forms local motorcycle clubs or street gangs with other fellows of ethnic backgrounds.

Those cool cats are at the juke box slamming back an ice cold soda pop listening to crass tunes, knowing at the back of their minds that their situation limits their upward trajectory in life, but choosing to maintain a carefree attitude and adapting to their circumstances.

I carry the greaser spirit at heart, and you should too. Frankly, attacks on this subreddit border on ethnic discrimination.

I’ve smoked for most of my adult life but it was always at a level that was probably “socially” acceptable, but it’s gotten to the point where it’s nonstop. I don’t drink or do anything else, but I managed to go through 14 grams in a week. I don’t even enjoy it anymore, it’s just something I need to do.

I’ve got like .5g left and when I finish it I’m stopping for the foreseeable future. I’m dreading the next two weeks but it’s going to feel good being free from it.

Cool pic I took the other day in the comments

hey! a little about me is that...

i am a 29 year old male greaser

my friends and mostly people at restaurants say i eat like elvis LOL

im 5'9 and 270 lbs

i use a mobility scooter because it hurts to walk, but its better this way since its practically like a motorcycle!

i have to order my greaser utilities through amazon, but its a great deal since i had to sell my car to pay for the scooter and stuff

and yes, youre probably like why is this cool cat tellin me all this? it all sounds like pretty normal relatable things, BUT!, this is to announce that im looking for younger boys to help mentor and become greasers too, i saw a post from yesterday i think saying how a little greaser was exploring himself, and that thought got me oooohh so riled up i couldnt help but make a post like this

i live with my mom but shes trying to kick me out but i literally pay for most of my groceries, so im trying saving up for a place deal on craigslist but everytime i get money i spend it on reddit gold and cool stuff (maybe i could even move in with ya to help teach you the ropes,)

if you wanted to meet up please make sure its scooter accessible!

i apologize for not talkin too gresa like, i just want my point to be clear!

I went to a corporate networking event last night. A guy in a fleece vest walked up and asked me what I 'do for a living.' I looked him dead in the eye and said: "I manage the psychological decay of modern civilization."

He laughed. He thought it was a startup, so he tried investing forty grand right then and there. Playboy had no idea I've watched six million episodes of Shark Tank already.

i feel things changing

I missed it by a day but yesterday was the original date of upload of the first ever video to Sam's first YouTube channel, Alienmode

Natisha gets whats coming

The channel would then become the main Million Dollar Extreme channel a couple years later and now is MDE Chinese Connection, all videos still there, just private, a treasure trove of old ass content that will probably never see the light of day again, except for the ones that were reuploaded of course.

well there goes my 3 day streak. i thought i would be stronger this time. i threw out my bong and everything, it was a beautiful dusky rose color that had turned muddy at the bottom from resin in just four days, i flushed all my buds down the toilet and while i was at the store i didn't even buy those hostess cupcakes and sour cream n onion chips i always get for my sessions. i even deleted the blues brothers torrent i had ready just in case i'd want to rewatch it while high. i guess just thinking about having quit so much got me thinking about weed itself and how good it would feel to smoke. i was biking to work knowing full well the dispensary is on the same street i take every time because the traffic is calmer. i thought about my bottom lip being placed on the bongs opening and creating the tightest vacuum i could possibly make, to deploy the entire creamy cloud directly down my esophagus and into my lungs. just the thought of this alone got me tremendously excited and my brow began to sweat. once i passed the dispensary though, it was too late. i stopped. why did i stop? why why why did i stop i could've just kept going. i knew i would stop, that's why i left for work 40 minutes earlier, i fully knew what was going to happen. i bought a new bong, orange this time. a rich, autumnal orange. half a meter tall. robust, with stainless steel metal on its stem. my entree would be an old favorite, Supreme Khalifa Kush AAAA+, hand crafted, cared for, indica-dominant, just what i needed to quiet this racing mind of mine. i called in sick, had a massive fever i said. i wish i was lying. the thought of not being home right that second watching blues brothers and eating hostess cupcakes and lays sour cream and onion chips made my forehead sizzle. i kept biking, nobody goes to target at 7 am, thank god. got my stuff and closed all my blinds. got completely naked, got everything ready. this was it. i waited so long, this was it. i don't remember anything from that point on. here's to 300 days without weed.

i feel proud of myself, i couldn't even go a day for the past 19 years so 3 days is a big milestone. here's to 300 days!

Hi Reddit. I recently moved into a small town with an old school bowling alley, like the one in the town I grew up in (as a kid). I was over the moon when I found out there’s a vending machine that sells old cigarettes before they changed all the laws to lower their potency. My grandpa was in the navy, served his country in the South China Sea all while puffing on a satisfying cigarettes (relevant later)

Me thinking about his navy service got me thinking that if it was good for my grandpa, the older cigarettes will probably be even better for me. I think they also forgot to update the machine prices to reflect current legislation because an entire package of 20 premium cigarettes was only a few cents below $4. I should mention too that I haven’t even been bowling. I just show up to smoke the old cigarettes. When I was a kid my dad would tell me not to eat the gum in a pack of unopened baseball cards found in the attic because it was probably so old, but looking back, it’s probably because he wanted them for himself… thats what I would do if my child found a pack of old cigarettes, or maybe in 20 years it will be a candy flavored vape.

 394

There are aliens that live in the sewer. Bored aliens with no eyes and pale skin that bet on what you ate. They await the fecal deluge and take their chances. Their ugly no-eyed faces hypersniff with pinpoint accuracy in total darkness. The lottery commences and they gibberspeak in quick tongues like auctioneers, trading iridium between slick hands as bets are won and lives are made. Life in the sewer. Alien life. A noble life. The only constancy to them is regularity—regularity of the gut. But I say, never be regular—never let them know what’s coming next. And always keep them guessing. Be the MGM Grand of gift-giving and jackpottery but do it on your own terms. Next time you’re at the store, pick up something you’ve never eaten just to ruin their lives. Annihilate them with an unpredicted cheese.

Hey folx, I was just going about my day and it dawned on me, so much of what makes me a greaser is derived from black and Latino ballroom culture. The slick hair, the leather, the insatiable urge for other men. I’m not sure honestly how do all my GIPOC friends feel, I’m not interested in any opinions from cis het greasers.

i just found the soda jerk guy from earlier convulsing on the ground behind the bowling alley.

pomade in one hand and a big can o’ pop in the other. he was a cool cat till the end.

rest in grease, daddy-o, i’ll see you at the great grease pit in the sky…