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33 minutes ago, ShadySands said:

I feel like I'm missing something, did the guy boil raw chicken at some point? It looks like he adds it to his curry or whatever he's making but my sound is off so maybe he talks about it or something.

Personally, I don't think I've ever boiled meat that wasn't part of some broth or something but maybe I'm being too strict in my usage of the word. Cooked many a chicken in a broth or sauce or whatnot.

not to give anybody an excuse, but am thinking if folks don't do much o' the cooking in the household, they may not realize what is happening behind the curtain. for example, make chicken cacciatore does not ordinary involve adding cooked chicken thighs to other ingredients and then simmering. however, the chicken thighs may get seared first to add depth o' flavor and seal in some o' the chicken's moisture. sear is not cooked. nevertheless, while is extreme similar cooking approaches 'tween what you see in the curry video and what goes into a chicken cacciatore, the guy who sits and waits for his meal to be presented to him may not realize what actual went into preparation. he saw or smelled chicken being cooked (seared) so is different.

as an aside, we has straight up boiled chicken to make stock... and dog food. 

HA! Good Fun!

 

"If there be time to expose through discussion the falsehood and fallacies, to avert the evil by the processes of education, the remedy to be applied is more speech, not enforced silence."Justice Louis Brandeis, Concurring, Whitney v. California, 274 U.S. 357 (1927)

"Im indifferent to almost any murder as long as it doesn't affect me or mine."--Gfted1 (September 30, 2019)

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Apparently that is how chapati and chicken is made.

Why has elegance found so little following? Elegance has the disadvantage that hard work is needed to achieve it and a good education to appreciate it. - Edsger Wybe Dijkstra

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use cooked chicken in soup is a perfect acceptable time saving approach.

https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1018442-chicken-soup-from-scratch

not boiling. long and slow simmer in broth.

HA! Good Fun!

"If there be time to expose through discussion the falsehood and fallacies, to avert the evil by the processes of education, the remedy to be applied is more speech, not enforced silence."Justice Louis Brandeis, Concurring, Whitney v. California, 274 U.S. 357 (1927)

"Im indifferent to almost any murder as long as it doesn't affect me or mine."--Gfted1 (September 30, 2019)

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A grown man looms behind my three-year-old daughter. Occasionally he will poke or tickle her and she responds by shrinking. Smaller and smaller with each unwanted advance. I imagine her trying to become slight enough to slip out of her booster seat and slide under the table.
When my mother views this scene, she sees playful taunting. A grandfather engaging with his granddaughter.
“Mae.” My tone cuts through the din of a familiar family gathering together. She does not look at me.
“Mae.” I start again. “You can tell him no Mae. If this isn’t okay you could say something like, Papa, please back up—I would like some space for my body.”
As I say the words, my step-father, the bulldog, leans in a little closer, hovering just above her head. His tenebrous grin taunts me as my daughter accordions her 30-pound frame hoping to escape his tickles and hot breath.
I repeat myself with a little more force. She finally peeks up at me.
“Mama . . . can you say it?”
Surprise. A three-year-old-girl doesn’t feel comfortable defending herself against a grown man. A man that has stated he loves and cares for her over and over again, and yet, stands here showing zero concern for her wishes about her own body. I ready myself for battle.
“Papa! Please back up! Mae would like some space for her body.”
My voice is firm but cheerful. He does not move.
“Papa. I should not have to ask you twice. Please back up. Mae is uncomfortable.”
“Oh, relax,” he says, ruffling her wispy blonde hair.
The patriarchy stands, patronizing me in my own damn kitchen. “We’re just playin’.” His southern drawl does not charm me.
“No. You were playing. She was not. She’s made it clear that she would like some space, now please back up.”
“I can play how I want with her.” He says, straightening his posture.
My chest tightens. The sun-bleached hairs on my arms stand at attention as this man, who has been my father figure for more than three decades, enters the battle ring.
“No. No, you cannot play however you want with her. It’s not okay to ‘have fun’ with someone who does not want to play.”
He opens his mouth to respond but my rage is palpable through my measured response. I wonder if my daughter can feel it. I hope she can.
He retreats to the living room and my daughter stares up at me. Her eyes, a starburst of blue and hazel, shine with admiration for her mama. The dragon has been slayed (for now). My own mother is silent. She refuses to make eye contact with me.
This is the same woman who shut me down when I told her about a sexual assault I had recently come to acknowledge.
This is the same woman who was abducted by a carful of strangers as she walked home one night. She fought and screamed until they kicked her out. Speeding away, they ran over her ankle and left her with a lifetime of physical and emotional pain.
This is the same woman who said nothing, who could say nothing as her boss and his friends sexually harassed her for years.
This is the same woman who married one of those friends.
When my mother views this scene, she sees her daughter overreacting. She sees me ‘making a big deal out of nothing.’  Her concerns lie more in maintaining the status quo and cradling my step-dad’s toxic ego than in protecting the shrinking three-year-old in front of her.
When I view this scene, I am both bolstered and dismayed. My own strength and refusal to keep quiet is the result of hundreds, probably thousands of years of women being mistreated, and their protests ignored. It is the result of watching my own mother suffer quietly at the hands of too many men. It is the result of my own mistreatment and my solemn vow to be part of ending this cycle.
It would be so easy to see a little girl being taught that her wishes don’t matter. That her body is not her own. That even people she loves will mistreat and ignore her. And that all of this is “okay” in the name of other people, men, having fun.
But. What I see instead is a little girl watching her mama. I see a little girl learning that her voice matters. That her wishes matter. I see a little girl learning that she is allowed and expected to say no. I see her learning that this is not okay.
I hope my mom is learning something, too.
Fighting the patriarchy one grandpa at a time.
            By Lisa Norgren

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"Cuius testiculos habeas, habeas cardia et cerebellum."

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For the non-serious and just aesthetically pleasing...

217673715_2938646329684609_4831663282421

"Cuius testiculos habeas, habeas cardia et cerebellum."

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Dungeons & Dragons Novels, Video Games, and Other Spin-Offs Are Not Canonical to D&D Roleplaying Game (comicbook.com)

 

Wizards of the Coast has provided some clarity on the canon of Dungeons & Dragons in regards to what it considers canon for the core roleplaying game. Over the past 45 years, Wizards of the Coast and its predecessors have published hundreds of Dungeons & Dragons adventures and supplements, as well as hundreds more licensed and in-house novels, video games, comic books, and other pieces of spin-off works. While speaking to media last week ahead of its D&D Live event, lead rules designer Jeremy Crawford discussed the "canon" of Dungeons & Dragons, particularly when it comes to popular novel series such as the Dragonlance novels by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman or the Drizzt novels by R.A. Salvatore.

Edited by Raithe
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"Cuius testiculos habeas, habeas cardia et cerebellum."

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ComicSands - White Woman tries to attack Black Woman in Victoria's Secret - Then Fains when she realises she's on camera

A White woman, who was caught on camera attempting to attack a Black customer in a Victoria's Secret, has left people across the internet confused and outraged after she broke out some sudden theatrics upon discovering she was being filmed.
When Abigail Elphick realized she was on camera—and likely to become the next infamous viral meltdown clip—she quickly curled up into a ball, cried her eyes out, and eventually "fainted," falling to the ground and lying there motionless until security arrived.

As Elphick's shrieks and cries continued, Ukenta also continued filming. For Ukenta, that was the only way to ensure her side of the story could be proved when police asked what happened.


Elphick continued to rage in response to being on camera. She pointed, screamed and writhed on the floor. She even chased Ukenta around the store, who was forced to stay behind a clothing display to ensure her own safety.


When security came, they acted oblivious to the entire situation, according to Ukenta. Police later arrived to learn about what happened.
When Ukenta explained she was attacked and chased around the store, the officer nonetheless stated, because he was not a mall employee, he couldn't escort Elphick out of the mall.

 

"Cuius testiculos habeas, habeas cardia et cerebellum."

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One Blue Heeler vs two coyotes.

Just reading their body language the dog is having the time of his life. It’s all a game to him. The two coyotes are genuinely afraid.

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"The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys. Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience, bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, makes slaves of men, and of the human frame a mechanized automaton."

P.B. Shelley

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1 hour ago, Guard Dog said:

One Blue Heeler vs two coyotes.

Just reading their body language the dog is having the time of his life. It’s all a game to him. The two coyotes are genuinely afraid.

Damn, he one taped that coyote...

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"The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys. Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience, bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, makes slaves of men, and of the human frame a mechanized automaton."

P.B. Shelley

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The guy has an entire channel based around "how to make a kitchen shiv out of..."

"Cuius testiculos habeas, habeas cardia et cerebellum."

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An amusing 40k section exhibiting how to make an agricultural world grimdark

Quote

All agri worlds are of similar size, located in similar orbital zones within their void systems and subject to specific exposure to a prescribed spectrum of solar radiation. Their soils have to be within a tight compositional range, and they have to be close to major supply worlds.

The Imperium is not a gentle custodian of such places. After discovery of a candidate planet, the first fifty years are spent in terraforming according to well-worn Martian procedures. All pre-existing life is scrubbed from the rocks, either by the application of controlled virus-chewers or by timed flame-drops. The atmosphere is regulated, first through the actions of gigantic macro-processors and thereafter by a land-based network of control units, more commonly referred to as command nodes. Weather, as least as generally understood, disappears. Rainfall becomes a matter of controlled timing, governed by satellites in low orbit and kept in line by fleets of dirigibles. The empty landscape is divided up into colossal production zones, each patrolled by crawlers and pest-thopters. Millions of base-level servitors are imported, kept at the very lowest level of cognitive function but bulked up by a ruthless level of muscle-binders.

Soon after this process completes, every agri world looks exactly the same – a flat, wind-rummaged plain of high-yield crops swaying towards the empty horizon. A person could walk for days and never see a distinctive feature. Not that anyone sane would choose to walk in such places – the industrial fertiliser dumps are so powerful that they turn the air orange and make it impossible to breathe unfiltered. A single growing season exhausts the soil completely, requiring continual delivery of more sprays of nitrates and phosphates, all delivered from the grimy berths of hovering despatch flyers. The entire world is given over to a remorseless monoculture, with orthogonal drainage channels burning with chem-residue and topsoil continually degrading into flimsier and flimsier dust.

But that doesn’t matter. A planet can be driven like this for thousands of years before it eventually keels over and becomes a death world. The quality of the crops gets steadily worse, but the quantity can be sustained almost indefinitely, assuming that supply lines are maintained and imports remain consistent. At the end of every season, the great harvester leviathans are stoked up and dragged from their pens and let loose on the grey fields, smokestacks belching and tracked undercarriages sinking deep. These massive creatures of high-sided metal and intricate pipework, the smallest of which are a hundred metres long, crawl across the blasted prairies, sucking up every last speck of pallid grain and piping it directly to antiseptic internal hoppers. Feed-landers come down from high flight, dock with the still-trundling leviathans and extract the raw material, from where it is taken into the city-sized processor vats, blasted with antibiotics, smashed, burned, crushed, then stamped and packaged. Once ready for transport, containers are dragged up into orbit aboard swell-bellied landers, ready for transfer to the void-bound mass conveyers, which deliver the refined product to every starving hive world and forge world in their long circuits.

There is a quaint tradition in the various propaganda departmentos of the Administratum of marketing agri worlds as quasi-paradises, free of the squalor and overcrowding of a standard urban station, and full of bucolic ease. Vid-cards are dropped into communal hab-warrens, extolling the virtues of a life lived outdoors with the sun on your back and a ruddy-faced boy or girl – subject to preference – by your side. In reality, life on an agri world is as unrelenting, back-breaking and monotonous as the vast majority of other Imperial vocations. There are no trees laden with glossy fruit, only kilometre after kilometre of hissing corn.

There are no gentle strolls under the warming sun, only punishing work details in rad-suits, leaning into the dust-laden winds that howl around the equator with nothing to halt their rampage. Once the new arrivals have made planetfall and found this out, it is too late. Crew transports arrive on agri worlds full and leave empty. There is a saying among the indentured workers – you come for the soil, you end up part of it.

Edited by Malcador
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Why has elegance found so little following? Elegance has the disadvantage that hard work is needed to achieve it and a good education to appreciate it. - Edsger Wybe Dijkstra

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“If we are to have another contest in the near future of our national existence, I predict that the dividing line will not be Mason and Dixon's but between patriotism and intelligence on the one side, and superstition, ambition and ignorance on the other.” 

-Ulysses S. Grant

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On 7/13/2021 at 11:15 PM, 213374U said:

Canned the Russian fisticuffs post.

I have no idea where this came from but I'm thinking some people, especially from Europe and the snobby sectors of North America, probably need some "Russian Fistcuffs", as it seems to be some kind of illusory psychological stigma that has no basis on reality.

Based off of my life experience and interactions with the world, Russians and Chinese appear to be far more civilized and wise than the violent and angry people from North America and perhaps some European countries who seem to resort to "fistcuffing" far more easily and readily than that of other non-aligned countries.

Projection is a wonderful thing is it not?  This is perhaps the most weirdest and most random thing I have ever encountered in the modern world.

“If we are to have another contest in the near future of our national existence, I predict that the dividing line will not be Mason and Dixon's but between patriotism and intelligence on the one side, and superstition, ambition and ignorance on the other.” 

-Ulysses S. Grant

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