Missionary or not, if you go somewhere where it is widely known they don’t want visitors and it is literally illegal to contact them or go on their land, and you get clapped, that is your own fault.
Stop trying to colonize everyone and mind your business.
this man wasn’t a tourist — he was an intruder.
Left out of the headlines and first paragraphs:
He was killed on his THIRD visit.
The first time the locals shot arrows at the kayak he used to get from the fishing boat he hired to the shore. That dissuaded him for a day. Then he came back with a large fish as a gift. The locals accepted the fish and told him to leave. He whipped out his Bible and they shot up the Bible (as one of his missionary relatives described it to the BBC “The Bible saved his life!”). Still not taking the hint he returned the next day and, having had enough of his bullshit, they filled him with arrows.
What part of NO SOLICITORS did he not understand?
Also, they have no immunity to outside diseases. His presence could have literally wiped out the population of the entire island.
Hilariously, these “savage” indigenous people showed more goddamned restraint in dealing with an unwanted intruder than white people in fucking castle doctrine states.
i dont understand this at all and america scares the fuck out of me
This is the america they don’t want you to see
i love america
This is what you call Waffle House at 2 am when the bars close and everyone is drunk and hungry
*group of people having fun* this site: wtf this is so scary
People having safe fun at a waffle house is scary for most Tumblr bloggers, reports say.
Some context for those not familiar with Waffle House Culture:
Waffle House is one of the few chains in America that’s open 24/7/365, and where you can get both breakfast and lunch/dinner options at any time (I have had so many Breakfast Cheeseburgers at Waffle Houses). The food is really good, and people eat there at all times of the day or night, but it’s particularly popular as a late-night post-drinking spot because it’s all that’s open and it’s the kind of food that tastes especially good when you’re hammered.
Part of Waffle House Protocol is that all the servers and cooks greet every single customer as they come through the door. It sounds lame, but I’ve never been to a Waffle House where that greeting didn’t feel completely heartfelt. My mom is a health nut who could barely find anything on the menu she was willing to eat and yet she describes the Christmas Day lunch we had there one year as one of the nicest meals she’s ever had because everyone was so warm and welcoming. That sense of camaraderie gets turned up to 11, of course, at 2 a.m. when everyone’s shitfaced.
The jukeboxes have Waffle-House-themed songs on them (once you have heard “Raisins in my Toast” you will be earwormed forever) and there is an arcane system of hash brown ordering: scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, topped, diced, peppered, and/or capped. The hot sauce bottles say “Casa de Waffle.”
Once, in Oxford (UK), my husband and I walked past a kebab van very late one night and he said “why do I smell Waffle House”
The location of most Waffle Houses means there’s some… classism that tends to get tied up with Anti-Waffle House Discourse, which is probably lending itself, in part, to this being such a fraught topic. (I’m looking at a map and apparently I was born and raised right in the middle of the Peak Waffle House Density Zone)
Iron in the Sand 