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拍照搜题，秒出答案
我在加拿大看望我的姑姑很开心
你的回答完美的解决了我的问题，谢谢！
翻译一下吧！
我们只学了第一个
拜托给我发一下吧
我去加拿大探望我姨姨过得很愉快
在加拿大我有非常好的时间看望我的姑姑
翻译一下，拜托One Gram Short - The New Yorker
Illustration by Jason Booher
There’s an adorable waitress at the coffee shop next to my house. Benny, who works in the kitchen there, told me that her name is Shikma, that she doesn’t have a boyfriend, and that she’s a fan of recreational drugs. Before she started waiting tables at the coffee shop, I’d never been in the place—not once. But now you can find me perched on a chair every morning. Drinking espresso. Talking to her a little—about things I read in the paper, about the other customers, about cookies. Sometimes I even manage to make her laugh. And when she laughs it does me good. I’ve almost invited her to a movie a bunch of times. But a movie is just too in-your-face. A movie is one step before asking her out to dinner, or inviting her to fly off to Eilat for a weekend at the beach. Asking someone to a movie can it’s basically like saying, “I want you.” And if she isn’t interested and she says no, it all ends in unpleasantness. Because of that, asking her to smoke a joint seems better to me. At worst she’ll say, “I don’t smoke,” and I’ll make some joke about stoners, and, as if it were nothing, order another short espresso and move on. That’s why I call Avri. Avri was the only person in my high-school class who was a super heavy smoker. It’s been more than two years since we spoke. I run through hypothetical small talk in my head as I dial, hunting for something I can say to him before mentioning the weed. But as soon as I ask Avri how he’s doing, he says, “Dry. They closed the Lebanese border on us because of the trouble in Syria, and they closed Egypt because of all that Al Qaeda shit. There’s nothing to smoke, my brother. I’m climbing the walls.” I ask him what else is going on, and he answers me, even though we both know I’m not interested. He tells me that his girlfriend is pregnant, and that they both want the kid, and that his girlfriend’s mother is a widow and is not only pressuring them to get married but wants a religious ceremony—because that’s what his girlfriend’s father would have wanted if he were still alive. I mean, try to withstand an argument like that! What can you do? Dig up the father with a backhoe and ask him? And all the time Avri’s talking I’m trying to get him to relax, telling him that it’s no big deal. Because for me it really isn’t a big deal if Avri gets married in front of a rabbi or not. Even if he decides to leave the country for good or get a sex change, I’m going to take it in stride. That bud for Shikma is all that’s important to me. So I throw this out there: “Dude, someone somewhere has some product, right? It’s not for the high. It’s for a girl. Someone special I want to impress.”
“Dry,” Avri says again. “I swear to you, I’ve even started smoking Spice, like some kind of junkie.” “I can’t bring her that synthetic shit,” I tell him. “It won’t look good.” “I know,” he mumbles from the other end of the line. “I know, but, right now, weed—there just isn’t any.” Two days later, Avri calls me in the morning and tells me that he may have something, but it’s complicated. I tell him I’m ready to pay for the expensive stuff. This is a onetime thing for me, and I only need a gram. “I didn’t say ‘expensive,’ ” he says, annoyed. “I said ‘complicated.’ Meet me in forty minutes at 46 Carlebach Street and I’ll explain.” “Complicated” is not what I need at the moment. And, from what I remember back in high school, Avri’s “complicated”s are complicated indeed. When it comes down to it, all I want is a single bud, even a joint, to smoke with a pretty girl who laughs at my jokes. I don’t have the headspace right now for a meeting with hardened criminals, or whoever it is who lives over on Carlebach. Avri’s tone on the telephone was enough to stress me out, and also he said “complicated” twice. When I get to the address, Avri’s waiting by his scooter with his helmet still on. “This guy,” he says to me, panting as we climb the stairs, “the one we’re headed up to see, he’s a lawyer. My friend cleans his house every week, but not for money—she does it for medical marijuana. He has a bad cancer of the something—I’m not sure which part—and he’s got a prescription for forty grams a month, but can barely smoke it. I asked her to ask him if he maybe wants to lighten his load a little more, and he said he’d discuss it, but insisted that two people come, I don’t know why. So I picked up the phone and called you.” “Avri,” I say to him, “I asked for a bud. I don’t want to go to some drug deal with a lawyer you’ve never met before.” “It’s not a deal,” Avri says. “He’s just a person who requested that two of us stop by his apartment to talk. If he says something that doesn’t sit right with us, we say goodbye and cut our losses. Anyway, there won’t be a deal today. I don’t have a shekel on me. At most, we’ll know we’ve got things rolling.” I still don’t feel good about it. Not because I think it’ll be dangerous but because I’m afraid it’ll be unpleasant. I just can’t handle unpleasant. To sit with unfamiliar people in unfamiliar houses, with that kind of heavy atmosphere looming—it does me bad. “Nu,” Avri says, “just go up, and after two minutes make like you got a text and have to run. But don’t leave me hanging. He asked that two people show up. Just walk into the house with me so I don’t look like an idiot, and one minute after that you can split.” It still doesn’t sit right, but when Avri puts it that way it’s hard for me to say no without coming off like a penis. The lawyer’s last name is Corman, or at least that’s what’s written on the door. And the guy’s actually all right. He offers us Cokes and puts a lemon wedge in each glass with some ice, like we’re in a hotel bar. His apartment’s all right, too: bright, and it even smells good. “Look,” he says, “I’ve got to be in court in an hour. A civil suit over a hit-and-run involving a ten-year-old girl. The driver did barely a year in jail, and now I’m representing the parents, who are suing him for two million. He’s an Arab, the guy who hit her, but from a rich family.” “Wow,” Avri says, as if he had any idea what Corman is actually talking about. “But we’re here about a completely different matter. We’re Tina’s friends. The subject we came to discuss is weed.” “Which is more ancient—our chants or ‘Piano Man’?”
“It’s the same subject,” Corman says, impatient. “If you give me a chance to finish, you’ll understand. The driver’s whole family is going to come out to show their support. On the side of the dead girl, other than her parents, not a soul is going to show. And the parents are just going to sit there silently with their heads bowed, not saying a word.” Avri nods and goes quiet. He still doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t want to aggravate Corman. “I want you and your friend here to come to court and act like you’re related to the victim. Make a ruckus. Make some noise. Scream at the defendant. Call him a murderer. Maybe cry, curse a bit, but nothing racist, just ‘You piece of shit’ and things of that nature. In short, the judge should feel your presence. He needs to understand that there are people in this city who think this guy’s getting off cheap. It may sound stupid to you, but things like that affect judges deeply. It shakes them up, shakes the mothballs out of those old, dry laws, rubs them up against the real world.” “About the weed?” Avri tries. “I’m getting to that now,” Corman says, cutting him off. “Give me that half hour in court and I’ll give each of you ten grams. If you scream loud enough, maybe even fifteen. What do you say?” “I just need a gram,” I tell him. “How about you sell it to me, and we call it a day? After that, you and Avri—” “Sell?” Corman laughs. “For money? What am I, a dealer? Maximum I give a baggie to a friend here and there as a little present.” “So give me a present,” I beg. “It’s a fucking gram!” “But what did I just say?” Corman smiles an unpleasant smile. “I’ll give, but first you have to prove that you’re really a friend.” If it weren’t for Avri, I’d never agree, but he keeps telling me that this is our chance and that it’s not like we’re doing something dangerous or breaking the law. Smoking dope is illegal, but screaming at an Arab who ran over a little girl—that’s not only legal, it’s downright normative. “Who knows?” he says. “If there are cameras there, people might even see us on the nightly news.” “But what’s the deal with pretending we’re family?” I keep saying. “I mean, the girl’s parents will know we’re not related.” “He didn’t tell us to say we’re related,” Avri says. “He just said that we should scream. If anyone asks, we can always say that we read about it in the paper and we’re just engaged citizens.” We’re having this conversation in the courthouse lobby, which is dark and smells like some mixture of sewage and mildew. And even though we go on arguing, it’s long been clear to both of us that I’m already in. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have ridden here with Avri on the back of his scooter. “Don’t worry,” he says to me. “I’ll scream for us both. You don’t have to do anything. Just act like you’re a friend who’s trying to calm me down. So long as they realize we’re together.” Half the driver’s family is already there, staring us down in the lobby. The driver himself is chubby and looks really young, and he greets every new person who arrives, kissing them all, like it’s a wedding. At the plaintiff’s table, next to Corman and another young lawyer with a beard, sit the parents of the girl. They don’t look like they’re at a wedding. They look wiped out. The mother is maybe fifty or older but small like a tiny bird. She has short gray hair and looks completely neurotic. The father sits there with his eyes closed. Every once in a while he opens them for a second, then closes them again. The proceedings begin, and it seems like we’ve come at the end of some complicated process, and everything sounds kind of technical and fragmented. The lawyers just keep murmuring the numbers of different sections and articles. I try to picture Shikma and me sitting here in court after our daughter has been run over. We’re destroyed, but we’re supporting each other, and then she whispers in my ear, “I want that fucking murderer to pay.” It’s not fun to imagine, so I stop and instead I start to think about the two of us in my apartment, smoking something, and watching some National Geographic documentary about animals with the TV on mute. Somehow we start making out, and when she clings to me as we kiss I feel her chest crushed up against mine. . . . “Hyena!” Avri jumps up in the gallery and starts yelling. “What are you smiling at? You killed a little girl. Standing there in your polo shirt like you’re on a cruise—they should let you rot behind bars.” A number of the driver’s relatives are making their way in our direction, so I stand up and act like I’m trying to calm Avri down. In essence, I am actually trying to calm Avri down. The judge bangs his gavel and says that if Avri doesn’t stop screaming the court officers will physically eject him, which at the moment sounds like a far more pleasant option than interacting with the driver’s entire family, most of whom are now standing a millimetre from my face and cursing and shoving Avri. “Terrorist!” Avri shrieks. “You deserve the death penalty.” I have no idea why he says that. But one guy, with a huge mustache, gives him a slap. I try to separate them, to get between him and Avri, and I catch a head butt to the face. The court officers drag Avri out. On the way, he gets in one last “You killed a little girl. You plucked a flower. If only they’d murder your daughter, too!” By this time, I’m already on the floor on all fours. Blood runs from my nose or from my forehead—I’m not exactly sure. Just as Avri delivers the bit about the driver’s daughter being killed as well, someone lands a good solid kick to my ribs. When we get back to Corman’s house, he opens his freezer, gives me a bag of frozen peas, and tells me to press hard. Avri doesn’t talk to him or to me, just asks where the weed is. “Why did you say ‘terrorist’?” Corman asks. “I told you specifically not to mention that he’s an Arab.” “ ‘Terrorist’ isn’t anti-Arab,” Avri says, defensive. “It’s like ‘murderer.’ The settlers also have terrorists.” Corman doesn’t say anything to him. He just goes into the bathroom and comes out with two little plastic bags. He hands me one and throws the other to Avri, who almost fumbles the catch. “There’s twenty in each one,” Corman says to me as he opens the front door. “You can take the peas with you.” The next morning at the café, Shikma asks what happened to my face. I tell her it was an accident. I went to visit a friend and slipped on his kid’s toy on the living-room floor. “And here I was thinking that you got beat up over a girl,” Shikma says, laughing, and brings me my espresso. “That also happens sometimes.” I try to smile back. “Hang around with me long enough and you’ll see me get beat up over girls and over friends and defending kittens. But it’ll always be me getting beat up, never me doing the beating.” “You’re just like my brother,” Shikma says. “The kind of guy who tries to break up a fight and ends up getting hit.” I can feel the bag with the twenty grams rustling in my coat pocket. But instead of paying attention to it I ask her if she’s had a chance to see that new movie about the astronaut whose spaceship blows up, leaving her stranded in outer space with George Clooney. She says no and asks me what that has to do with what we’re talking about. “Nothing,” I confess, “but it sounds pretty awesome. It’s 3-D, with the glasses and everything. Do you maybe want to go see it with me?” There’s a moment of silence, and I know that after it passes the yes or the no will come. In that moment, the image pops back into my head. Shikma crying. The two of us in court, holding hands. I try to change channels, to switch to the other image, the two of us kissing on my ratty living-room couch. Try, and fail. That picture, I just can’t shake it.? (Translated, from the Hebrew, by Nathan Englander.)
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Have a login?是什么意思？_百度作业帮
拍照搜题，秒出答案
是什么意思？
是我也不肯定的意思，yet表示也
sure表示肯定
sure的意思不是当然吗？？
那怎么在这里就变了？？
肯定的意思就是当然
你的回答完美的解决了我的问题，谢谢！
我还不确定呢
我还没想好
sure的意思是什么？
不过在这里翻译不了
亲，对我的回答满意的话，就给个好评吧。如果还有不清楚的地方，可以跟我继续交流哦。
感谢你的细致回答，我的问题已经解决了，多谢大家的帮助哦！
我还没有确定,常用来回答may i take your order
我还不确定
sure什么意思？
确信的，可靠的
我还不确定呢
亲，对我的回答满意的话，就给个好评吧。如果还有不清楚的地方，可以跟我继续交流哦。
我当然不确定
我还没确定我一个穷逼配不上你这个白富美，q n m l&#x20_山东中医药大学吧_百度贴吧
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