eesh Wrote:
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> Hey Harry, ever notice you have a hard time
> keeping a forum BFF?

I'm sure I have no idea what you mean...


Sometimes I feel like I have a hard time losing them... one in particular... with four letters in his username...

> lol


You can say that again...

> lol

Good one...


> Anyway, I'm reporting all your anon troll posts.

Now, that's a serious LOL... That's where it all went sour with you... When you were so sure I was "trolling" you from unregistered names...

How many times do I have to tell you?

You know... I want to start a new thread... "The World according to eesh"....

It will list all of your "predictions" and inferences on the forum... and how often your "facts" change...

I was reading some of your old shit... You are not only terrible at photoshop... but just gawd-butt-terrible with predictions and inference...


> Cary just needs to ban all of the Dallas area,
> that way you can't DOS the site anymore.

What else do you think Cary should do?

Signatures are for fags

eesh... remember that one time you had a rash on your pubis? and you said you'd get crust all up under your finger nails?

Remember that?

Signatures are for fags

Remember how you asked me to check it out? and you were certain it was impetigo... but it really wasn't?

Remember that?

Signatures are for fags

eesh, buddy... How's Photoshop Elements coming along?

Signatures are for fags

Someone is trying to communicate with me, but isn't making him or herself clear.

terrible timing, harry

Harry Tuttle Wrote:
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> I watched the Treehouse guys... I think that's a
> pretty cool show... even though they try to pump
> it up a little with drama... but not enough drama
> to make me puke...


this is due to a number of national skinhead rock bands began his career as a band or the style itself has flourished in treehouse in the early 2000s, so expect new concept.

]\
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eesh Wrote:
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> ]\


+1

I havent seen a long cat in quite awhile!

=
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I'd wager...the average person will live a long and fulfilling life without ever having to really use Pine Sol. It's a once in a lifetime event...using Pine Sol. It boggles my mind, to think that Pine Sol Corporation makes billions of dollars selling a product that the average person will never need to use...and the other people who do use it, will probably use about a quarter of an ounce out of one bottle....and then never think about it again.

That's Pine Sol.


/
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I had a dream about Chubby Checker a while ago....I don't remember what happened, but I know Chubby Checker was there, except he wasn't there 'as' Chubby Checker....it was Chubby Checker, but in my dream, he wasn't 'supposed' to be Chubby Checker.....but somehow, even while I was dreaming, I knew 'hey, that guy is Chubby Checker'.

/
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oragnina is a very underated fdrink

whatla's the deal with aprlaine peanisuts?

dixks

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bloody blisters Wrote:
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> dixks


ooah my dogod myan!!!!! and oyou ancant believe whato oa beterrible interonet connectio na I get right tnow!!!1

bloaidy blisoisters!!!l Wrote:
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> bloody blisters Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > dixks
>
>
> ooah my dogod myan!!!!! and oyou ancant believe
> whato oa beterrible interonet connectio na I get
> right tnow!!!1


is it because of your ince3ssant need to impress men?

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I swear this bloody blisters sounds just like my brother.

bloody blisters Wrote:
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> bloaidy blisoisters!!!l Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > bloody blisters Wrote:
> >
> --------------------------------------------------
>
> > -----
> > > dixks
> >
> >
> > ooah my dogod myan!!!!! and oyou ancant believe
> > whato oa beterrible interonet connectio na I
> get
> > right tnow!!!1
>
>
> is it because of your ince3ssant need to impress
> men?


wahog go to hello

bloaidy blisoisters!!!l Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> bloody blisters Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > dixks
>
>
> ooah my dogod myan!!!!! and oyou ancant believe
> whato oa beterrible interonet connectio na I get
> right tnow!!!1


i like building things with bricks. like making walls and such. i could build walls all day long. with a little lemonaids and things. just build walls and cool off with an icy. all day.

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bloody blisters Wrote:
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> bloaidy blisoisters!!!l Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > bloody blisters Wrote:
> >
> --------------------------------------------------
>
> > -----
> > > dixks
> >
> >
> > ooah my dogod myan!!!!! and oyou ancant believe
> > whato oa beterrible interonet connectio na I
> get
> > right tnow!!!1
>
>
> i like building things with bricks. like making
> walls and such. i could build walls all day long.
> with a little lemonaids and things. just build
> walls and cool off with an icy. all day.


aoi an Icay is go so good

bwiths me lucj mblookdy blister

a laike a n icy Wrote:
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>
>
> aoi an Icay is go so good


yeah i got like 10 or 3 of them on a day to day. but really though,. how many times

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who ARE these people

What people?

THEM!

You don't know how hard it was to steal that pic... I had to throw steaks with sleeping pills to the guard dogs... I then dropped in through the ceiling... Zeta Jones and I played limbo with the security alarm laser triggers, then I had to put on my virtual boy and hack into the mainframe to unlock the vault.

"Dry Bones" Zeta Jones didn't make it out alive.

Is that how you steal all your gifs, eesh, or do you have an easier way?

~~~i'm a happy chinese boy, i have a lot to talk about~~~

/
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Gravis,
This is currently the workout program I use. Thanks for the other option...
"Let's go Dutch!"


I Have A Bad Case Of Diarrhea - For more funny videos, click here


~~~ you have to ease your way into the colon.... ~~~
:
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i am very tired of finding my wife's pubes in the bar of soap. she just leaves them there for the kids to find. one day my son came screaming to me and said "daddy what is this?" i didnt want to tell him that they came from his mom's pussy. so i said they were from my beard. i feel bad lying to the little guy. it is just inconsiderate for her to leave them. how should i confront her?
/
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Be excellent to each other
.
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...what kind of hair do you have

Like George Costanza, and with a toupee.

Rockhound Wrote:
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> Like George Costanza, and with a toupee.


did you ever play Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater

No, only MGS 2 on PS2, ages ago.

Rockhound Wrote:
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> No, only MGS 2 on PS2, ages ago.


theres no chicken wing anaology

rouahchounds Wrote:
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> Rockhound Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > No, only MGS 2 on PS2, ages ago.
>
>
> theres no chicken wing anaology


stand-in harry tuttle

rocky horror, though MGS3 Snake Eater had a solid snake who is actually Big Boss before Big Boss becomes big boss and you can live in a jungle

i feel we're growing apart

.
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Misery
by Anton Chekhov
(1860-1904)

"To whom shall I tell my grief?"

The twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent. If a regular snowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to shake it off.... His little mare is white and motionless too. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to think.

It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. They came out of the yard before dinnertime and not a single fare yet. But now the shades of evening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lamps changes to a vivid color, and the bustle of the street grows noisier.

"Sledge to Vyborgskaya!" Iona hears. "Sledge!"

Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an officer in a military overcoat with a hood over his head.

"To Vyborgskaya," repeats the officer. "Are you asleep? To Vyborgskaya!"

In token of assent Iona gives a tug at the reins which sends cakes of snow flying from the horse's back and shoulders. The officer gets into the sledge. The sledge-driver clicks to the horse, cranes his neck like a swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity brandishes his whip. The mare cranes her neck, too, crooks her stick-like legs, and hesitatingly sets off....

"Where are you shoving, you devil?" Iona immediately hears shouts from the dark mass shifting to and fro before him. "Where the devil are you going? Keep to the r-right!"

"You don't know how to drive! Keep to the right," says the officer angrily.

A coachman driving a carriage swears at him; a pedestrian crossing the road and brushing the horse's nose with his shoulder looks at him angrily and shakes the snow off his sleeve. Iona fidgets on the box as though he were sitting on thorns, jerks his elbows, and turns his eyes about like one possessed as though he did not know where he was or why he was there.

"What rascals they all are!" says the officer jocosely. "They are simply doing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse's feet. They must be doing it on purpose."

Iona looks as his fare and moves his lips.... Apparently he means to say something, but nothing comes but a sniff.

"What?" inquires the officer.

Iona gives a wry smile, and straining his throat, brings out huskily: "My son... er... my son died this week, sir."

"H'm! What did he die of?"

Iona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says:

"Who can tell! It must have been from fever.... He lay three days in the hospital and then he died.... God's will."

"Turn round, you devil!" comes out of the darkness. "Have you gone cracked, you old dog? Look where you are going!"

"Drive on! drive on!... " says the officer. "We shan't get there till to-morrow going on like this. Hurry up!"

The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and with heavy grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at the officer, but the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparently disinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at Vyborgskaya, Iona stops by a restaurant, and again sits huddled up on the box.... Again the wet snow paints him and his horse white. One hour passes, and then another....

Three young men, two tall and thin, one short and hunchbacked, come up, railing at each other and loudly stamping on the pavement with their goloshes.

"Cabby, to the Police Bridge!" the hunchback cries in a cracked voice. "The three of us,... twenty kopecks!"

Iona tugs at the reins and clicks to his horse. Twenty kopecks is not a fair price, but he has no thoughts for that. Whether it is a rouble or whether it is five kopecks does not matter to him now so long as he has a fare.... The three young men, shoving each other and using bad language, go up to the sledge, and all three try to sit down at once. The question remains to be settled: Which are to sit down and which one is to stand? After a long altercation, ill-temper, and abuse, they come to the conclusion that the hunchback must stand because he is the shortest.

"Well, drive on," says the hunchback in his cracked voice, settling himself and breathing down Iona's neck. "Cut along! What a cap you've got, my friend! You wouldn't find a worse one in all Petersburg.... "

"He-he!... he-he!... " laughs Iona. "It's nothing to boast of!"

"Well, then, nothing to boast of, drive on! Are you going to drive like this all the way? Eh? Shall I give you one in the neck?"

"My head aches," says one of the tall ones. "At the Dukmasovs' yesterday Vaska and I drank four bottles of brandy between us."

"I can't make out why you talk such stuff," says the other tall one angrily. "You lie like a brute."

"Strike me dead, it's the truth!... "

"It's about as true as that a louse coughs."

"He-he!" grins Iona. "Me-er-ry gentlemen!"

"Tfoo! the devil take you!" cries the hunchback indignantly. "Will you get on, you old plague, or won't you? Is that the way to drive? Give her one with the whip. Hang it all, give it her well."

Iona feels behind his back the jolting person and quivering voice of the hunchback. He hears abuse addressed to him, he sees people, and the feeling of loneliness begins little by little to be less heavy on his heart. The hunchback swears at him, till he chokes over some elaborately whimsical string of epithets and is overpowered by his cough. His tall companions begin talking of a certain Nadyezhda Petrovna. Iona looks round at them. Waiting till there is a brief pause, he looks round once more and says:

"This week... er. . . my. . . er. . . son died!"

"We shall all die,... " says the hunchback with a sigh, wiping his lips after coughing. "Come, drive on! drive on! My friends, I simply cannot stand crawling like this! When will he get us there?"

"Well, you give him a little encouragement... one in the neck!"

"Do you hear, you old plague? I'll make you smart. If one stands on ceremony with fellows like you one may as well walk. Do you hear, you old dragon? Or don't you care a hang what we say? "

And Iona hears rather than feels a slap on the back of his neck.

"He-he!... " he laughs. "Merry gentlemen... . God give you health!"

"Cabman, are you married?" asks one of the tall ones.

"I? He he! Me-er-ry gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the damp earth.... . He-ho-ho!. . . .The grave that is!... Here my son's dead and I am alive.... It's a strange thing, death has come in at the wrong door.... . Instead of coming for me it went for my son.... "

And Iona turns round to tell them how his son died, but at that point the hunchback gives a faint sigh and announces that, thank God! they have arrived at last. After taking his twenty kopecks, Iona gazes for a long while after the revelers, who disappear into a dark entry. Again he is alone and again there is silence for him.... The misery which has been for a brief space eased comes back again and tears his heart more cruelly than ever. With a look of anxiety and suffering Iona's eyes stray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the street: can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to him? But the crowds flit by heedless of him and his misery.... His misery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona's heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight....

Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address him.

"What time will it be, friend?" he asks.

"Going on for ten.... Why have you stopped here? Drive on!"

Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives himself up to his misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But before five minutes have passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as though he feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins.... He can bear it no longer.

"Back to the yard!" he thinks. "To the yard!"

And his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting. An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On the stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is full of smells and stuffiness. Iona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early....

"I have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even," he thinks. "That's why I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his work,... who has had enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at ease.... "

In one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throat sleepily, and makes for the water-bucket.

"Want a drink?" Iona asks him.

"Seems so."

"May it do you good.... But my son is dead, mate.... Do you hear? This week in the hospital.... It's a queer business.... "

Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees nothing. The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep. The old man sighs and scratches himself.... Just as the young man had been thirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have been dead a week, and he has not really talked to anybody yet... . He wants to talk of it properly, with deliberation.... He wants to tell how his son was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died.... He wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the hospital to get his son's clothes. He still has his daughter Anisya in the country.... And he wants to talk about her too.... Yes, he has plenty to talk about now. His listener ought to sigh and exclaim and lament.... It would be even better to talk to women. Though they are silly creatures, they blubber at the first word.

"Let's go out and have a look at the mare," Iona thinks. "There is always time for sleep.... You'll have sleep enough, no fear.... "

He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is standing. He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather.... He cannot think about his son when he is alone.... To talk about him with someone is possible, but to think of him and picture him is insufferable anguish....

"Are you munching?" Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. "There, munch away, munch away.... Since we have not earned enough for oats, we will eat hay.... Yes,... I have grown too old to drive.... My son ought to be driving, not I.... He was a real cabman.... He ought to have lived.... "

Iona is silent for a while, and then he goes on:

"That's how it is, old girl.... Kuzma Ionitch is gone.... He said good-by to me.... He went and died for no reason.... Now, suppose you had a little colt, and you were own mother to that little colt.... And all at once that same little colt went and died.... You'd be sorry, wouldn't you?... "

The little mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master's hands. Iona is carried away and tells her all about it.

1886

...
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were wrrucriuting new talents for this ballclub






,./
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set aside a time aoeach day in which hyuou devote your time to this precious recordd.....



...
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2 ladders. And yes, plexiglass...that's perfect. Of course we would have to allow a LOT of space for the dudes to wait in line...so maybe this would have to take place out in the desert or something...somewhere where there's a lot of land and plenty of room for people to line up...the line would probably go on for a few miles, at least. Or maybe we could use those red velvet ropes they have at the bank and have the line snake around for a block or two...like the line to get into Space Mountain.


.
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the yellow king's on the losse yalle


.//
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Raymond Carver


Cathedral

This blind man, an old friend of my wife's, he was on his way to spend the night. His wife had died. So he was visiting the dead wife's relatives in Connecticut. He called my wife from his in-laws'. Arrangements were made. He would come by train, a five-hour trip, and my wife would meet him at the station. She hadn't seen him since she worked for him one summer in Seattle ten years ago. But she and the blind man had kept in touch. They made tapes and mailed them back and forth. I wasn't enthusiastic about his visit. He was no one I knew. And his being blind bothered me. My idea of blindness came from the movies. In the movies, the blind moved slowly and never laughed. Sometimes they were led by seeing-eye dogs. A blind man in my house was not something I looked forward to.

That summer in Seattle she had needed a job. She didn't have any money. The man she was going to marry at the end of the summer was in officers' training school. He didn't have any money, either. But she was in love with the guy, and he was in love with her, etc. She'd seen something in the paper: HELP WANTED--Reading to Blind Man, and a telephone number. She phoned and went over, was hired on the spot. She'd worked with this blind man all summer. She read stuff to him, case studies, reports, that sort of thing. She helped him organize his little office in the county social-service department. They'd become good friends, my wife and the blind man. How do I know these things? She told me. And she told me something else. On her last day in the office, the blind man asked if he could touch her face. She agreed to this. She told me he touched his fingers to every part of her face, her nose--even her neck! She never forgot it. She even tried to write a poem about it. She was always trying to write a poem. She wrote a poem or two every year, usually after something really important had happened to her.

When we first started going out together, she showed me the poem. In the poem, she recalled his fingers and the way they had moved around over her face. In the poem, she talked about what she had felt at the time, about what went through her mind when the blind man touched her nose and lips. I can remember I didn't think much of the poem. Of course, I didn't tell her that. Maybe I just don't understand poetry. I admit it's not the first thing I reach for when I pick up something to read.

Anyway, this man who'd first enjoyed her favors, the officer-to-be, he'd been her childhood sweetheart. So okay. I'm saying that at the end of the summer she let the blind man run his hands over her face, said goodbye to him, married her childhood etc., who was now a commissioned officer, and she moved away from Seattle. But they'd kept in touch, she and the blind man. She made the first contact after a year or so. She called him up one night from an Air Force base in Alabama. She wanted to talk. They talked. He asked her to send him a tape and tell him about her life. She did this. She sent the tape. On the tape, she told the blind man about her husband and about their life together in the military. She told the blind man she loved her husband but she didn't like it where they lived and she didn't like it that he was a part of the military-industrial thing. She told the blind man she'd written a poem and he was in it. She told him that she was writing a poem about what it was like to be an Air Force officer's wife. The poem wasn't finished yet. She was still writing it. The blind man made a tape. He sent her the tape. She made a tape. This went on for years. My wife's officer was posted to one base and then another. She sent tapes from Moody AFB, McGuire, McConnell, and finally Travis, near Sacramento, where one night she got to feeling lonely and cut off from people she kept losing in that moving-around life. She got to feeling she couldn't go it another step. She went in and swallowed all the pills and capsules in the medicine chest and washed them down with a bottle of gin. Then she got into a hot bath and passed out.

But instead of dying, she got sick. She threw up. Her officer--why should he have a name? he was the childhood sweetheart, and what more does he want?--came home from somewhere, found her, and called the ambulance. In time, she put it all on a tape and sent the tape to the blind man. Over the years, she put all kinds of stuff on tapes and sent the tapes off lickety-split. Next to writing a poem every year, I think it was her chief means of recreation. On one tape, she told the blind man she'd decided to live away from her officer for a time. On another tape, she told him about her divorce. She and I began going out, and of course she told her blind man about it. She told him everything, or so it seemed to me. Once she asked me if I'd like to hear the latest tape from the blind man. This was a year ago. I was on the tape, she said. So I said okay, I'd listen to it. I got us drinks and we settled down in the living room. We made ready to listen. First she inserted the tape into the player and adjusted a couple of dials. Then she pushed a lever. The tape squeaked and someone began to talk in this loud voice. She lowered the volume. After a few minutes of harmless chitchat, I heard my own name in the mouth of this stranger, this blind man I didn't even know! And then this: "From all you've said about him, I can only conclude--" But we were interrupted, a knock at the door, something, and we didn't ever get back to the tape. Maybe it was just as well. I'd heard all I wanted to.

Now this same blind man was coming to sleep in my house.

"Maybe I could take him bowling," I said to my wife. She was at the draining board doing scalloped potatoes. She put down the knife she was using and turned around.

"If you love me," she said, "you can do this for me. If you don't love me, okay. But if you had a friend, any friend, and the friend came to visit, I'd make him feel comfortable." She wiped her hands with the dish towel.

"I don't have any blind friends," I said.

"You don't have any friends," she said. "Period. Besides," she said, "goddamn it, his wife's just died! Don't you understand that? The man's lost his wife!"

I didn't answer. She'd told me a little about the blind man's wife. Her name was Beulah. Beulah! That's a name for a colored woman.

"Was his wife a Negro?" I asked.

"Are you crazy?" my wife said. "Have you just flipped or something?" She picked up a potato. I saw it hit the floor, then roll under the stove. "What's wrong with you?" she said. "Are you drunk?"

"I'm just asking," I said.

Right then my wife filled me in with more detail than I cared to know. I made a drink and sat at the kitchen table to listen. Pieces of the story began to fall into place.

Beulah had gone to work for the blind man the summer after my wife had stopped working for him. Pretty soon Beulah and the blind man had themselves a church wedding. It was a little wedding--who'd want to go to such a wedding in the first place?--just the two of them, plus the minister and the minister's wife. But it was a church wedding just the same. It was what Beulah had wanted, he'd said. But even then Beulah must have been carrying the cancer in her glands. After they had been inseparable for eight years--my wife's word, inseparable--Beulah's health went into a rapid decline. She died in a Seattle hospital room, the blind man sitting beside the bed and holding on to her hand. They'd married, lived and worked together, slept together--had sex, sure--and then the blind man had to bury her. All this without his having ever seen what the goddamned woman looked like. It was beyond my understanding. Hearing this, I felt sorry for the blind man for a little bit. And then I found myself thinking what a pitiful life this woman must have led. Imagine a woman who could never see herself as she was seen in the eyes of her loved one. A woman who could go on day after day and never receive the smallest compliment from her beloved. A woman whose husband could never read the expression on her face, be it misery or something better. Someone who could wear makeup or not--what difference to him? She could, if she wanted, wear green eye-shadow around one eye, a straight pin in her nostril, yellow slacks, and purple shoes, no matter. And then to slip off into death, the blind man's hand on her hand, his blind eyes streaming tears--I'm imagining now--her last thought maybe this: that he never even knew what she looked like, and she on an express to the grave. Robert was left with a small insurance policy and a half of a twenty-peso Mexican coin. The other half of the coin went into the box with her. Pathetic.

So when the time rolled around, my wife went to the depot to pick him up. With nothing to do but wait--sure, I blamed him for that--I was having a drink and watching the TV when I heard the car pull into the drive. I got up from the sofa with my drink and went to the window to have a look.

I saw my wife laughing as she parked the car. I saw her get out of the car and shut the odor. She was still wearing a smile. Just amazing. She went around to the other side of the car to where the blind man was already starting to get out. This blind man, feature this, he was wearing a full beard! A beard on a blind man! Too much, I say. The blind man reached into the back seat and dragged out a suitcase. My wife took his arm, shut the car door, and, talking all the way, moved him down the drive and then up the steps to the front porch. I turned off the TV. I finished my drink, rinsed the glass, dried my hands. Then I went to the door.

My wife said, "I want you to meet Robert. Robert, this is my husband. I've told you all about him." She was beaming. She had this blind man by his coat sleeve.

The blind man let go of his suitcase and up came his hand. I took it. He squeezed hard, held my hand, and then he let it go.

"I feel like we've already met," he boomed.

"Likewise," I said. I didn't know what else to say. Then I said, "Welcome. I've heard a lot about you." We began to move then, a little group, from the porch into the living room, my wife guiding him by the arm. The blind man was carrying his suitcase in his other hand. My wife said things like, "To your left here, Robert. That's right. Now watch it, there's a chair. That's it. Sit down right here. This is the sofa. We just bought this sofa two weeks ago."

I started to say something about the old sofa. I'd liked that old sofa. But I didn't say anything. Then I wanted to say something else, small-talk, about the scenic ride along the Hudson. How going to New York, you should sit on the right-hand side of the train, and coming from New York, the left-hand side.

"Did you have a good train ride?" I said. "Which side of the train did you sit on, by the way?"

"What a question, which side!" my wife said. "What's it matter which side?" she said.

"I just asked," I said.

"Right side," the blind man said. "I hadn't been on a train in nearly forty years. Not since I was a kid. With my folks. That's been a long time. I'd nearly forgotten the sensation. I have winter in my beard now," he said. "So I've been told, anyway. Do I look distinguished, my dear?" the blind man said to my wife.

"You look distinguished, Robert," she said. "Robert," she said. "Robert, it's just so good to see you."

My wife finally took her eyes off the blind man and looked at me. I had the feeling she didn't like what she saw. I shrugged.

I've never met, or personally known, anyone who was blind. This blind man was late forties, a heavy-set, balding man with stooped shoulders, as if he carried a great weight there. He wore brown slacks, brown shoes, a light-brown shirt, a tie, a sports coat. Spiffy. He also had this full beard. But he didn't use a cane and he didn't wear dark glasses. I'd always thought dark glasses were a must for the blind. Fact was, I wished he had a pair. At first glance, his eyes looked like anyone else's eyes. But if you looked close, there was something different about them. Too much white in the iris, for one thing, and the pupils seemed to move around in the sockets without his knowing it or being able to stop it. Creepy. As I stared at his face, I saw the left pupil turn in toward his nose while the other made an effort to keep in one place. But it was only an effort, for that eye was on the roam without his knowing it or wanting it to be.

I said, "Let me get you a drink. What's your pleasure? We have a little of everything. It's one of our pastimes."

"Bub, I'm a Scotch man myself," he said fast enough in this big voice.

"Right," I said. Bub! "Sure you are. I knew it."

He let his fingers touch his suitcase, which was sitting alongside the sofa. He was taking his bearings. I didn't blame him for that.

"I'll move that up to your room," my wife said.

"No, that's fine," the blind man said loudly. "It can go up when I go up."

"A little water with the Scotch?" I said.

"Very little," he said.

"I knew it," I said.

He said, "Just a tad. The Irish actor, Barry Fitzgerald? I'm like that fellow. When I drink water, Fitzgerald said, I drink water. When I drink whiskey, I drink whiskey." My wife laughed. The blind man brought his hand up under his beard. He lifted his beard slowly and let it drop.

I did the drinks, three big glasses of Scotch with a splash of water in each. Then we made ourselves comfortable and talked about Robert's travels. First the long flight from the West Coast to Connecticut, we covered that. Then from Connecticut up here by train. We had another drink concerning that leg of the trip.

I remembered having read somewhere that the blind didn't smoke because, as speculation had it, they couldn't see the smoke they exhaled. I thought I knew that much and that much only about blind people. But this blind man smoked his cigarette down to the nubbin and then lit another one. This blind man filled his ashtray and my wife emptied it.

When we sat down at the table for dinner, we had another drink. My wife heaped Robert's plate with cube steak, scalloped potatoes, green beans. I buttered him up two slices of bread. I said, "Here's bread and butter for you." I swallowed some of my drink. "Now let us pray," I said, and the blind man lowered his head. My wife looked at me, her mouth agape. "Pray the phone won't ring and the food doesn't get cold," I said.

We dug in. We ate everything there was to eat on the table. We ate like there was no tomorrow. We didn't talk. We ate. We scarfed. We grazed that table. We were into serious eating. The blind man had right away located his foods, he knew just where everything was on his plate. I watched with admiration as he used his knife and fork on the meat. He'd cut two pieces of meat, fork the meat into his mouth, and then go all out for the scalloped potatoes, the beans next, and then he'd tear off a hunk of buttered bread and eat that. He'd follow this up with a big drink of milk. It didn't seem to bother him to use his fingers once in a while, either.

We finished everything, including half a strawberry pie. For a few moments, we sat as if stunned. Sweat beaded on our faces. Finally, we got up from the table and left the dirty places. We didn't look back. We took ourselves into the living room and sank into our places again. Robert and my wife sat on the sofa. I took the big chair. We had us two or three more drinks while they talked about the major things that had come to pass for them in the past ten years. For the most part, I just listened. Now and then I joined in. I didn't want him to think I'd left the room, and I didn't want her to think I was feeling left out. They talked of things that had happened to them--to them!--these past ten years. I waited in vain to hear my name on my wife's sweet lips: "And then my dear husband came into my life"--something like that. But I heard nothing of the sort. More talk of Robert. Robert had done a little of everything, it seemed, a regular blind jack-of-all-trades. But most recently he and his wife had had an Amway distributorship, from which, I gathered, they'd earned their living, such as it was. The blind man was also a ham radio operator. He talked in his loud voice about conversations he'd had with fellow operators in Guam, in the Philippines, in Alaska, and even in Tahiti. He said he'd have a lot of friends there if he ever wanted to go visit those places. From time to time, he'd turn his blind face toward me, put his hand under his beard, ask me something. How long had I been in my present position? (Three years.) Did I like my work? (I didn't.) Was I going to stay with it? (What were the options?) Finally, when I thought he was beginning to run down, I got up and turned on the TV.

My wife looked at me with irritation. She was heading toward a boil. Then she looked at the blind man and said, "Robert, do you have a TV?"

The blind man said, "My dear, I have two TVs. I have a color set and a black-and-white thing, an old relic. It's funny, but if I turn the TV on, and I'm always turning it on, I turn on the color set. It's funny, don't you think?"

I didn't know what to say to that. I had absolutely nothing to say to that. No opinion. So I watched the news program and tried to listen to what the announcer was saying.

"This is a color TV," the blind man said. "Don't ask me how, but I can tell."

"We traded up a while ago," I said.

The blind man had another taste of his drink. He lifted his beard, sniffed it, and let it fall. He leaned forward on the sofa. He positioned his ashtray on the coffee table, then put the lighter to his cigarette. He leaned back on the sofa and crossed his legs at the ankles.

My wife covered her mouth, and then she yawned. She stretched. She said, "I think I'll go upstairs and put on my robe. I think I'll change into something else. Robert, you make yourself comfortable," she said.

"I'm comfortable," the blind man said.

"I want you to feel comfortable in this house," she said.

"I am comfortable," the blind man said.


After she'd left the room, he and I listened to the weather report and then to the sports roundup. By that time, she'd been gone so long I didn't know if she was going to come back. I thought she might have gone to bed. I wished she'd come back downstairs. I didn't want to be left alone with a blind man. I asked him if he wanted another drink, and he said sure. Then I asked if he wanted to smoke some dope with me. I said I'd just rolled a number. I hadn't, but I planned to do so in about two shakes.

"I'll try some with you," he said.

"Damn right," I said. "That's the stuff."

I got our drinks and sat down on the sofa with him. Then I rolled us two fat numbers. I lit one and passed it. I brought it to his fingers. He took it and inhaled.

"Hold it as long as you can," I said. I could tell he didn't know the first thing.

My wife came back downstairs wearing her pink robe and her pink slippers.

"What do I smell?" she said.

"We thought we'd have us some cannabis," I said.

My wife gave me a savage look. Then she looked at the blind man and said, "Robert, I didn't know you smoked."

He said, "I do now, my dear. There's a first time for everything. But I don't feel anything yet."

"This stuff is pretty mellow," I said. "This stuff is mild. It's dope you can reason with," I said. "I t doesn't mess you up."

"Not much it doesn't, bub," he said, and laughed.

My wife sat on the sofa between the blind man and me. I passed her the number. She took it and toked and then passed it back to me. "Which way is this going?" she said. Then she said, "I shouldn't be smoking this. I can hardly keep my eyes open as it is. That dinner did me in. I shouldn't have eaten so much."

"It was the strawberry pie," the blind man said. "That's what did it," he said, and he laughed his big laugh. Then he shook his head.

"There's more strawberry pie," I said.

"Do you want some more, Robert?" my wife said.

"Maybe in a little while," he said.

We gave our attention to the TV. My wife yawned again. She said, "Your bed is made up when you feel like going to bed, Robert. I know you must have had a long day. When you're ready to go to bed, say so." She pulled his arm. "Robert?"

He came to and said, "I've had a real nice time. This beats tapes doesn't it?"

I said, "Coming at you," and I put the number between his fingers. He inhaled, held the smoke, and then let it go. It was like he'd been doing it since he was nine years old.

"Thanks, bub," he said. "But I think this is all for me. I think I'm beginning to feel it," he said. He held the burning roach out for my wife.

"Same here," she said. "Ditto. Me, too." She took the roach and passed it to me. "I may just sit here for a while between you two guys with my eyes closed. But don't let me bother you, okay? Either one of you. If it bothers you, say so. Otherwise, I may just sit here with my eyes closed until you're ready to go to bed," she said. "Your bed's made up, Robert, when you're ready. It's right next to our room at the top of the stairs. We'll show you up when you're ready. You wake me up now, you guys, if I fall asleep." She said that and then she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

The news program ended. I got up and changed the channel. I sat back down on the sofa. I wished my wife hadn't pooped out. Her head lay across the back of the sofa, her mouth open. She'd turned so that her robe slipped away from her legs, exposing a juicy thigh. I reached to draw her robe back over her, and it was then that I glanced at the blind man. What the hell! I flipped the rope open again.

"You say when you want some strawberry pie," I said.

"I will," he said.

I said, "Are you tired? Do you want me to take you up to your bed? Are you ready to hit the hay?"

"Not yet," he said. "No, I'll stay up with you, bub. If that's all right. I'll stay up until you're ready to turn in. We haven't had a chance to talk. Know what I mean? I feel like me and her monopolized the evening." He lifted his beard and he let it fall. He picked up his cigarettes and his lighter.

"That's all right," I said. Then I said, "I'm glad for the company."

And I guess I was. Every night I smoked dope and stayed up as long as I could before I fell asleep. My wife and I hardly ever went to bed at the same time. When I did go to sleep, I had these dreams. Sometimes I'd wake up from one of them, my heart going crazy.

Something about the church and the Middle Ages was on the TV. Not your run-of-the-mill TV fare. I wanted to watch something else. I turned to the other channels. But there was nothing on them, either. So I turned back to the first channel and apologized.

"Bub, it's all right," the blind man said. "It's fine with me. Whatever you want to watch is okay. I'm always learning something. Learning never ends. It won't hurt me to learn something tonight, I got ears," he said.


We didn't say anything for a time. He was leaning forward with his head turned at me, his right ear aimed in the direction of the set. Very disconcerting. Now and then his eyelids drooped and then they snapped open again. Now and then he put his fingers into his beard and tugged, like he was thinking about something he was hearing on the television.

On the screen, a group of men wearing cowls was being set upon and tormented by men dressed in skeleton costumes and men dressed as devils. The men dressed as devils wore devil masks, horns, and long tails. This pageant was part of a procession. The Englishman who was narrating the thing said it took place in Spain once a year. I tried to explain to the blind man what was happening.

"Skeletons," he said. "I know about skeletons," he said, and he nodded.

The TV showed this one cathedral. Then there was a long, slow look at another one. Finally, the picture switched to the famous one in Paris, with its flying buttresses and its spires reaching up to the clouds. The camera pulled away to show the whole of the cathedral rising above the skyline.

There were times when the Englishman who was telling the thing would shut up, would simply let the camera move around the cathedrals. Or else the camera would tour the countryside, men in fields walking behind oxen. I waited as long as I could. Then I felt I had to say something. I said, "They're showing the outside of this cathedral now. Gargoyles. Little statues carved to look like monsters. Now I guess they're in Italy. Yeah, they're in Italy. There's paintings on the walls of this one church."

"Are those fresco paintings, bub?" he asked, and he sipped from his drink.

I reached for my glass. But it was empty. I tried to remember what I could remember. "You're asking me are those frescoes?" I said. "That's a good question. I don't know."

The camera moved to a cathedral outside Lisbon. The differences in the Portuguese cathedral compared with the French and Italian were not that great. But they were there. Mostly the interior stuff. Then something occurred to me, and I said, "Something has occurred to me. Do you have any idea what a cathedral is? What they look like, that is? Do you follow me? If somebody says cathedral to you, do you have any notion what they're talking about? Do you know the difference between that and a Baptist church, say?"

He let the smoke dribble from his mouth. "I know they took hundreds of workers fifty or a hundred years to build," he said. "I just heard the man say that, of course. I know generations of the same families worked on a cathedral. I heard him say that, too. The men who began their life's work on them, they never lived to see the completion of their work. In that wise, bub, they're no different from the rest of us, right?" He laughed. Then his eyelids drooped again. His head nodded. He seemed to be snoozing. Maybe he was imagining himself in Portugal. The TV was showing another cathedral now. This one was in Germany. The Englishman's voice droned on. "Cathedrals," the blind man said. He sat up and rolled his head back and forth. "If you want the truth, bub, that's about all I know. What I just said. What I heard him say. But maybe you could describe one to me? I wish you'd do it. I'd like that. If you want to know, I really don't have a good idea."

I stared hard at the shot of the cathedral on the TV. How could I even begin to describe it? But say my life depended on it. Say my life was being threatened by an insane guy who said I had to do it or else.

I stared some more at the cathedral before the picture flipped off into the countryside. There was no use. I turned to the blind man and said, "To begin with, they're very tall." I was looking around the room for clues. "They reach way up. Up and up. Toward the sky. They're so big, some of them, they have to have these supports. To help hold them up, so to speak. These supports are called buttresses. They remind me of viaducts, for some reason. But maybe you don't know viaducts, either? Sometimes the cathedrals have devils and such carved into the front. Sometimes lords and ladies. Don't ask me why this is," I said.

He was nodding. The whole upper part of his body seemed to be moving back and forth.

"I'm not doing so good, am I?" I said.

He stopped nodding and leaned forward on the edge of the sofa. As he listened to me, he was running his fingers through his beard. I wasn't getting through to him, I could see that. But he waited for me to go on just the same. He nodded, like he was trying to encourage me. I tried to think what else to say. "They're really big," I said. "They're massive. They're built of stone. Marble, too, sometimes. In those olden days, when they built cathedrals, men wanted to be close to God. In those olden days, God was an important part of everyone's life. You could tell this from their cathedral-building. I'm sorry," I said, "but it looks like that's the best I can do for you. I'm just no good at it."

"That's all right, bub," the blind man said. "Hey, listen. I hope you don't mind my asking you. Can I ask you something? Let me ask you a simple question, yes or no. I'm just curious and there's no offense. You're my host. But let me ask if you are in any way religious? You don't mind my asking?"

I shook my head. He couldn't see that, though. A wink is the same as a nod to a blind man. "I guess I don't believe in it. In anything. Sometimes It's hard. You know what I'm saying?"

"Sure, I do," he said.

"Right," I said.

The Englishman was still holding forth. My wife sighed in her sleep. She drew a long breath and went on with her sleeping.

"You'll have to forgive me," I said. "But I can't tell you what a cathedral looks like. It just isn't in me to do it. I can't do any more than I've done."

The blind man sat very still, his head down, as he listened to me.

I said, "The truth is, cathedrals don't mean anything special to me. Nothing. Cathedrals. They're something to look at on late-night TV. That's all they are."

It was then that the blind man cleared his throat. He brought something up. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket. Then he said, "I get it, bub. It's okay. It happens. Don't worry about it," he said. "Hey, listen to me. Will you do me a favor? I got an idea. Why don't you find us some heavy paper? and a pen. We'll do something. We'll draw one together. Get us a pen and some heavy paper. Go on, bub, get the stuff," he said.

So I went upstairs. My legs felt like they didn't have any strength in them. They felt like they did after I'd done some running. In my wife's room, I looked around. I found some ballpoints in a little basket on her table. And then I tried to think where to look for the kind of paper he was talking about.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, I found a shopping bag with onion skins in the bottom of the bag. I emptied the bag and shook it. I brought it into the living room and sat down with it near his legs. I moved some things, smoothed the wrinkles from the bag, spread it out on the coffee table.

The blind man got down from the sofa and sat next to me on the carpet.

He ran his fingers over the paper. He went up and down the sides of the paper. The edges, even the edges. He fingered the corners.

"All right," he said. "All right, let's do her."

He found my hand, the hand with the pen. He closed his hand over my hand. "Go ahead, bub, draw," he said. "Draw. You'll see. I'll follow along with you. It'll be okay. Just begin now like I'm telling you. You'll see. Draw," the blind man said.

So I began. First I drew a box that looked like a house. It could have been the house I lived in. Then I put a roof on it. At either end of the roof, I drew spires. Crazy.

"Swell," he said. "Terrific. You're doing fine," he said. "Never thought anything like this could happen in your lifetime, did you, bub? Well, it's a strange life, we all know that. Go on now. Keep it up."

I put in windows with arches. I drew flying buttresses. I hung great doors. I couldn't stop. The TV station went off the air. I put down the pen and closed and opened my fingers. The blind man felt around over the paper. He moved the tips of his fingers over the paper, all over what I had drawn, and he nodded.

"Doing fine," the blind man said.

I took up the pen again, and he found my hand. I kept at it. I'm no artist. But I kept drawing just the same.

My wife opened up her eyes and gazed at us. She sat up on the sofa, her robe hanging open. She said, "What are you doing? Tell me, I want to know."

I didn't answer her.

The blind man said, "We're drawing a cathedral. Me and him are working on it. Press hard," he said to me. "That's right. That's good," he said. "Sure. You got it, bub, I can tell. You didn't think you could. But you can, can't you? You're cooking with gas now. You know what I'm saying? We're going to really have us something here in a minute. How's the old arm?" he said. "Put some people in there now. What's a cathedral without people?"

My wife said, "What's going on? Robert, what are you doing? What's going on?"

"It's all right," he said to her. "Close your eyes now," the blind man said to me.

I did it. I closed them just like he said.

"Are they closed?" he said. "Don't fudge."

"They're closed," I said.

"Keep them that way," he said. He said, "Don't stop now. Draw."

So we kept on with it. His fingers rode my fingers as my hand went over the paper. It was like nothing else in my life up to now.

Then he said, "I think that's it. I think you got it," he said. "Take a look. What do you think?"

But I had my eyes closed. I thought I'd keep them that way for a little longer. I thought it was something I ought to do.

"Well?" he said. "Are you looking?"

My eyes were still closed. I was in my house. I knew that. But I didn't feel like I was inside anything.

"It's really something," I said.

1983

Life Is Fine

I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.

I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.

But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!

I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.

But it was High up there! It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born

Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.

Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!
Langston Hughes


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Yeah... I know it may be tough to figure out that cryptic message... but it was actually a complex code...

If you activate the vowels... then transpose the morphemes... and aggravate the phonemes... you'll discover that "them comment" actually meant "then comment"...

Take a few classes in cryptography and you'll understand what I meant...

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Drugs are not the answer. Quit. Any and all, prescription or not. Don't get me wrong about recreational use, however.

20 minutes is quite a while, how about giving it a rest and turning on a feel good everyone dies action movie like Goodfellas, Scarface, Braveheart, Shawshank, or the like instead??

The internet sucks unless you can control it.
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Chapter 3
I woke up to the sound of dishes clanking in the kitchen. It was 12:35 PM and I had no recollection of the things I had done the night before. As I climbed up off the floor, pictures flashed in my head. Vivid imagery of blood soaked underpants, syphilitic sores, and wrinkled faces, laughing maniacally, faded away as quickly as they came.
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so much garbage in the grarbage store
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waiting on a bus



A--- pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and took a seat inside the plastic enclosure next to the bus stop. Through sheets of rain, a man appeared and busily sat himself down on the bench next to A---, and absently went on tussling his hair, removing his frock coat, airing it out, flapping it and wringing it, inconsideratly shaking the wet from his body like a dog. A loud honk of a sneeze, clearing of the throat, a general boorishness. A--- scooted over as far as possible and pretended to look at something in the distance.

“It’s a wet one,” the slob of a man let out suddenly. An older guy. Poorly dressed, mismatched socks, slacks an inch or an inch and a half too short…beaten up looking face.

“Mmm.” A--- examined the imaginary thing harder now.

“You went to ___ University.” Referring to A---‘s hooded sweatshirt.

“…No,” he answered. Not thinking. “Yes.”

“Ah, well. My daughter went there.”

Both men sat silently. The rain beating the little plastic box harder now. Waiting on a bus. Sky gray and cold between the raindrops. The little plastic box like a Siberian outpost, a no man’s land…zero visibility for miles around for the fog and rain. A--- began to legitimately examine that imaginary nothing in the distance…staring at it inscrutably, soaked through to his bones. In this moment, he almost started to believe there was something to be examined; something out there…not just a means of distancing himself from the wet dog of a man to his left. Hypnotized by the pounding rain, the rattling of the plastic enclosure. The man to his left broke the trance with a hacking cough, a blowing of his nose into a soaked handkerchief. Sputtering little bits of mucus and saliva, he began to start up again…

“This was immediately after my wife passed…what I’m telling you now; I spent at leat four weeks in my house, living off potato chips, dry cereal, plain white bread…like that…and after a certain point I said to myself, you need to get out and get groceries at least. You can’t just stop eating…or live off crumbs you know…pretty much all I had left at that point. So I build myself up you know, and I decide yes, I have to go out and go grocery shopping. Bare survival minimum type stuff.
I’d been walking around my house with just my boxer shorts and a stained white t-shirt on you know…and I had no clean laundry. What did was I took a shower…which I hadn’t done in at least a week by the way…and turned my boxer shorts and t-shirt inside out. Minimize the odor. Put my sweatpants and jacket on and I left the house. Wasn’t easy….let me tell you. The sun hurt. The sun hurts like that when you haven’t seen it in so long. I get in the car right, and I feel like I can barely remember how to drive. Like I forgot everything… just like riding a bike. But I got out onto the road and managed…found my way to the store. I never did the grocery shopping you know. My wife did that. Couldn’t remember the last time I went grocery shopping by myself…….I felt like a lost little boy. I….” he paused. Maybe lost his train of thought. This bizarre non-sequitur. A--- was now looking in this man’s direction. Yes…..he exists. And before the thought of what the hell is this old man babbling about entered his mind, a genuine curiosity at the strangeness and the abruptness of it all came first. Now, if nothing else, he thought….this is entertainment.
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dead, dying, death, garbage, dumpster, dead, garbage all the time
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SHUFFLING


Shuffling, beltless, moaning and tooth gnashing, you just kind of wander…down these halls. A square of cornbread, a cup of jell-o, compartmentalized trays divided in small portions of food-like substance…trade your tiny square of cake for a soda…hunch over your meal, like an inmate. You eat alone, together.

A large gay crack addict is the best friend you’ll ever have in this place. Wonderful, kind, generous. The most interesting people you can hope to meet….you watch Rambo III with a few other nuts in a room with barred windows. A great time, overall.

You almost hate to leave it.

rocjouhnd. comment.

rockhouand, you bullshito bastaard.........i'm al onto you you bastard person........you andon't fool me. bprove it to me you basterd perosn. PROVE IT! AND PRINT IT!!!

you DICK;!!!!!

uyou basterad\

,,..,
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HENRY IV, PART I
A monologue from the play by William Shakespeare

FALSTAFF: I would you had but the wit. 'Twere better than your dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me, nor a man cannot make him laugh. But that's no marvel, he drinks no wine. There's never none of these demure boys come to any proof, for thin drink doth so overcool their blood, and making many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of malegreen-sickness, and then, when they marry, they get wenches. They are generally fools and cowards, which some of us should be too, but for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain, dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapors which environ it, makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes, which, delivered o'er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris is the warming of the blood, which, before cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice. But the sherris warms it and makes it course from the inwards to the parts extremes. It illumineth the face, which as a beacon gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm, and then the vital commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, who, great and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage, and this valor comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it a-work, and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant, for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and tilled with excellent endeavor of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first humane principle I would teach them should be to forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack.

Read more at http://www.monologuearchive.com/s/shakespeare_055.html#kZJud5HIYyIavMeR.99
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With the heartbreak open
So much you can't hide
Put on a little makeup, makeup
Make sure they get your good side, good side

If the words unspoken
Get stuck in your throat
Send a treasure token, token
Write it on a pound note, pound note

Goody two, goody two, goody goody two shoes
Goody two, goody two, goody goody two shoes

Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Subtle innuendos follow
There must be something inside

We don't follow fashion
That'd be a joke
You know we're going to set them, set them
So everyone can take note, take note

When they saw you kneeling
Crying words that you mean
Opening their eyeballs, eyeballs
Pretending that you're Al Green, Al Green

Goody two, goody two, goody goody two shoes
Goody two, goody two, goody goody two shoes

Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Subtle innuendos follow
Must be something inside

No one's gonna tell me
What's wrong and what's right
Or tell me who to eat with, sleep with
Or that I've won the big fight, big fight

Look out or they'll tell you
You're a "Superstar"
Two weeks and you're an all-time legend
I think the games have gone much too far

If the words unspoken
Get stuck in your throat
Send a treasure token, token
Write it on a pound note, pound note

Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Subtle innuendos follow
Must be something inside

'Cause I don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Subtle innuendos follow
Must be something inside

'Cause I don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Subtle innuendos follow
Must be something inside

'Cause I don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Subtle innuendos follow
Must be something inside

'Cause I don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?
Subtle innuendos follow
Must be something inside

he's gone

oh i


no can do

i can't go for that



he's gone

Everything you do
You do in vain
I try to endure the taint of pain

My heart is still
All hope is gone
Life turns off as easily as it turns on

What will happen to me when I die?
I don't want to go to heaven
And hell's where I've been all my life

I have outlived
The usefulness of my life
I'll end it all
With this butcher knife

I hate myself
And I want to die
I'm not worthy to be alive

Those who plan to go to heaven
Behave as if on drugs
Ain't no heaven; ain't no hell
You just get eaten by bugs

he's dead

I had fallen for the temptation
To sell my soul for world domination
Nobody had seen The Tempter for ages
When I found his name in the yellow pages
I summoned him from the pits of hell
And then my tale I started to tell:
Belial, my master, please take my soul
To be thy disciple is my goal

I am evol, I wear the sign
A friend of the Devil is a friend of mine
Got tacky make-up and greasy hair
But my mom says I'm not allowed to swear

I wanna live my life in sin
I wanna rot from within
My Prince of Darkness, won’t you be
Mine in unholy matrimony
Let me rule by your putrid side
Let me be your sulphurous bride
I wanna be the Lady of Flies
And give birth to Antichrist

I am evol...

We’ll drink the blood of Jesus Christ
Hanging on the cross, sacrificed
No resurrection, no more salvation
We all live in eternal damnation

I am evol...

he died

...Ludwig.

at the grocery store there was a piso mojado sign adn I accidentally knocked it over so I bent over and put it back up


and that's a story

Gritos reprimidos queriendo escapar
Dentro de pulmones de una vil realidad
Maldigo al testigo que no va a pelear
Victimas cayendo desde la impunidad

Pieles desgarradas se arrastran por un pan
A la mesa inerte que es la obscenidad

Maldición ¿debo reprimir?
Lo que hay aun por decir
Lo que hay aun por pelear

Lucha en las entrañas seduciendo al poder
Cómplices ineptos de una estupida sed
Se han equivocado, creen tener la razón
Ya escucho la voz de la insurrección

Ojo por ojo, diente por diente
Que a sangre fria muera el que miente

Llevo la saña en mis manos
Llevo el horror en mi frente

rockmoiund, you hrear harry turtle died


fell off a damn cliff

Good. He was a sensitive bastard anyway. We'll find another.

F harry all to hell. F him. F him. He can go F himself. F him. Go to hell. Stay in hell. F that bastard. Hell. Go.

How bitter the year begins

You fight and rise to the top

Discarding unworthy opponents

Yet here you are assaulted by the unwashed

You gave them your greatness

You gave them your power

Now they take it and use it against you

You offered your very substance, your life blood

And they sucked you dry and keep sucking

Now, as you lay dying, you beg for mercy

Their very greed pulls more bits than you can supply

Parasitic executives and share holders have devoured your vast resources

Hollowed carcasses of Excite, NCR and too many to list rotting away

You are strong, but weak prey grows scarce

what the F



,
Attachments:

my wife...has an inner ear infection




so nice to ssay :"my wife"



it gotes with anything
Attachments:

I take my wife everywhere, but she keeps finding her way back.

Rockhound Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> I take my wife everywhere, but she keeps finding
> her way back.


you sON OF A BITHC! you take me aon a date yoand ayou dont even ACALL ME BACK@@@@@@!!!!!

It's not you, it's me.

Rockhound Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> It's not you, it's me.


TELL ME OATHE DEAL WITH YOUARIGHT NOW!!! YW2HO ARE YOUE!!!!1

I'm really David Spade.

Rockhound Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> I'm really David Spade.


more lielke DAVE FELDMAN of aPimmit HILLS!!! you want more you vabastard??? Banker!!!!

is a wmicrowave penne pasta eany good??

Anyone seen Trailer Park Boys?

Jenifer money what kidno of panties are yous wearing???

Jen Money Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Anyone seen Trailer Park Boys?


you should make a 'current events thread according to jen money' that way we all can brush up on our history

Attachments:

Jenofier Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Jenifer money what kidno of panties are yous
> wearing???


Boxer briefs

bloody blisters Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Jen Money Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > Anyone seen Trailer Park Boys?
>
>
> you should make a 'current events thread according
> to jen money' that way we all can brush up on our
> history


b,loody blister did you ever see the vmovie "bad Day at Black rock??"

bloody blisters Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Jen Money Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > Anyone seen Trailer Park Boys?
>
>
> you should make a 'current events thread according
> to jen money' that way we all can brush up on our
> history


I just discovered Trailer Park Boys like 2 months ago. I know I'm late.

Jen Money Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Jenofier Wrote:
> --------------------------------------------------
> -----
> > Jenifer money what kidno of panties are yous
> > wearing???
>
>
> Boxer briefs


so youer really are a man then



wyh not a thong aor a g stirng??

Just came out of hibernation to say I think Jen Money stinks...

But thank you, Jen, for coming to the sleep over... You're welcome here any time...

Signatures are for fags

btoo bad rharry tuttle died

blood blister.... Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
>
>
> b,loody blister did you ever see the vmovie "bad
> Day at Black rock??"


yeah just watched it about a week ago. i really liked the part where it ended.

Attachments:

Do you feel that tapping on your shoulder? Look up...

too abad Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> btoo bad rharry tuttle died

Signatures are for fags

Harry Tuttle Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Just came out of hibernation to say I think Jen
> Money stinks...
>
> But thank you, Jen, for coming to the sleep
> over... You're welcome here any time...


go ato Hell you bastard

bloody bloisters did you ever see the movie the rock, the cabbage, and the rising sun?

Signatures are for fags

Harry Tuttle Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> bloody bloisters did you ever see the movie the
> rock, the cabbage, and the rising sun?


you aleave me to play with Rockhound aoyou son of a bithc ! how adare you????

har do youa want to know what s going on right now in the pages of X-MEN???

I just lost a fortune in Bitcoins... You don't know me, fool...

Let's be melodramatic some more...

Signatures are for fags

Harry Tuttle Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Just came out of hibernation to say I think Jen
> Money stinks...
>
> But thank you, Jen, for coming to the sleep
> over... You're welcome here any time...


I shower every day

whario is it wrong to get all gtunred on mby a female cop who slupulls you over