Seanachai

That's not true, Jon. My understanding is that many young Finns are sold on street-corners every day. Mind you, it's a specialty market. According to my sources, it's mainly older English and German men with erectile dysfunction, who primarily want 'someone to talk to', and who are willing to actually pay money to listen for hours to stories about who's Grandfather killed how many Russians with what minimal equipment. It's all rather sad and demeaning, actually. Europe is still so badly scarred by that war...

You know, you'd be a lot more threatening if you'd bother to start it first. </font>

I piss upon you all from a considerable height. Don't thank me for the attention. Your hair matted to your irregularly shaped skulls is thanks enough for me.

Roight! Here's Macey, fresh from blotting the drool off of and flirting with Grog Dorosh's latest bit o' chat-up, and he's going to now explain to us how he and Squanto introduced garbage vegetables to the American Colonists one night during a brutal session of trash talking and whisky drinking. I know that I, like the rest of you, can't wait for the moment when he starts singing an uplifting song about the 'Power of Nature and Love' with a raccoon against a backdrop of a wild, unfettered river scene...

1) I assume you mean 'sauce', not 'source'. 2) Mint is vile on meat. 3) And what the hell are you doing with the 'pumpkin'? No one eats fecking 'pumpkin'. Not even Aussies. Or is 'pumpkin...bean...' an Aussie code or alcohol derived slang term for some sort of 'back door beauty' insertional device?

RADLEY! CHANGE YOUR SIG LINE! As it turns out, you were actually wrong. Which keeps things nice and tidy, and the Universe on its correct course.

Even a fecking Brownie wouldn't be caught dead in Scunthorpe...

True. I can just see Karl Rove saying: I like you, Dalem. I'll commit vicious character assassination on you last...

Why is that hideous faceless leper talking about me? </font>

Why is that hideous faceless leper talking about me?

Simple. I'd get them a hotel room for the weekend. Someplace with vibrating beds and the Spice channel...

Bah! Like the Australians the Canadians can easily be controlled through their breweries. The hand that holds the churchkey rules Canada. Specially trained commando groups will kick off the invasion of England by seizing the key Canadian breweries. Once the breweries are in Minnesota hands, Canada will be neutralized. Besides, I think the Minnesota National Guard and Highway Patrol combined are larger than the Canadian Army.

We're giving Northern Ireland back to the Irish. Serves them right. Preliminary calls to France indicate they are willing to underwrite 33% of the military and administrative costs of the invasion and occupation, provided they have a free hand in setting up culinary institutes in England in order to educate the English people. They will be called 'Freedom Institutes'.

Wow, I just realized something a little odd. A quick comparison shows me that the three primary kingdoms of the 'United Kingdom', those being England, Scotland and Wales, comprise just slightly under 89,000 square miles of territory. The State of Minnesota covers just slightly under 87,000 square miles. My State is just the teeniest bit smaller than the entire island of Great Britain. I'm seriously considering advising the Governor to declare war on Great Britain so that we could conquer it and turn it into a huge historical theme park. Of course the population of the UK is about 56 million, and Minnesota's is only about 5 million. So we'll probably have to annex at least one of the Dakotas first so we have someplace to put all the prisoners. Without even having to make up and foster lies about Nigerian uranium we can make a solid case that Britain has Weapons of Mass Destruction, so, if we can portray the Queen as a cruel and ruthless dictator, we can probably even get US backing for the invasion. I wonder if flamingknives, Soddball and Andreas would be willing to head up a democratically elected puppet government...

A jolly singsong for M Dorosh: Late at night when we've gone away Les Grogs dream of Jean Genet High heel shoes and a black beret And the posters on the wall that say: Les Grogs do cabaret Les Grogs post night and day...

I like that. A hello to everyone, but not one blown kiss to me. Some people are so insensitive...

Not nearly fast enough. Just point out on the doll where it hurts, so we know where to deliver the killing blows. </font>

Bah! You're all weak! Weak as water! I'M DYING, HERE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? I'M DYING! I haven't read the freaking Forum in 10 days! And I'm injured! But, thanks to the power of the 'jolly singsong', I'm starting to feel better. Boo actually called me on the phone, earlier, and said horrible things to me. I admire that in a subservient Henchcreature. And now, for the jolly singsong and medication regimen that have begun promoting my recovery: You've heard of General Wellington, Who won at Waterloo, But there's a good old Irishman I'll mention unto you. He comes from dear old Dublin, He's a man we all applaud, For he always finds a corkscrew Far more handy than a sword. He is good old General Guinness, He's a soldier strong and stout. He's found on every bottle And he can't be done without! His noble name has world-wide fame Deserves three hearty cheers Hurrah for General Guinness of the Dublin Booziliers! This hale and hearty warrior Is worshipped in the ranks, For he does his task inside the cask, As well as in the tanks. He bears the brunt on every front, North, south, east, and west, And he wears about ten million Canteen medals on his chest. He is good old General Guinness, He has won the world's applause. 'Twas him who kept our spirits up In the midst of all our wars. Who was the first to flirt With Mademoiselle from Armentieres? Why good old General Guinness Of the Dublin Booziliers. All over bonny Scotland too, The General is seen. They've given him the freedom Of the "toon" of Aberdeen. From Inverness to Galashiels, He keeps them warm and bright, And they love to gather 'round him, Och, on every moonlit night. He is good old General Guinness, He's as good as Scottish broth, 'Twas him who turned the Firth of Forth Into the Firth of Froth. All Scotsman dance The Highland Fling And shout when he appears, Hurrah for General Guinness of the Dublin Booziliers. I'm feeling much better now. God Almighty, but that waltero is a complete and utter tit.

From the reports I've gotten about Saturday, Lars may still have been too hungover to get out of bed (4 days later...) Dalem is complaining that his face fell off, but I can't see that as anything but a plus. As for me...I'm in pain. I blame Berli. He sends me pain simply to amuse himself...

Shut up, that man! Now put your head down on that block! Bloody Australians!

I'm simply going to cut people's fecking heads off. That's it. Nothing more to say, nothing about music that would make your own intestine try to crawl inside itself. I'm just going to cut people's fecking heads off. The only decision facing me is if I do it in order of absolute, dog-fornicating annoyance level, or if I simplify it and go for alphabetical order. This decision is giving me a headache. I'm going to drink a beer, take a couple of aspirin, and put a better edge on my two-handed axe. And then I'm going to cut people's freaking heads off.

In the 1920s, while barring the teaching of foreign languages, Texas governor Miriam "Ma" Ferguson picked up a Bible and famously declared, "If English was good enough for Jesus Christ, it's good enough for Texas." I could go on about 'the blood', but I won't...

Sounds good to me. Who's got the bottle of balsamic vinegar and the poster of the young Drew Barrymore?

One day, if I am so blessed by the Goddess, I'd like to have enough time and money to travel all over this incredible land, and e'en this planet, and piss in the front yard of every single one of you buggers. I've got a start, at least. Because, Rune, when you saw us off that night? We pissed in your front yard.

'Course, I'd fall down and call even you a gentleman for a great big tumbler full of Bushmills right now. You know, the kind of glass you pour. I'm still after remembering your son rushing into the room, all excited, saying 'Dad, are you going to show them the new game now?!' And you holding up your hand like Caesar and stating 'No! Right now, we're drinking. Sit you down over there and wait.' You shoulda been draped in a toga of royal purple. As it was, I sang all the way back to Berli's. And he'll not thank you for that, that's certain!