Leeo

Ahhh, then I'm sure Olde Foul Joe, as a student, can pull down a rock-solid F.

I just want to pre-thank Charles, Steve, Madmatt, KwazyDog and Rune for what looks to be a Fantabulous Game that adds to an already-ground-breaking series. Great job, Guys! (yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm a suck-up; get over it).

P.P.S. - Joe I mean, you don't need them consecutive to each other; you don't need them in immediate proximation to each other; a comma and period shouldn't touch each other; they shouldn't rub shoulders. Much as pertains to you and the rest of the world, actually. You're welcome.

P.S. - Joe You don't need both a comma and a period in your signature. I couldn't be bothered to care, but some ([cough]teacher bauhaus[/cough]) might. Plse fix or do sumfink. Thnx. Buh-bye.

That photo of the red x has to be the most ubiquitous photo on the internet. Thanks for sharing, Joe, but I think we've all seen it before; Much like your long slide from incoherence into decrepitude.

It's always good to rethink joining an organization under false pretenses. Of course, this assumes that collection of snot packets and lymph that slosh within your precambrian cranium can muster together anything remotely resembling a thought in the first place.

I had a sea cucumber once named Stuka. It would slowly crawl around the tank, dreaming of jumping 2-wheeled vehicles over sandy ground. It used to talk to me when I drew a line and snorted it. And then it would tell me to draw another, which of course I obligingly did, though it did seem to fancy fantasizing about slapping me around. Why, after several lines, me and cucumber Stuka where the best of friends. Until the day that feckin' cucumber drank all my beer and I was forced to run it over with a motorbike. And thus ends the parable of the old cocaine cucumber and the sea of wheels.

Just down the road from me, a cougar ate a goat. I suspect this is just a surface manifestation of some deeper trend within the MBT. If you suspect otherwise, well, then you can just feck right off.

I'm going to be visiting Colorado within the next month. Is that sympathy for the devil? I think not. It's more like "let's drop by that infrequent pooligan OGSF's house, drink some scotch, hear him mangle some scotch, and play scotch with my own money, while I force him to humor me and my small family of large people." Or sumfink like that. It's all hard sayin', as he's never here (or there, for that matter) any more. Feckin' oddstralian, scotts-mangling particpant wannabe! Feh.

Sit down, bauhaus.

My Liege, you sick bastige. How dare you think thusly of me; after all, did I not have the cleanest piss-bucket of all the squires? Did I not also provide wet-naps and a mint once one had finished with the bucket? And for what did I go to all that effort? What boon was I given for take pride in my work? To be associated with that freudian snake bauhaus, indeed, to apparently be construed as to play with such a creature. Why, it's almost more than a former piss-boy and squire extraordinaire can take. Almost. Stuka, you moto-cross-eyed bugger, you are standing on the line. I'd caution you not to step over it, for were that to happen, I might be forced to draw another line. AND I'VE GOT MY CHALK RIGHT HERE, BOYO! Don't make me use it.

Not a terribly bad result, what? Do we need his thingy? I'd respond with an emphatic NO! We'd be better off if he didn't have a thingy on which to fixate. Indeed, perhaps, for once, bauhaus would fix his stare somewhere above the belt-buckle. But I digress. Have I expounded of late on my hatred of the bauhausian one? For it is he I hate, and he I wish to extirpate. BAUHAUS! Send me feckin' scenario with which I can beat you soundly around the head and shoulders (no hitting (or stroking) below the belt).

I hates bauhaus and his faux-thingy upon which his enfeebled mind seems to be fixed. Thingy this, and dangly bits that; why, he must be the Grand Poobah of his own Onanistic Church. I believe he even wrote the hymn, Praise Peng, and Pass the Kleenex. Where does he discuss 'splodey bits and grazing fire? Where are his mantlet penetration rantings? When does he blow the whistle to send the lads over the top? Yes, I hates bauhaus. This truth I hold to be self-evident.

Being that Boo is involved and all, wouldn't it more correctly be classified as inhuman error?

I had a '67 Dodge Polara once. The dipstick rotted off, so I wrapped some masking tape around a pencil and jammed it hard into the dipstick tube. If I went around a corner and the oil light came on, I knew it was time to add 2 quarts. That thing ran forever, and was still running when I sold it. Never had it's oil changed in 3-4 years I owned it. It even took me to Texas (and back, thank the merciful heavens). That's what dipsticks mean to me.

I wished I still had my smart. It used to perch upon my shoulder and tell me answers to riddles, the answers for which I had previously only been able to ken through divine intervention as witnessed through the spleen of intel-identified goat "informers." Alas, my smart didn't have the stomach necessary to extract confessions from the goats, so it requested and received furlough by way of being an unconscionable defector. It's too bad the smarts no longer roost at the white house. It's too bad they no longer do my job for me. It's too bad they languish in exile in foreign lands at 5 cents to the dollar. It's 2 Bad.

Trucks require the changing of their "oil?" What is this strange concept, and how can it help the grinding, coughing, sputtering noises exuded by my F-350?

Didn't you used to have an extra "e" in your name? </font>

Once when I was wise, I wished I wasn't. When I wasn't wise, once, I wished I was. In any event, both felt the same way as related to my cephalic sponge. Wisdom tickles the dendrites without the false hope of hubris. Wisdom is a product of time and non-lethal failure. Faux-wisdom spouts by the bucketfuls, while true wisdom is a faint mist that glistens the brow, only experienced by those who ignore that through which they are wading and pay heed to mercurial vagaries of the divine.

Ya know, you take the "e" off of her first name, and it appears our dear guitar-licking hero and repentant hippie is married to a "she-man." Apparently his recent fever wasn't caught from some kitty next door. Oooo, and by the way, I got a new grill. I cooked the best pulled pork on it yesterday. Eight hours (it was a small butt)over hicory smoke after resting all night from being vigourously "rubbed" with a mixture of paprika, salt, cayenne, etc.. Basted with a mixture of applecider vinegar and bourbon, then topped with a happy-ending finish of cipotle-molasses glaze. It was Dee-Lish!!

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Radley! If you've got time to dance with Whirly Temporal, then you've got the time to send me a turn. Don't make me get all trenchant on yo' ass.

[*IMG][*/IMG] [edit]A crappy link to a crappy toy truck. I deleted it. I expunged it. I made it so as it no longer exists. Too bad the same can't be done with Speedy. [/edit] This will be right up your sober alley. [ June 08, 2007, 05:14 PM: Message edited by: Leeo ]

Speedy, you drunken aussie bastige (redundant, I know), STOP IT! We don't neeeed no stiiinnkkeen' pictures.