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David Lynch's: Tuscon.

So anyway,

Today, Doktor Princess and I went to Dunkin' Donuts before I dropped her off at work.

We pulled up to the speaker box doohickey and put in her order, to which I added "Oh yeah, and a small medium regular." A moment of silence passed until the response came over the radio, "I'm sorry, a small regular?"...to which I came back with: "Yeah, small medium regular."  "Please pull up to the window."

We moved up to the window and I paid for our order....sans any coffee for me.

"I'm sorry, we also ordered a small medium?"

"Very sorry, did you say small?"

"Yes."

They came back with a medium regular.

"Did we already charge you for it?"

"Nope."

"Here ya go."


....and that's how I beat the Fratellis and found the treasure of One-Eyed Willy.

Mindfucks get you free shit.

The End.

This is probably my most favorite poem and I'm working carefully at memorizing for campfire recitation. I encourage anybody else to post their favorites!

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'taint being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked;" . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Well Jimmy, looks like you really dropped the ball on this one here. You are so very inept that the fruitpie in THE FUCKING WAISTECOAT, CAPE, AND BOAT SHOES (FOR CHRIST SAKE, BOAT SHOES!) has you chained up and grabbed by the scruff of your pimply neck. Aren't you a little too old to be rouged and freckled like HOWDY-FUKKIN-DOODY?!

You let Batman turn into Orson Welles, obviously, good job on that one needle dick. Apparently your inability to do anything but mince about and cower under Clark Kent's cape has caused him to become a facist. Looks like you're being sold as a blue light special over at TJ's Zay-Mart. You know what? you'd think they would have killed you off long before this, but no, they let you continue, blundering through life in Metropolis and only providing us with a reminder of why without the Fonz around, the town would have turned on poor little Richie Cunningham and LYNCHED HIM.

You're not just weak, you're commie weak.

fuck off pinko.

Better dead than red.

STEAMWORLD?

NO!

http://www.nerve.com/CS/blogs/screengrab/archive/2009/04/01/morning-deal-report-waterworld-sequel-washes-ashore.aspx

GO AHEAD!

HIT ME!

I DARE YA!

that is all.

Stay tuned here for our adventures as we outwit our not-so-wiley housemates into thinking we actually like it here while we surreptitiously and mysteriously move out!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XWhUeAy35qc&feature=player_embedded#at=226

you gotta watch the whoooooole thing.
and then we need to do the same...only better!

Manager: I want to boil the owner in Tiger Balm slowly, and when all the meat falls off the bones, crucify the bartender on them.

yep.

c'mon, I want to know.....
Right now, It's people who like to think that their defecation is scented with rose hips and cinnamon.