Saturday, March 29, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Jokes (EXPLICIT)
Q: How do we know Vice President Dick Cheney has a clean conscience?
A: He’s never used it.
Q: What was President George W. Bush’s position on Roe v. Wade?
A: He didn’t care how the people got out of New Orleans.
Q: What is the difference between the U.S. Congress and the Library of Congress?
A: In the Library of Congress, you aren’t allowed to lick the pages.
Q: What’s a serial killer’s best pickup line?
A: Excuse me. Does this napkin smell like chloroform to you?
Q: Why did the Polack spend all night outside the whorehouse?
A: He was waiting for the red light to turn green.
Q: Why don’t blondes make good cattle herders?
A: Because they can’t even keep two calves together.
Q: Did you hear about the midget who wanted everyone to know he was gay?
A: He came out of the cupboard.
Q: What did the deaf guy say to the nympho?
A: Come again?
Q: What do you call a guy with syphilis, herpes and gonorrhea?
A: An incurable romantic.
Q: What’s the square root of 69?
A: Eight something.
Q: Why did the gay man think his lover was cheating on him?
A: His partner came home shit-faced.
A: He’s never used it.
Q: What was President George W. Bush’s position on Roe v. Wade?
A: He didn’t care how the people got out of New Orleans.
Q: What is the difference between the U.S. Congress and the Library of Congress?
A: In the Library of Congress, you aren’t allowed to lick the pages.
Q: What’s a serial killer’s best pickup line?
A: Excuse me. Does this napkin smell like chloroform to you?
Q: Why did the Polack spend all night outside the whorehouse?
A: He was waiting for the red light to turn green.
Q: Why don’t blondes make good cattle herders?
A: Because they can’t even keep two calves together.
Q: Did you hear about the midget who wanted everyone to know he was gay?
A: He came out of the cupboard.
Q: What did the deaf guy say to the nympho?
A: Come again?
Q: What do you call a guy with syphilis, herpes and gonorrhea?
A: An incurable romantic.
Q: What’s the square root of 69?
A: Eight something.
Q: Why did the gay man think his lover was cheating on him?
A: His partner came home shit-faced.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
From Dr Deadalus by Mark Rosen
"Rosen's ideas and aspirations are frightening to me because they are such vivid, visceral examples of a certain postmodern or perhaps, more precisely put, post-authentic sensibility we embrace and fear as we pop our Prozacs and Ritalins and then decide to be Jewish and then Episcopalian and then chant with the monks on the same Himalayan mountain via a cheap plane ticket we purchased between jobs and just before we sold our condo in a market rising so fast that when it falls if will sound like all of the precious China plates crashing down from the cabinet - a mess! What a mess!
Until recently, no more than a single major ideological shift was likely to occur in a lifetime, and that one would be long remembered for its conflict and soul-searching. But today it is unusual for several such shifts to take place within a year or even a month, whether in the realm of politics, religion, aesthetic values, personal relationships... quite rare is the man or woman who has gone through life holding firmly to a single ideological vision. More usual is a tendency toward ideological fragments, bits and pieces of belief systems that allow for shifts, revisions, and recombinations."
Until recently, no more than a single major ideological shift was likely to occur in a lifetime, and that one would be long remembered for its conflict and soul-searching. But today it is unusual for several such shifts to take place within a year or even a month, whether in the realm of politics, religion, aesthetic values, personal relationships... quite rare is the man or woman who has gone through life holding firmly to a single ideological vision. More usual is a tendency toward ideological fragments, bits and pieces of belief systems that allow for shifts, revisions, and recombinations."
Bells by Hey Mercedes
Is this the best you have to offer us?
you genius, your hair mussed
by now you must have heard about the whirling world outside
twist a knife in it, i don't care
drain the life from it (I don't care)
if you can fake it you can take them like a photograph.
With a coy sigh in time
your girlfriend's waiting on the line
can't you wait to make her cry?
And they'll remember you alive
as that pain in their unkind invitation tonight
so here's your credit for the lie
that you've been hanging
and over awaiting your reply.
is this the worst you have to peddle us?
scandalous! oh spare us!
by now they must have heard about your worried world inside
pull the covers up, i don't care
call all your lovers up, i don't care
if the fates sing to your face queen of the raincloud club.
i lied when i said we were alike
your best friend's waiting on the line
to compliment your new shine
i can hardly stand to stand here now
to be your stare to admit to all
the pain that you've been painting
and over and i can't bear to stay.
so come on!
sing along!
aren't we chuckling through our curls?
(up to heaven and down to hell)
say it again pal, aren't we bells?
aren't we statues in a story
where we choose our goals of glory
over family and over friends
say it again and again.
aren't we bridges aren't we bells?
aren't we sighing in our cells?
up to heaven and down to hell
say it again pal, aren't we bells?
aren't we bells?
you genius, your hair mussed
by now you must have heard about the whirling world outside
twist a knife in it, i don't care
drain the life from it (I don't care)
if you can fake it you can take them like a photograph.
With a coy sigh in time
your girlfriend's waiting on the line
can't you wait to make her cry?
And they'll remember you alive
as that pain in their unkind invitation tonight
so here's your credit for the lie
that you've been hanging
and over awaiting your reply.
is this the worst you have to peddle us?
scandalous! oh spare us!
by now they must have heard about your worried world inside
pull the covers up, i don't care
call all your lovers up, i don't care
if the fates sing to your face queen of the raincloud club.
i lied when i said we were alike
your best friend's waiting on the line
to compliment your new shine
i can hardly stand to stand here now
to be your stare to admit to all
the pain that you've been painting
and over and i can't bear to stay.
so come on!
sing along!
aren't we chuckling through our curls?
(up to heaven and down to hell)
say it again pal, aren't we bells?
aren't we statues in a story
where we choose our goals of glory
over family and over friends
say it again and again.
aren't we bridges aren't we bells?
aren't we sighing in our cells?
up to heaven and down to hell
say it again pal, aren't we bells?
aren't we bells?
To Dream of Pigs Quotes
Nearing Pusan the railway joined the coast. A rusting coaster sat impaled on the rocks, its holded bow rearing out of the water like a frozen fish gaping for air. In a cove beyond the ever-present security fence white-vested soldiers went through their knee-jerks. The train swung round a headland, exposing mile upon mile of white, rectangular, apartment blocks, like cigarette packets standing end to end. It was my first glimpse of Pusan.
Pusan is South Korea's largest port and second largest city, with a population of four million. It lies at the south-east corner of the Republic, diagonally opposite of Seoul, and is the stepping-off point for the Japanese port of Shimonoseki. Unlike Seoul, which bore the brunt of the changing fortunes of the Korean War, Pusan was never occupied by communist forces and bears none of the visible scars of war. It did, however, in the darkest days of 1950, accomodate four million refugees fleeing from Kim Il Sung, many of whom stayed on. Pusan's cosmopolitanism and refugee legacy saddles the city with the reputation of criminal hotspot.
...Pusan is long and twisted. Its major thoroughfares choke with traffic at all hours. On the map the city resembles a misappen tree, stunted branches spilling outwards.
Any charms Pusan posessed did not reveal themselves lightly. Before the Olympic Games yachtsmen complained about the polluted waters of Suyong Bay, close to a favorite tourist area. Floating garbage threatened to rip off the rudders, and crews refused to enter the water to clean their hulls. This prompted an unprecidented change to Olympic rules, permission being given for the boats to be rasied from the water and cleaned on land.
Nor does Pusan earn brownie points for its official bumph, wish is full of Doland Duck English - excusable, comical and even lovable elsewhere, but not in a city of Pusan's resources. 'The beloved trade mark of Pusan is among Koreans,' declaired one tourist pamphlet, nonsensically.
Pusan seemed even more compressed than Seoul, its hills close and more claustrophobic, its traffic still slower.
Waiting at a bus-stop one blustery evening I was treated to the force of Pusan's stink. Korean drains are covered by paving stones with cut-away hand-holes at either end. The hand-holes permit a free view of the passing sewage and ample opportunity to inhale its stench.
He was aggrivated at Korea's obsession with filching tourists as a means of demonstrating her modernity. He examined my entrance ticket and remarked upon its expense. Not the expense of buying it, but of making it - glossy paper with colour pictures. They were always like this in Korea. Bus tickets would have sufficed, at a fraction of the cost, except that in Korea appearances are everything.
It was, perhaps, disadvantageous to visit Korea after having known Japan, for Japan presents most Western visitors with a shattering dose of culture shock. Korea is subtler, more restrained, offering little to compete with Japan's sheer spectacle - for example, Japan's Sumo wrestlers, her tea economy, lava baths, awesome Mt. Fuji, love hotels, bullet trains, pachinko parlours, street bunting, dragon dances, A-bomb museums in Hiroshima and Nakasaki, the dawn calls of her sweet potato sellers.
Korea's culture has absorbed so much from China, Japan and America, and lost so much through erosion, banishment, and subjugation, that, to her detractors, little remains that can be called truly Korean, other than her ondol underfoot heating, her hangul language, and her kimchi. Korea, I felt, is enjoyed not by seeing but by being. The name 'Chosun' (Land of Morning Calm) hints at the softness of her real charm. A night out in provincial Korea is to wander the market-place or stroll the waterside in some fishing port.
Pusan is South Korea's largest port and second largest city, with a population of four million. It lies at the south-east corner of the Republic, diagonally opposite of Seoul, and is the stepping-off point for the Japanese port of Shimonoseki. Unlike Seoul, which bore the brunt of the changing fortunes of the Korean War, Pusan was never occupied by communist forces and bears none of the visible scars of war. It did, however, in the darkest days of 1950, accomodate four million refugees fleeing from Kim Il Sung, many of whom stayed on. Pusan's cosmopolitanism and refugee legacy saddles the city with the reputation of criminal hotspot.
...Pusan is long and twisted. Its major thoroughfares choke with traffic at all hours. On the map the city resembles a misappen tree, stunted branches spilling outwards.
Any charms Pusan posessed did not reveal themselves lightly. Before the Olympic Games yachtsmen complained about the polluted waters of Suyong Bay, close to a favorite tourist area. Floating garbage threatened to rip off the rudders, and crews refused to enter the water to clean their hulls. This prompted an unprecidented change to Olympic rules, permission being given for the boats to be rasied from the water and cleaned on land.
Nor does Pusan earn brownie points for its official bumph, wish is full of Doland Duck English - excusable, comical and even lovable elsewhere, but not in a city of Pusan's resources. 'The beloved trade mark of Pusan is among Koreans,' declaired one tourist pamphlet, nonsensically.
Pusan seemed even more compressed than Seoul, its hills close and more claustrophobic, its traffic still slower.
Waiting at a bus-stop one blustery evening I was treated to the force of Pusan's stink. Korean drains are covered by paving stones with cut-away hand-holes at either end. The hand-holes permit a free view of the passing sewage and ample opportunity to inhale its stench.
He was aggrivated at Korea's obsession with filching tourists as a means of demonstrating her modernity. He examined my entrance ticket and remarked upon its expense. Not the expense of buying it, but of making it - glossy paper with colour pictures. They were always like this in Korea. Bus tickets would have sufficed, at a fraction of the cost, except that in Korea appearances are everything.
It was, perhaps, disadvantageous to visit Korea after having known Japan, for Japan presents most Western visitors with a shattering dose of culture shock. Korea is subtler, more restrained, offering little to compete with Japan's sheer spectacle - for example, Japan's Sumo wrestlers, her tea economy, lava baths, awesome Mt. Fuji, love hotels, bullet trains, pachinko parlours, street bunting, dragon dances, A-bomb museums in Hiroshima and Nakasaki, the dawn calls of her sweet potato sellers.
Korea's culture has absorbed so much from China, Japan and America, and lost so much through erosion, banishment, and subjugation, that, to her detractors, little remains that can be called truly Korean, other than her ondol underfoot heating, her hangul language, and her kimchi. Korea, I felt, is enjoyed not by seeing but by being. The name 'Chosun' (Land of Morning Calm) hints at the softness of her real charm. A night out in provincial Korea is to wander the market-place or stroll the waterside in some fishing port.
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