Elvis never came to my funeral, and why would he, I never came to his. Jesus never mentioned me in his will, but I will mention his in mine.
Of Tarzan and the arm I sing
Wonder Woman and Fu Manchu
Working it up in the lab at night
By the light of the silvery moo
His good arm got caught in the wringer while trying to squirt a growth hormone into the whites. He treated it with a double dilution of the ruptured spleen of the creature from the Black Lagoon. You can imagine how that turned out. His hard drives barely get to sleep. He’s sooey generis, very generous, especially with his greenhouse gases. He was able to convert them to laughing gases via the laws of capitalism.
What to say about her? Born dancing. Junior achiever. The crack in the cosmic egg. He had her tailed so he knew there wasn’t another man.
When you go out to write, you’ve got to look out for those hemmingways. What’s a hemmingway? Forty ounce in the old measure, just shy of a jeroboam.
Even flies sleep, so I suppose worms do too. Or maybe they just take a nap. Do they dream? Even Freud couldn’t figure that out.
Simulations show that if the Earth did not have a Moon, Newton would not have discovered gravity. At least not until 1950, by which time the Russians were already working on Sputnik.
Welcome to the rod and gun club. Let me take your coat before you make a run for the mountains. A burn in the bush is worth two in hand. Don’t make any deals until you’ve spoken to your grocer.
They conducted a survey to find out who lives under the bridge.
And they were:
Someone who is too clever by half
An itinerant tinkerer in a greasy sleeping bag
A bespoke tailor and herds never heard of again
Spies for the government on tax-free commissions
Capons, croutons, cast-iron stomachs
Mutes blown by a stuffed potato.
It is recorded by Sempiverous Vivitius (in Vie de Scipion l’Africain, the archaic French translation by Master Bodo of Bourgony) that Caesar said that at low tide the Celts would bind their captive women to the posts of the pier, and poke fun at them as the tide came in. The tide came at
sixes and sevens
round numbers squared
square numbers in a round whole
numbers too tight to mention
But don’t worry your pretty head about ancient history or higher mathematics. We’ve gone far beyond that. When’s the last time you saw a captive woman? In the heyday of Fu Manchu ? When the lily-white girl got up-ended by the jungle bunnies? When the Nazis let loose their gorillas on the Red Cross nurses. You might remember, it happened just the other day.
Under the Warning, Alert, and Response Network (WARN) Act of 2006, cellphone users cannot opt out of the presidential alerts. Please stay tuned.
I’ve just got to be the most authentic person that I know of.
No bones about it.
No two ways about it.
Not a snowball’s chance in hell.
Not in a coon’s age.
Not until the pope’s not catholic.
Not until the bear doesn’t shit in the woods.
Not until my shit don’t stink.
Not until the end justifies the meanies.
Now therefore, let not my blood fall to the earth before the face of the lord: for the king of Israel is come out to seek a flea, as when one doth hunt a partridge in the mountains.
I’d walk a mile for a camel and dive a fathom for a glucose fahrt. Shiver me timbers. Bout ready to hit the sack to munch kurds and whey Don’t now how to put this but many hans make short gretles.
Although disputed by some, the origin of assassin was probably the Arabic word for hashish-eater. At the time of the Crusades, it is said that fanatical warriors were sent forth by their sheikh, the Old Man of the Mountains, to murder the Christian leaders. One text of around 1860 explains: ‘The assassins, who are otherwise called the People of the Man of the Mountain, before they attacked an enemy, would intoxicate themselves with a powder made of hemp-leaves, out of which they prepared an inebriating electuary, called hashish.”
And if any man hunger, let him eat at home. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face.
The homes of the natives are the woods and groves; they worship the gods severally and in congregations; all discord and all sorrow is unknown. Death comes to them only when, owing to satiety of life, after holding a banquet and anointing their old age with luxury, they leap from a certain rock into the sea: this mode of burial is the most blissful.
No crown indeed has been a higher honour than the crown of grass among the rewards for glorious deeds given by the sovereign people, lords of the earth. Jewelled crowns, golden crowns, crowns for scaling enemy ramparts or walls, or for boarding men-of-war, the civic crown for saving the life of a citizen, the triumph crown—these were instituted later than this grass crown, and all differ from it greatly, in distinction as in character. All the others have been given by individuals and personally by generals and commanders to their soldiers, or occasionally to their colleagues, or have been decreed in triumphs by a Senate freed from the anxiety of war and by a people enjoying peace; the grass crown has never been conferred except upon the leader of a forlorn hope, being voted only by the whole army and only to him who rescued it. The other crowns have been conferred by commanders, this alone on a commander by his soldiers. The same crown is called the siege crown when a whole camp has been relieved and saved from awful destruction. But if the civic crown is deemed a glorious and hallowed distinction because the life has been saved of only one and even maybe the lowliest citizen, what, pray, ought to be thought of the preservation of a whole army by the courage of one man? This crown used to be made from green grass pulled up from the site where the besieged men had been relieved by some one. For in old times it was the most solemn token of defeat for the conquered to present grass to their conquerors, for to do so meant that they withdrew from their land, from the very soil that nurtured them and even from means of burial. This custom, I know, exists even today among the Germans.
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