The Tlingit of northwest America tell a story of the magical conception of a girl by the sawdust of the fire borer. The boring for the new state fire among the Loango of west Afticaa coincides with the public coitus of a young couple.
This conceptual framework seems to be a late consequence of earlier ideas of fire in the body of humans, especially of women, as a centre of sexual life. The Marind of New Guinea, who, in their myth of the origin of fire view it as being derived from the sexual act, undertake the new boring of fire in connection with a cultic act in which the raping of a girl is the central rite.
When iron-smelting techniques by means of fire became common among New Stone Age peoples, the making of iron in shaft furnaces and bellows has been interpreted as coitus with a subsequent birth.
I heard on the news something about transcendental darwinism, or was it about christian capitalism, or post-modern antiquity?
And who said it? Clark Subaru — Hieronymus Honda — Karl the notorious communist synthesizer?
No, it was the man who had his face shot off by vice-president Dick Cheney on a duck hunt. He forgot to duck, according to the inquest, and he got off with a light sentence. His wife couldn’t go in or out the door without being adorable. And him, some say he was double hung.
A pure white filter is only the beginning of a Winston
It’s what’s up front that counts.
The big difference is filter-blend — clear, rich tobaccos specially processed for filter smoking!
There’s nothing whishy-washy about Winston. For up front of its modern, pure white filter is filter-blend. That’s what gives Winston its famous flavor. And after all, that’s the whole idea of smoking,
Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should.
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.
Excuse me ladies and gentlemen but I seem to have lost my drink. Scout’s honour, in the last half-hour I haven’t touched a drop. Nor have I had a sit-down meal, since the day Jesus slew the Philistinians. Then give me a shot of water. The water of life, made of two kinds of gin: hydro-gin and oxy-gin. Cleans your sheets and shorts your stocks. We are the people who made slaves of the Romans’ wives. They brought it upon themselves for puking in the oak groves. I can see it all now. You’re going to thank me for this in your next life, when you make a big comeback as a wasp.
It’s dicks o’clock, dude. Time to be humping the little ladies. This ain’t vaporware. Not in our neck of the woods. Spoiled childs.
Being but men, we walked into the trees Afraid, letting our syllables be soft For fear of waking the rooks, For fear of coming Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries. If we were children we might climb, Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig, And, after the soft ascent, Thrust out our heads above the branches To wonder at the unfailing stars. Out of confusion, as the way is, And the wonder, that man knows, Out of the chaos would come bliss. That, then, is loveliness, we said, Children in wonder watching the stars, Is the aim and the end. Being but men, we walked into the trees. — Dylan Thomas
They was apprehended with their pants down by the selfies they took at the end of their tether when they barely could consummate a simple handshake. The beans said it was astrooloogically impossible for the house to take a loss, but there he was, a paulbearer at his own funeral. He died with his boots on of idiopathic uncertainty compounded with Doctor Brain’s diarrhea.
So an Embryo, being freed from that vegetable life which it enjoyed in the mother’s womb, obtains another more perfect life, by its birth and coming into the light of the world.
They wasn’t sure what to make of themselves. They’d been inflated with self esteem but no overflow valve. Any idiot could see they were living in a fantasy world of their own makings.
But they had seminal endearing properties. Two bits on the barrelhead. Time for cheese and crackers.
The old lady was sawing logs when I hit the sack, fit as a fiddle and twice as sound.
These are the nights when a man falls on his way to the woodshed and they find him in the spring.
The days when a woman stirs in the kitchen and the creature comes out the lagoon. Loud in his hosannas and so help me god all fish hooks.