My great uncle is a rebel priest. Here's his "thank you prayer" for when I found his ring:
"Sweet Jesus. Thank you for helping me find my ring through as lowly and unexceptional servant as Maile. You work in mysterious ways."
Thanks priest.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
South unfairly targets wearers of cargo shorts
Daily Tarheel
By Letter to the Editor | Letters
TO THE EDITOR:
Editor, I have a problem. I am a northerner working in the area for the summer and I have long abided by American principles.
When I heard I would be living below the Mason-Dixon, I assumed that Southerners too would live by the American code. I thought Carolinians would hold freedom near and dear to their hearts.
Instead, I have found that Southern hospitality is a sham.
Instead of celebrating individual freedoms, they spit in the faces of those who are different. I am talking about the alienation of cargo shortwearers.
In Boston, they are not a problem. For some reason, though, they are sin in the South. Girls scorn you at the bars, refusing to talk to you the second they see your surplus storage. Guys laugh and call you “pocket boy” or, the more creative, “trash.” Emma Lazarus would be rolling in her grave. Why is this the case? Why are there always two pockets of separation between society and myself? I urge the students of Chapel Hill to change. I call on them to accept the tired and poor cargo-d masses yearning to breathe free. After these trials and tribulations I wonder, “Can we all just get along?”
George Huber
Boston University
By Letter to the Editor | Letters
TO THE EDITOR:
Editor, I have a problem. I am a northerner working in the area for the summer and I have long abided by American principles.
When I heard I would be living below the Mason-Dixon, I assumed that Southerners too would live by the American code. I thought Carolinians would hold freedom near and dear to their hearts.
Instead, I have found that Southern hospitality is a sham.
Instead of celebrating individual freedoms, they spit in the faces of those who are different. I am talking about the alienation of cargo shortwearers.
In Boston, they are not a problem. For some reason, though, they are sin in the South. Girls scorn you at the bars, refusing to talk to you the second they see your surplus storage. Guys laugh and call you “pocket boy” or, the more creative, “trash.” Emma Lazarus would be rolling in her grave. Why is this the case? Why are there always two pockets of separation between society and myself? I urge the students of Chapel Hill to change. I call on them to accept the tired and poor cargo-d masses yearning to breathe free. After these trials and tribulations I wonder, “Can we all just get along?”
George Huber
Boston University
Oh. My. Moments
1) mom said and I quote "they were getting frisky"
2) grandma dancing with a "last night out" bachelorette flag...and sticking it in her cleavage to anchor it.
3) jon: he was Jewish. Mom: how can you tell? Jon: you can just tell. Mom: how an you tell? Jon: once you get out of fayetteville you can just tell.
Right.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
What does a homeless man need?
Clearly Karate.
Best homeless sign ever: (Sorry no photo, my phone was DEAD)
"Ninjas stole my family. I need money to take karate classes."
Best homeless sign ever: (Sorry no photo, my phone was DEAD)
"Ninjas stole my family. I need money to take karate classes."
Friday, June 17, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
It's not you
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/31/opinion/31brooks.html
NYTimes article on the self. Actually not funny at all, so not entirely pertinent to this blog, but I liked it and didn't want to forget about it forever, lost in the dregs of the internet. So here it is for all posterity.
NYTimes article on the self. Actually not funny at all, so not entirely pertinent to this blog, but I liked it and didn't want to forget about it forever, lost in the dregs of the internet. So here it is for all posterity.
The Wild Sex Life of Slugs
March 27, 2010
The wild sex lives of slugs
These sexual athletes are not just something to throw into your neighbour’s garden — they deserve far more attention
Simon Barnes
Warning: the following piece contains some of the most extraordinary information about sex that you will ever read. If you find sex dull, then please seek out the sports pages and look for the golf. What I have to tell you will make the doings of Zeus, Messalina and the figures carved on the Konark Temple seem like the tame experiments of the undersexed and the unimaginative.
Because I’m talking about slugs. Gardeners don’t like slugs, and fight a war with them throughout the summer months, seeing them as the incarnation of an evil and hostile nature. Slugs are poisoned as if it were a moral crusade, or pursued with all kinds of ingenious use of beer and crushed eggshells.
But even as the war continues, slugs are pursuing their own mysterious lives, and they do so with wild exoticism, remarkable athleticism, astonishing stamina, amazing virtuosity and a conclusion that would daunt the boldest of us.
Slugs are many and various. There are more than species in this country, where the cold limits the things that a slug can get up to. There are about 5,000 species worldwide: slugs are emblems of the great life-principle of biodiversity, just like everything else. Only a few of them run counter to the interests of gardeners. As Matt Shardlow, of the invertebrate charity Buglife, says: “It’s rather like finding one species of monkey that causes problems and damning all the primates.”
Slugs are molluscs, shell-less snails — save that some slugs, confusingly, have reduced or internal shells, and there are three shelled slugs in this country. That’s not confusing, that’s just glorious biodiversity. As molluscs, slugs are related to squids and octopuses, so let that add a little prestige to the nocturnal garden-creepers.
They have two pairs of tentacles; the front ones sense light and the back ones sense smells. These are retractable, and they can be regrown. And yes, they do slime. Two sorts of slime: watery stuff, and thick, sticky stuff. They get about by gliding gracefully along this self-created carpet. It’s hard for human beings to get excited about mucus — though it is life and death to the slugs — so let’s move on to sex.
For a start, slugs are hermaphrodites. Both halves of a pair have penises, both halves present sperm to the partner, and both halves go off and lay eggs. Slugs have the best of both worlds. But they are not just wham-bammers. They believe in courtship. Perhaps, being female as well as male, they are devoted, to the point of mania, to the concept of foreplay.
It can go on for hours, circling, nibbling and lunging at each other. Sometimes they will savour each other’s mucus, perhaps to get genetic information, perhaps just as a light sustaining snack. Anointed in mucus, they engage in a slimy and sensual ballet. Some species will do this suspended from long ropes of mucus: acrobatic, gravity-defiant, and no doubt as thrilling as doing it on a trapeze.
The pace is slow, the rhythm sensuous, as if each nuance is savoured. And some species have the most colossal penises: half as long as their own bodies. You can find copulatory rituals in which the pair dance about each other, each partner waving a giant penis overhead.
The act continues with a mutual entering and a prolonged and slimy embrace. But then, how to break it off? The phrase, I fear, is no metaphor. With some species, a long and corkscrew-shaped penis doesn’t always emerge too easily. In these circumstances — gentlemen are invited to cross their legs at this point — one slug chews off the penis of the other. Sometimes both slugs will perform this feat. It is called apophallation. The slug, hermaphrodite no longer, goes away. Alas, he can’t grow another penis. So she carries on as a female for ever after.
And you thought slugs were just something to throw into your neighbour’s garden. Don’t poison them: that kills plenty of things other than slugs. You can, if you are truly good, lure them with potato halves and then dump them somewhere wilder.
Perhaps we should consider our gardens as a corner of the wild: a place that doesn’t require total control freakery, a place where frogs and toads, hedgehogs and birds can drop by to snack on slugs.
If you savour your garden as a place that has something to do with nature, then accept that slugs play their part. They deserve your consideration for their gladiatorial sex lives.
The wild sex lives of slugs
These sexual athletes are not just something to throw into your neighbour’s garden — they deserve far more attention
Simon Barnes
Warning: the following piece contains some of the most extraordinary information about sex that you will ever read. If you find sex dull, then please seek out the sports pages and look for the golf. What I have to tell you will make the doings of Zeus, Messalina and the figures carved on the Konark Temple seem like the tame experiments of the undersexed and the unimaginative.
Because I’m talking about slugs. Gardeners don’t like slugs, and fight a war with them throughout the summer months, seeing them as the incarnation of an evil and hostile nature. Slugs are poisoned as if it were a moral crusade, or pursued with all kinds of ingenious use of beer and crushed eggshells.
But even as the war continues, slugs are pursuing their own mysterious lives, and they do so with wild exoticism, remarkable athleticism, astonishing stamina, amazing virtuosity and a conclusion that would daunt the boldest of us.
Slugs are many and various. There are more than species in this country, where the cold limits the things that a slug can get up to. There are about 5,000 species worldwide: slugs are emblems of the great life-principle of biodiversity, just like everything else. Only a few of them run counter to the interests of gardeners. As Matt Shardlow, of the invertebrate charity Buglife, says: “It’s rather like finding one species of monkey that causes problems and damning all the primates.”
Slugs are molluscs, shell-less snails — save that some slugs, confusingly, have reduced or internal shells, and there are three shelled slugs in this country. That’s not confusing, that’s just glorious biodiversity. As molluscs, slugs are related to squids and octopuses, so let that add a little prestige to the nocturnal garden-creepers.
They have two pairs of tentacles; the front ones sense light and the back ones sense smells. These are retractable, and they can be regrown. And yes, they do slime. Two sorts of slime: watery stuff, and thick, sticky stuff. They get about by gliding gracefully along this self-created carpet. It’s hard for human beings to get excited about mucus — though it is life and death to the slugs — so let’s move on to sex.
For a start, slugs are hermaphrodites. Both halves of a pair have penises, both halves present sperm to the partner, and both halves go off and lay eggs. Slugs have the best of both worlds. But they are not just wham-bammers. They believe in courtship. Perhaps, being female as well as male, they are devoted, to the point of mania, to the concept of foreplay.
It can go on for hours, circling, nibbling and lunging at each other. Sometimes they will savour each other’s mucus, perhaps to get genetic information, perhaps just as a light sustaining snack. Anointed in mucus, they engage in a slimy and sensual ballet. Some species will do this suspended from long ropes of mucus: acrobatic, gravity-defiant, and no doubt as thrilling as doing it on a trapeze.
The pace is slow, the rhythm sensuous, as if each nuance is savoured. And some species have the most colossal penises: half as long as their own bodies. You can find copulatory rituals in which the pair dance about each other, each partner waving a giant penis overhead.
The act continues with a mutual entering and a prolonged and slimy embrace. But then, how to break it off? The phrase, I fear, is no metaphor. With some species, a long and corkscrew-shaped penis doesn’t always emerge too easily. In these circumstances — gentlemen are invited to cross their legs at this point — one slug chews off the penis of the other. Sometimes both slugs will perform this feat. It is called apophallation. The slug, hermaphrodite no longer, goes away. Alas, he can’t grow another penis. So she carries on as a female for ever after.
And you thought slugs were just something to throw into your neighbour’s garden. Don’t poison them: that kills plenty of things other than slugs. You can, if you are truly good, lure them with potato halves and then dump them somewhere wilder.
Perhaps we should consider our gardens as a corner of the wild: a place that doesn’t require total control freakery, a place where frogs and toads, hedgehogs and birds can drop by to snack on slugs.
If you savour your garden as a place that has something to do with nature, then accept that slugs play their part. They deserve your consideration for their gladiatorial sex lives.
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