The Dean Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 Oh, you already got it and here's the proof! I got those things all over my place.
Steely Dan Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 In your conspiracy theory thread you stated...I've finally discovered all of the facts relating to this conspiracy!! It involves people at the highest levels of TBD and it Then kind of dropped off in mid sentence. Care to expound on your theory or did they get to you too? HELP ME!! OH NO HERE THEY COME. AAAAhhhhhh!
damj Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 HELP ME!! OH NO HERE THEY COME. AAAAhhhhhh! It's the phone police isn't it?!?
BLZFAN4LIFE Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 It's the phone police isn't it?!? The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese!
damj Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese! Sucks to be the worm.
The Dean Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 My uncle has a red pencil box. But the interesting part is, if I remember this story correctly, your uncle owns no pencils. Fascinating!
The Senator Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 But the interesting part is, if I remember this story correctly, your uncle owns no pencils. Fascinating! You have excellent recall, Dean. I believe my uncle may have once owned a pencil - not a red one, mind you - but I've never seen him keep one in his pencil box, which he uses for his other various assorted tchotchke.
The Dean Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 You have excellent recall, Dean. I believe my uncle may have once owned a pencil - not a red one, mind you - but I've never seen him keep one in his pencil box, which he uses for his other various assorted tchotchke. I think the pencil box has become somewhat similar to the glove compartment, in that all manner of objects seem to be stored in these containers, except for the object from which they derive their name. I'm not even sure why one would need a box for a pencil. I can understand using a box for a fine pen, that is used exclusively for important occasions. But shouldn't a pencil be easily accessible? Perhaps a cup, or other container with an open top is a more fitting place to put a pencil.
The Senator Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 I think the pencil box has become somewhat similar to the glove compartment, in that all manner of objects seem to be stored in these containers, except for the object from which they derive their name. I'm not even sure why one would need a box for a pencil. I can understand using a box for a fine pen, that is used exclusively for important occasions. But shouldn't a pencil be easily accessible? Perhaps a cup, or other container with an open top is a more fitting place to put a pencil. Fascinating, and indeed quite true - most people that I know do not use their coffee cup for coffee, but rather as a receptacle for their pencils!
damj Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 My uncle has a red pencil box. My uncle has a country place that no one knows about. He says it used to be a farm before the Motor Law. On Sundays I elude the Eyes and hop the turbine freight to far outside the Wire where my white-haired uncle waits. Jump to the ground as the turbo slows to cross the borderline; run like the wind as excitement shivers up and down my spine. Down in his barn, my uncle preserved for me, an old machine. For fifty-odd years, to keep it as new has been his dearest dream. I strip away the old debris, that hides the shining car; a brilliant red Barchetta, from a better, vanished time. Fire up the willing engine, responding with a roar, tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime ... wind in my hair ...shifting and drifting ... mechanical music ... adrenaline surge ... well-weathered leather ... hot metal and oil ... the scented country air ... sunlight on chrome ... the blur of the landscape ... every nerve aware. Suddenly, ahead of me, across the mountainside a gleaming alloy air-car shoots toward me, two lanes wide. I spin around with shrieking tires to run the deadly race. Go screaming through the valley as another joins the chase. Drive like the wind, straining the limits of machine and man; laughing out loud. With fear and hope, I've got a desperate plan. At the one-lane bridge, I leave the giants stranded at the riverside; race back to the farm to dream with my uncle at the fireside.
The Senator Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 My uncle has a country place that no one knows about. He says it used to be a farm before the Motor Law. On Sundays I elude the Eyes and hop the turbine freight to far outside the Wire where my white-haired uncle waits. Jump to the ground as the turbo slows to cross the borderline; run like the wind as excitement shivers up and down my spine. Down in his barn, my uncle preserved for me, an old machine. For fifty-odd years, to keep it as new has been his dearest dream. I strip away the old debris, that hides the shining car; a brilliant red Barchetta, from a better, vanished time. Fire up the willing engine, responding with a roar, tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime ... wind in my hair ...shifting and drifting ... mechanical music ... adrenaline surge ... well-weathered leather ... hot metal and oil ... the scented country air ... sunlight on chrome ... the blur of the landscape ... every nerve aware. Suddenly, ahead of me, across the mountainside a gleaming alloy air-car shoots toward me, two lanes wide. I spin around with shrieking tires to run the deadly race. Go screaming through the valley as another joins the chase. Drive like the wind, straining the limits of machine and man; laughing out loud. With fear and hope, I've got a desperate plan. At the one-lane bridge, I leave the giants stranded at the riverside; race back to the farm to dream with my uncle at the fireside. Sadly, we had to institutionalize my poor old demented uncle - listening to too much Rush eventually sapped his mind until he finally wasted away to a pathetic, drooling, nonsense-babbling vegetable, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
The Dean Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 Sadly, we had to institutionalize my poor old demented uncle - listening to too much Rush eventually sapped his mind until he finally wasted away to a pathetic, drooling, nonsense-babbling vegetable, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. Damn Canadian noise!
damj Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 Sadly, we had to institutionalize my poor old demented uncle - listening to too much Rush eventually sapped his mind until he finally wasted away to a pathetic, drooling, nonsense-babbling vegetable, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. No, it wasn't too much Rush ... it was too much Anne Murray.
The Senator Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 Damn Canadian noise! Speaking of Canadians, it's almost curling season, eh? link
damj Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 Speaking of Canadians, it's almost curling season, eh? link And the 5 pin bowling leagues should be starting soon.
Steely Dan Posted July 27, 2009 Posted July 27, 2009 My uncle has a country place that no one knows about. He says it used to be a farm before the Motor Law. On Sundays I elude the Eyes and hop the turbine freight to far outside the Wire where my white-haired uncle waits. Jump to the ground as the turbo slows to cross the borderline; run like the wind as excitement shivers up and down my spine. Down in his barn, my uncle preserved for me, an old machine. For fifty-odd years, to keep it as new has been his dearest dream. I strip away the old debris, that hides the shining car; a brilliant red Barchetta, from a better, vanished time. Fire up the willing engine, responding with a roar, tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime ... wind in my hair ...shifting and drifting ... mechanical music ... adrenaline surge ... well-weathered leather ... hot metal and oil ... the scented country air ... sunlight on chrome ... the blur of the landscape ... every nerve aware. Suddenly, ahead of me, across the mountainside a gleaming alloy air-car shoots toward me, two lanes wide. I spin around with shrieking tires to run the deadly race. Go screaming through the valley as another joins the chase. Drive like the wind, straining the limits of machine and man; laughing out loud. With fear and hope, I've got a desperate plan. At the one-lane bridge, I leave the giants stranded at the riverside; race back to the farm to dream with my uncle at the fireside. I was going to go for a walk in the forest but there's trouble with the trees. Speaking of Canadians, it's almost curling season, eh? link Yep it is.
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