Are there any f***ed up birds like ‘Bill the Cat"? Some mangey shithawk? Birds are too frickin’ delicate.
ddt enriched peregrine ?
it’s NOT pollution!
It’s…
it’s…
yeah that’s it! The peregrines are EVOLVING NATURALLY absorbing ddt to make their bodies toxic to predators, yeah that’s it.
It’s true…
C.R.E.E.P. ecology section
trickle up food chain economics.
The only birds I have are penguins. I was tired of homertux so here’s thugtux.
Po’in’ sum out fo da dead homiez??
Somewhat relevant Onion editorial:
[quote=“copied and pasted verbatim from The Onion without their permission”]'Sup, G’s. Check it out: Debbilyn Sundquist, tha Midstate human-resources secretary, e-mailed me.
“Hi Herbert,” she wrote. “This is just a friendly reminder to inform you that you have some paid personal days you haven’t used. They do not carry over into the next year, so please be sure to use them soon!!!”
“Accountz Reeceevable don’t take no personal dayz off,” I wrote back. “We been through this shit befoe. I ain’t havin’ it. Fuck all y’all an’ yo wack no-workin’ bullshit.”
I trashed her e-mail an’ go back 2 krunchin’ tha numbahs. Few minutes later, I hear a noise behind me.
I whipped around, assumin’ tha White-Colla Warrior stance. It tha office comptrolla, Gerald Luckenbill, an’ Bob Cowan, tha human-resources directa. “What? What? What?” I aksed. “You wanna step 2 me? What?”
Cowan peed himself. But Luckenbill wuz straight-up chillin’. “Herbert,” Luckenbill said. “I want you to take tomorrow off. Gary will oversee things here.”
Next mornin’, I got up when it was still dark and took tha 4:52 express bus 2 Midstate. Got there so early, not a sucka in sight. I slipped my keycard into tha electric lock on tha front doe. Tha magnetic strip don’t read. Dag. Luckenbill musta blocked my keycard foe tha day. Muhfukka know tha H-Dog’s ways too well. Y’all gots 2 recognize that. I bowed 2 Midstate in deep respect an’ hustled back 2 my hood.
Foe a while, I lifted weights, but then I wuz like, fuck this, I already mad ripped. Then I caught some-a tha bitchez on Court TV. That sweet, sweet ho Nancy Grace wuz on, an’ I had 2 whip it out an’ start hittin’. She wuz in one-a her hard-ass moods, bitchin’ ‘bout it ain’t right some ho from Oklahoma got off foe shankin’ her man, so it wasn’t two minutes befoe I busta nut and switched tha bullshit off. Work is where us A.R. bruthahs thrive. Once on tha outside, it a different story, y’all. They less numbahs 2 krunch. Some y’all can balance yo’ checkbook or figger yo’ taxizzes, true dat. But that ain’t enuf, know what I’m sayin’? Bruthahs got 2 keep they minds occupied.
I called Agnes, my ol’ boo an’ my shortie’s moms. “Yo, chickenhead, muhfukkas be makin’ me take a personal day,” I said. “Is Baby Prince H Tha Stone Col’ Dopest Biz-ook-kizeepin’ Muthafukkin’ Badass Supastar Kornfeld Tha Second at that wack-ass day care? I wanna bust him out an’ take him 2 tha park or tha Chucky-Cheez or some shit like that.”
“Tanner is with me today,” Agnes said, usin’ dat goddamn moniker again. “My class was canceled. You can visit him Sunday like we agreed, Herbert.”
I hung up on tha bitch an’ called Vi, one-a tha hotties that work tha Midstate cash room, an’ tol’ her, get yo’ fine ass down 2 my hizzy, I treat you right. She say she workin’. I say I gots crazy personal days, you can have one-a mine if you just come down here an’ give it up 2 tha H-Dog. She say personal days ain’t transferable.
Hell, what’s a man 2 do in these unfavorable circumstizances? I was hungry for some reeceevin’, y’all. I hopped into tha Nite Rida an’ cruised tha bidness district, lookin’ foe action. Outside o’ Kessler, Orbach, Cowart & Associates, LLP, tha biggest accountin’ an’ auditin’ firm in town, I peeped a posse o’ office bitchez gettin’ they lunch on.
“Bitchez,” I shouted from my hoopty. “Give up some numbahz 2 Daddy H so’s he can krunch 'em.”
The li’lest one speak up, a nasty skank wit’ her goddamn cross-trainin’ shoez on ovah her pantyhose, like wearin’ heels gonna break her ass or somethin’. “What happened, Herbert Kornfeld, Midstate fire your skinny ass?” she said. “Go away. You’re not getting anywhere near our numbers.”
Damn, y’all, I wuz about 2 put tha smack down on that li’l skank when tha 5-0 pull up behind me. I recognize tha cop from back in tha day, after I got busted foe illegal street accountin’. He aksed how come I ain’t at Midstate. I aksed how come he ain’t retired. That made all tha bitchez laugh, 'cept foe tha li’l one. “Herbert just asked if we’ve got any numbers to crunch, officer,” she said.
She knew tha cop was itchin’ foe reasonable suspicion 2 search my hoopty, an’ she give it 2 him. Well, took tha cop 20 seconds 2 find a old wirebound columnar book an’ a pencil undah my seat. He said that groundz foe arrestin’ me on suspicion foe unsolicited accountin’, cuffed me, an’ hauled me into HQ. Fuckin’ buncha bullshit. That columnar book wuz mine, true dat, but it wuz all used up and didn’t have no mo’ room 2 write numbahz in. An’ tha pig fuckin’ planted tha pencil. It had a punk-ass rubbah grip. Tha H-Dog don’t need no rubbah grip. Tha H-Dog so dope, he give tha pencils calluses. Tha first call I made wuz 2 Gerald Luckenbill, tell him he’ hadda come down an’ bail my ass out. He told tha precinct captain that my personal day wuz legit an’ I wuz fully certified, meanin’ they case against me wuz mad weak. Tha cops released me wit’ a warnin’ not 2 go near tha bidness district durin’ workin’ hourz.
Luckenbill learned that day that personal dayz be not only a pain in tha azz foe A.R. bruthahs, they downright dangerous. He talk 2 Bob Cowan, an’ they decide 2 not make me take any mo’ personal dayz, lest they wanna be wastin’ they time keepin’ they best employee outta lockdown. So, you know what that mean, G’s: a sweet-ass deal foe Daddy H. Nothin’ but straight-up officin’ 8-2-5, wit’ tha exception o’ weekendz an’ major holidayz. On those dayz, I on my own an’ gotta watch my back. But at least I don’t got them goddamn personal dayz 2 contend wit’ no mo’.
An’ incidentally, come next day, that li’l accountant bitch got a surprise when she come in an’ fire up her addin’ machine. When she punched in some numbahs, all of them come up in red ink on tha calculata tape, like they wuz bein’ subtracted, even though she wuz addin’. After she peeped that blood red, she ran outta her cubicle, jumped into her hoopty, peeled down tha parkin’ ramp, an’ ain’t been seen since. When office flunkies cross a A.R. playa, they get served that blood-red ink sheet as a warnin’. What it a warnin’ foe, I ain’t sayin,’ lest I incriminate myself, know what I’m sayin’? I had enuf o’ this shit, G’s. H-Dog OUT.[/quote]
Mmm onions…
I dunno, it’s never been done.
Does anyone know of any companies that will import American beer? Will the BCLS do it? I’d really like to try High Life, and I’d be willing to pay duty, and shipping, for it.
Of course, it’s just bad american humour. The french have a much better military record than the americans, but humour is humour. Even if it’s spelled humor.
Save yourself the trouble and expense, and go to Terrace and find a horse and have him piss in a beer bottle for you.
Ahh, nothing finer than a beer elitist.
I could swear I’ve seen Miller High Life at the BCLS that’s a few minutes away from my place. I know I seen some Miller beer that that I hadn’t seen in the one in Rupert. Next time I’m there I’ll check for sure.
It’s Hallowe’en this weekend, so that’ll probably be the next time I’m there.
Chagrined … I think I was typing out loud … wool gathering … what were we talking about?
Dien Ben Who?
What My Lai?
Shit, I haven’t been here in two months and it’s still the same. I live in Los Angeles, and everyone is a fucking Liberal here. But I still will vote for that asshole, Bush. Why? That Kerry is a major league flip flopper. The way he’s going, he’ll say he’s for peace one day, and push the big red button the next day. At least Bush is consistantly bad. I’d rather have an asshole I can trust, then one I can’t.
Kerry is a satanist.
http://www.prisonplanet.com/pp290204bedfellowsmedium.jpg
and both of them are part of skull and bones secret society.