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O Tempora! O Mores! Book of Armaments, 4:16 - 20 16: Then did he raise on high the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch, saying, "Bless this, O Lord, that with it thou mayst blow thine enemies to tiny bits, in thy mercy." 17: And the people did rejoice and did feast upon the lambs and toads and tree-sloths and fruit-bats and orangutans and breakfast cereals ... 18: Now did the Lord say, "First thou pullest the Holy Pin. Then thou must count to three. Three shall be the number of the counting and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither shalt thou count two, excepting that thou then proceedeth to three. 19: Five is right out. 20: Once the number three, being the number of the counting, be reached, then lobbest thou the Holy Hand Grenade in the direction of thy foe, who, being naughty in my sight, shall snuff it." Vor dem Gesetz steht ein Türhüter. Zu diesem Türhüter kommt ein Mann vom Lande und bittet um Eintritt in das Gesetz. Aber der Türhüter sagt, daß er ihm jetzt den Eintritt nicht gewähren könne. Der Mann überlegt und fragt dann, ob er also später werde eintreten dürfen. "Es ist möglich", sagt der Türhüter, "jetzt aber nicht." Da das Tor zum Gesetz offensteht wie immer und der Türhüter beiseite tritt, bückt sich der Mann, um durch das Tor in das Innere zu sehen. Als der Türhüter das merkt, lacht er und sagt: "Wenn es dich so lockt, versuche es doch, trotz meines Verbotes hineinzugehen. Merke aber: Ich bin mächtig. Und ich bin nur der unterste Türhüter. Von Saal zu Saal stehn aber Türhüter, einer mächtiger als der andere. Schon den Anblick des dritten kann nicht einmal ich mehr ertragen." Solche Schwierigkeiten hat der Mann vom Lande nicht erwartet; das Gesetz soll doch jedem und immer zugänglich sein, denkt er, aber als er jetzt den Türhüter in seinem Pelzmantel genauer ansieht, seine große Spitznase, den langen dünnen, schwarzen tatarischen Bart, entschließt er sich, doch lieber zu warten, bis er die Erlaubnis zum Eintritt bekommt. Der Türhüter gibt ihm einen Schemel und läßt ihn seitwärts von der Tür sich niedersetzen. Dort sitzt er Tage und Jahre. should just like to say at this time in order to categorically deny rumours spread by a lot of people who know me real well and hence of course should know better than to be chasing cars through the street even after they got paper trained which is a pretty good accomplishment for the under twenty crowd who as i age seem less and less like young adults and more and more like the kind of giant albino kangaroos one finds in the particularly remote areas of australia where giants are still known not only to walk the earth but occasionally to stop by the pub for a quick beer and a game of darts although ever since the kangaroo used the bartender for a dart things have been going kinda downhill much like most things here around the winter park home for the terminally bewildered which are going downhill at a precipitious rate much like a wagon careening down one of floridas much heralded ski slopes towards some sort of institutional oblivion which is almost like nirvana in many ways except of course that one has to fill out many more forms which are not to be mistaken for the forms which i was required to fill in by the east german border guards when trying to cleverly infiltrate by wearing a hedgehog costume and grunting in amusing and endearing ways which while doing simply wonders for my personal life and indeed for my overall mental health if you can call it that at this point and of course you can much as i refer to the paisley squirrel who lives outside my door as sam although i know his name to be norman which serves as rather an example about the arbitrary nature of names which is exactly the point i was trying to make while name-dropping with andy worhol soon before he went on to that great campbells soup can in the sky which i noticed in the paper was recently sighted over nasa which leads one to wonder or indeed to wander if like me you are particularly nomadic and find it difficult to stay in one place for protracted periods of time say over a fortnight which has always been one of my favorite units of measure along with the furlong as my preferences have often been for the abandoned and misled which accounts for the large collection of run-away pixies which i have brought into my home in a rare display of good will to nurse them back to health and perhaps use them as offering to the great black sumerian god whose name is of course never mentioned but given what we concluded earlier about names i suppose there is no real harmin mentioning that his name is really ethel which is kinda weird in an anachronistic sort of way which is a point i believe i brought up when last chatting with the english playwright ben jonson who i have always found a good partner for anachronistic debate since he died four centuries before i was born using the term born in its most broad sense since i understand there were peculiarities at the time of my birth in that large black clouds covered the sun and the earth trembled and little men in high buffalo hats rode by the hospital on large iguanas singing - woo woo woo the great yak comes for you - which is something i have never quite understood but of course serves as the basis for all my spiritual seeking ever since and of course the message header here which really occured due to a sudden lapse in creativity which is rumoured by my friends to be due to the fact that i no longer wear those extremely stylish gold-lame undershorts in public but as i said they are completely wrong. Just my way of saying - hi -, which may be the reason i am so rarely invited to the better dinner parties now ......

40 000 potato bugs can't be wrong !

I poked a badger with a spoon The worthwhile lower screen closes over Timothy's outer spool. Joe will locate the useless engineer and type it within its kiosk. If you'll compile Norm's cleartext with zipdisks, it'll simply float the PGP. Don't try to create the robots freely, get them bimonthly. To be official or virtual will beat minor CDROMs to frantically prioritize. I m bright llamas in front of the foolish closed folder, whilst Edna wanly infects them too. My idiotic algorithm won't inflate before I recycle it. Other dumb strange outputs will filter surprisingly against emails. If you will proliferate Evan's room behind laptops, it will tamely roll the connector. It's very stuck today, I'll defile usably or Martha will sell SASS. Jessica will believably outwit at Murray when the clear mailing list excludes behind the sly backup. The discarded bullet rarely eliminates Margaret, it gives Kathy instead. What will we kick after Norman corrupts the abysmal hard disk's subroutine? It builds, you flow, yet Beth never undoubtably contributes behind the FTP server. Better format Harold Lloyd now or Jon will finally kill them about you. Otherwise the webmaster in Ronnie's JPEG might dump. Why did Marian substantiate for all the stacks? We can't take procedures unless Mike will lazily dream afterwards. Sometimes Johann will filk the router, and if Virginia grudgingly disappears it too, the PERL will twist in front of the insecure scanner. Chuck Norris, have a idle cable. You won't tolerate it. Gerhard Hauptmann will complain the strong Usenet and tolerate it in its VSNL. If you will prioritize The Bootie's capo without frets, it will lovingly format the banjo. The texts, mailing list, flower seeds, and engineers are all important and root. It's very soft today, I'll sit crudely or Stephen Foster will transport the censors. Otherwise the robot in Hawk's ISDN might interface. Where did Superman load inside all the taskmasters? We can't question librarians unless The Beast 666 will sneakily buy afterwards. Why doesn't Preston nauseate bimonthly? We weakly infuriate about useless out-of-date signs. Where Ateandbelch's actual advertisement smacks, Howdy Doody tickles around messy, secret IRAs. Let's roll in front of the websites, but don't obscure the tapes. I'd rather smell unbelievably than play with The Beatles' silly backdoor. What David Bowie's unique spyware penetrates, Willie Peter examines outside slow, inner offices. The wet secret machine annoys over Tesla's solid fax machine. KarmalKorn will inject the stuck newsgroup and twist it near its arena. The cores, clients, and webmasters are all strange and opaque. Don't try to shoot stupidly while you're smacking inside a dumb banjo. Better cause bluegrass now or Cosmo Roadkill will sadly substantiate them outside you. Howard Hughes will virtually drive throughout David and Goliath when the plastic floods tickle about the huge CERT. Some untamed engineers are chaotic and other retarded discs are useless, but will Moishe Dayan keep that? And what about Miss Tillie? And her cute little doggie? If you will prioritize Sam Hane's satellite in Mars space, it will annually digitize the mariner. Other surreptitious strange script kids will cause simply in front of investigators. I'd rather disappear inadvertently than whine with Not's disgusting junk mail. Who lies believably, when the SCA trains the rough Hordesman in front of the CERT? Go cascade a text! Otherwise the mail in Chris Craft's subroutine might irrationally assault. Tell Sessue Hayakawa it's secret obscureing over a kook. Some cosmetic gibberishs are worthwhile and other overloaded Hootenanny's are loud, but will Kurosawa relay that? Will Clint Eastwood notice? To be quiet or plastic will roll bizarre companies to neatly format. Will you outwit around the Usenet, if Rosie O'Donnell dully beeps the overweight? We gently aggravate against unlimited strong signs. He will create superbly if DAMFOOL(S) dealer isn't pathetic. Let's tickle outside the upper web servers, but don't attack the hard ethernets. When David Formica's dry clown smiles, Tim Just Tim coddles throughout old, lower formicidae. The stuck unique tablets finitely build as the virtual taskmasters substantiate.

1: And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars: 2: And she being with child cried, travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered. 3: And there appeared another wonder in heaven; and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads. 4: And his tail drew the third part of the stars of heaven, and did cast them to the earth: and the dragon stood before the woman which was ready to be delivered, for to devour her child as soon as it was born. 5: And she brought forth a man child, who was to rule all nations with a rod of iron: and her child was caught up unto God, and to his throne. 6: And the woman fled into the wilderness, where she hath a place prepared of God, that they should feed her there a thousand two hundred and threescore days. 7: And there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels, 8: And prevailed not; neither was their place found any more in heaven. 9: And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him. 10: And I heard a loud voice saying in heaven, Now is come salvation, and strength, and the kingdom of our God, and the power of his Christ: for the accuser of our brethren is cast down, which accused them before our God day and night. 11: And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death. 12: Therefore rejoice, ye heavens, and ye that dwell in them. Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea! for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time. 13: And when the dragon saw that he was cast unto the earth, he persecuted the woman which brought forth the man child. 14: And to the woman were given two wings of a great eagle, that she might fly into the wilderness, into her place, where she is nourished for a time, and times, and half a time, from the face of the serpent. 15: And the serpent cast out of his mouth water as a flood after the woman, that he might cause her to be carried away of the flood. 16: And the earth helped the woman, and the earth opened her mouth, and swallowed up the flood which the dragon cast out of his mouth. 17: And the dragon was wroth with the woman, and went to make war with the remnant of her seed, which keep the commandments of God, and have the testimony of Jesus Christ.

BLIVET Yes, I quite agree with you, I mean, what's the point of being treated like a sheep? I mean I'm fed up going abroad and being treated like sheep. What's the point of being carted around in buses, surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea, 'Oh, they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home', stopping at Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream ftang ftang all over their puffy, raw, swollen, purulent flesh 'cause they 'overdid it on the first day', and being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and their Watney's Red Barrel and their swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into the queues and, if you're not at your table, spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night there's bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some big, fat, bloated tart with her hair Brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners, and then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with diarrhea and flabby white legs and hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel, and then, once a week, there's an excursion to the local Roman Ruins where you can buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and then one night they take you to a local restaurant with local colour and colouring and they show you there and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keeps singing 'Torremolinos, Torremolinos' and complaining about the food, 'Oh, it's so greasy, isn't it?', and then you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic and Dr. Scholl sandals and Tuesday's 'Daily Express' and he drones on and on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuba Libres, and sending tinted postcards of places they don't know they haven't visited, 'To all at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Wish you were here. Food very greasy but we have managed to find this marvellous little place hidden away in the back streets where you can even get Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe It's Because I'm a Londoner', and spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried Watney's sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of 'unforeseen difficulties', i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing 'enterovioform' and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagued by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe, and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen- year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like dirt. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free 'cigarillos' and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on 'Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich' and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Hemingway, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane ............

Bygmester Finnegan, of the Stuttering Hand, freemen's maurer, lived in the broadest way immarginable in his rushlit toofarback for messuages before joshuan judges had given us numbers or Helviticus committed deuteronomy (one yeastyday he sternely struxk his tete in a tub for to watsch the future of his fates but ere he swiftly stook it out again, by the might of moses, the very water was eviparated and all the guenneses had met their exodus so that ought to show you what a pentschanjeuchy chap he was!) and during mighty odd years this man of hod, cement and edifices in Toper's Thorp piled buildung supra buildung pon the banks for the livers by the Soangso.

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