Anything random? Throw it into this thread.

[ogler]

Some small examples there's a childrens programme called Booh Bah, there's also a brats drink called Booh bee and there's also a piece of candy called flic'n'lic.

I've also noticed that most attachments in this forum have more than two downloads even when the pic is posted (when all you need is one absolute minimum, for the user to get the link) and I think I've figured out why. I was wondering how to reclaim some space on my hard disk without deleting any of the games and I noticed that Jpegs took up less space than bmps so when I tried converting a bmp to a Jpeg it took up even less space than a jpeg from the main page which doesn't make a lot of sense.

[gOOber]

 

[CarlTL]

Frogblast the Vent Core

[ChrisR1]

Any Artie Lange fans out there?

 

[Palomine]

 That's not Denise, is it? If not, then who?

The only reason I sat through Beer League (on cable) is because Keisha was in it. Of course, they blurred out the good bits... even older/with more weight below the belt, she's still so dang juicy and good to look at.  

 

[ChrisR1]

Nope - Brenda Lynn.

[SwitcherX]

last part:



He nearly fainted, in the grip of the greatest terror he had ever known, a terror that was filled with deep and unmanning guilt. He suddenly remembered the only incident in his life that came remotely close to this one in its desperate emotional quality. He had been twelve. It was summer vacation, his father working, his mother gone to spend the day in Boston with Mrs Kaspbrak from across the street. He had seen a pack of her cigarettes and had lit one of them. He smoked it enthusiastically, feeling both sick and fine, feeling the way he imagined robbers must feel when they stick up banks. Halfway through the cigarette, the room filled with smoke, he had heard her opening the front door. "Paulie? It's me I've forgotten my purse!" He had begun to wave madly at the smoke, knowing it would do no good, knowing he was caught, knowing he would be spanked. It would be more than a spanking this time. He remembered the dream he'd had during one of his gray-outs: Annie cocking the shotgun's twin triggers and saying If you want your freedom so badly, Paul, I'll be happy to grant it to you. The sound of the engine began to drop as the approaching car slowed down. It was her. Paul settled hands he could barely feel on the wheels and rolled the chair toward the hallway, sparing one glance at the ceramic penguin on its block of ice. Was it in the same place it had been? He couldn't tell. He would have to hope. He rolled down the hall toward the bedroom door, gaining speed. He hoped to shoot right through, but his aim was a little off. Only a little . . . but the fit was so tight that a little was enough. The wheelchair thumped against the right side of the doorway and bounced back a little. Did you chip the paint? his mind screamed at him. Oh Jesus Christ, did you chip the paint, did you leave a track? No chip. There was a small dent but no chip. Thank God. He backed and filled frantically, trying to navigate the fineness of the doorway's tight fit. The car motor swelled, nearing, still slowing. Now he could hear the crunch of its snow tires. Easy . . . easy does it . . . He rolled forward and then the hubs of the wheels stuck solid against the sides of the bedroom door. He pushed harder, knowing it wasn't going to do any good, he was stuck in the doorway like a cork in a wine-bottle, unable to go either way - He gave one final heave, the muscles in his arms quivering like overtuned violin strings, and the wheelchair passed through with that same low squealing noise. The Cherokee turned into the driveway. She'll have packages, his mind gibbered, the typewriter paper, maybe a few other things as well, and she'll be careful coming up the walk because of the ice, you're in here now, the worst is over, there's time, still time . . . He rolled farther into the room, then turned in a clumsy semicircle. As he rolled the wheelchair parallel to the open bedroom door, he heard the Cherokee's engine shut off. He leaned over, grasped the doorknob, and tried to pull the door shut. The tongue of the lock, still stuck out like a stiff steel finger, bumped the jamb. He pushed it with the ball of his thumb. It began to move . . . then stopped. Stopped dead, refusing to let the door close. He stared at it stupidly for a moment, thinking of that old Navy maxim: Whatever CAN go wrong WILL go wrong. Please God, no more, wasn't it enough she killed the phone? He let go of the tongue. It sprang all the way out again. He pushed it in again and encountered the same obstruction. Inside the guts of the lock he heard an odd rattling and understood. It was the part of the bobby-pin which had broken off. It had fallen in some way that was keeping the lock's tongue from retracting completely. He heard the Cherokee's door open. He even heard her grunt as she got out. He heard the rattle of paper bags as she gathered up her parcels. "Come on," he whispered, and began to chivvy the tongue gently back and forth. It went in perhaps a sixteenth of an inch each time and then stopped. He could hear the goddam bobby-pin rattling inside there. "Come on . . . come on . . . come on . . . " He was crying again and unaware of it, sweat and tears mingling freely on his cheeks; he was vaguely aware that he was still in great pain despite all the dope he had swallowed, that he was going to pay a high price for this little piece of work. Not so high as the one she'll make you pay if you can't get this goddam door closed again, Paulie. He heard her crunching, cautious footsteps as she made her way up the path. The rattle of bags . . . and now the rattle of her housekeys as she took them from her purse. "Come on . . . come on . . . come on . . . " This time when he pushed the tongue there was a flat click from inside the lock and the jut of metal slid a quarter of an inch into the door. Not enough to clear the jamb . . . but almost. "Please . . . come on . . . " He began to chivvy the tongue faster, diddling it, listening as she opened the kitchen door. Then, like a hideous flashback to that day when his mother had caught him smoking, Annie called cheerily: "Paul? It's me! I've got your paper!" Caught! I'm caught! Please God, no God, don't let her hurt me God - His thumb pressed convulsively tight against the tongue of the lock, and there was a muffled snap as the bobby-pin broke. The tongue slid all the way into the door. In the kitchen he heard a zipper-rasp as she opened her parka. He closed the bedroom door. The click of the latch (did she hear that? must have must have heard that!) sounded as loud as a track-starter's gun. He backed the wheelchair up toward the window. He was still backing and filling as her footsteps began to come down the hallway. "I've got your paper, Paul! Are you awake?" Never . . . never in time . . . She'll hear . . . He gave the guide-lever a final wrench and rolled the wheelchair into place beside the window just as her key rattled in the lock. It won't work . . . the bobby-pin . . . and she'll be suspicious . . . But the piece of alien metal must have fallen all the way to the bottom of the lock, because her key worked perfectly. He sat in his chair, eyes half-closed, hoping madly that he had gotten the chair back where it had been (or at least close enough to it so she wouldn't notice), hoping that she would take his sweat-drenched face and quivering body simply as reactions to missing his medication, hoping most of all that he hadn't left a track - It was as the door swung open that he looked, down and saw that by looking for individual tracks with such agonized concentration, he had ignored a whole buffalo run: the boxes of Novril were still in his lap.

She had two packages of paper, and she held one up in each hand, smiling. "Just what you asked for, isn't it? Triad Modem. Two reams here, and I have two more in the kitchen, just in case. So you see - " She broke off, frowning, looking at him. "You're dripping with sweat . . . and your color is very hectic." She paused. "What have you been doing?" And although that set the panicky little voice of his lesser self to squealing again that he was caught and might as well give it up, might as well confess and hope for her mercy, he managed to meet her suspicious gaze with an ironic weariness. "I think you know what I've been doing," he said. "I've been suffering." From the pocket of her skirt she took a Kleenex and wiped his brow. The Kleenex came away wet. She smiled at him with that terrible bogus maternity. "Has it been very bad?" "Yes. Yes, it has. Now can I - " "I told you about making me mad. Live and learn, isn't that what they say? Well, if you live, I guess you'll learn." "Can I have my pills now?" "In a minute," she said. Her eyes never left his sweaty face, its waxy pallor and red rashlike blotches. "First I want to make sure there's nothing else you want. Nothing else stupid old Annie Wilkes forgot because she doesn't know how a Mister Smart Guy goes about writing a book. I want to make sure you don't want me to go back to town and get you a tape recorder, or maybe a special pair of writing slippers, or something like that. Because if you want me to, I'll go. Your wish is my command. I won't even wait to give you your pills. I'll hop right into Old Bessie again and go. So what do you say, Mister Smart Guy? You all set?" "I'm all set," he said. "Annie, please - " "And you won't make me mad anymore?" "No. I won't make you mad anymore." "Because when I get mad I'm not really myself." Her eyes dropped. She was looking down to where his hands were cupped tightly together over the sample boxes of Novril. She looked for a very long time. "Paul?" she asked softly. "Paul, why are you holding your hands like that?" He began to cry. It was guilt he cried from, and he hated that most of all: in addition to everything else that this monstrous woman had done to him, she had made him feel guilty as well. So he cried from guilt . . . but also from simple childish weariness. He looked up at her, tears flowing down his cheeks, and played the absolute last card in his hand. "I want my pills," he said, "and I want the urinal. I held it all the time you were gone, Annie, but I can't hold it much longer, and I don't want to wet myself again." She smiled softly, radiantly, and pushed his tumbled hair off his brow. "You poor dear. Annie has put you through a lot, hasn't she? Too much! Mean old Annie! I'll get it right away."

He wouldn't have dared put the pills under the rug even if he thought he had time to do so before she came back - the packages were small, but the bulges would still be all too obvious. As he heard her go into the downstairs bathroom, he took them, reached painfully around his body, and stuffed them into the back of his underpants. Sharp cardboard corners poked into the cleft of his buttocks. She came back with the urinal, an old-fashioned tin device that looked absurdly like a blow-dryer, in one hand. She had two Novril capsules and a glass of water in the other. Two more of those on top of the ones you took half an hour ago may drop you into a coma and then kill you, he thought, and a second voice answered at once: Fine with me. He took the pills and swallowed them with water. She held out the urinal. "Do you need help?" "I can do it," he said. She turned considerately away while he fumbled his penis into the cold tube and urinated. He happened to he looking at her when the hollow splashing sounds commenced, and he saw that she was smiling. "All done?" she asked a few moments later. "Yes." He actually had needed to urinate quite badly - in all the excitement he hadn't had time to think of such things. She took the urinal away from him and set it carefully on the floor. "Now let's get you back in bed," she said. "You must be exhausted . . . and your legs must be singing grand opera." He nodded, although the truth was that he could not feel anything - this medication on top of what he'd already given himself was rolling him toward unconsciousness at an alarming rate, and he was beginning to see the room through gauzy layers of gray. He held onto one thought - she was going to lift him into bed, and when she did that she would have to be blind as well as numb not to notice that the back of his underwear happened to be stuffed with little boxes. She got him over to the side of the bed. "Just a minute longer, Paul, and you can take a snooze." "Annie, could you wait five minutes?" he managed. She looked at him, gaze narrowing slightly. "I thought you were in a lot of pain, buster." "I am," he said. "It hurts . . . too much. My knee, mostly. Where you . . . uh, where you lost your temper. I'm not ready to be picked up. Could I have five minutes to . . . to . . . " He knew what he wanted to say but it was drifting away from him. Drifting away and into the gray. He looked at her helplessly, knowing he was going to be caught after all. "To let the medication work?" she asked, and he nodded gratefully. "Of course. I'll just put a few things away and come right back." As soon as she was out of the room he was reaching behind him, bringing out the boxes and stuffing them under the mattress one by one. The layers of gauze kept thickening, moving steadily from gray toward black. Get them as far under as you can, he thought blindly. Make sure you do that so if she changes the bed she won't pull them out with the ground sheet. Get them as far under as you . . . you . . . He shoved the last under the mattress, then leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, where the W's danced drunkenly across the plaster. Africa, he thought. Now I must rinse, he thought. Oh, I am in so much trouble here, he thought. Tracks, he thought. Did I leave tracks? Did I - Paul Sheldon got scared, so he said "you're moving with your auntie and uncle in bel-air". I whistled for a cab and when it came near The license plate said 'FRESH' and it had dice in the mirror If anything I can say this cab is rare But I thought 'Now forget it' - 'Yo homes to Bel Air' I pulled up to the house about 7 or 8 And I yelled to the cabbie 'Yo homes smell ya later' I looked at my kingdom I was finally there To settle my throne as the Prince of Bel Air


Admit it, you knew this was going to get a TL;DR

[gOOber]

 

[DruulEmpire]

Misery by Stephen King.  Funny how that word "Africa" helps me to remember all the rest of it.

I bought one of those 75th anniversary Esquire magazines with the flashing cover weeks ago and it's still flashing.  Something slim that flashes awhile, I would expect, but now I'm wondering how long it can last.  I keep it by a window, so I wonder if any phootvoltaics are involved.

[Palomine]

 I have no idea what you're talking about, but I can imagine. No, no photovoltaics... that'd be too costly. Just a slim battery like the kind they use in greeting cards (the ones that play a tune when you open them) which will power a blinking LED for a long time... weeks probably.

Then of course, there's the landfill.  

[DruulEmpire]

Eh, well, no telling how much of our posterity is headed for a landfill ...

In other news: it turns out that our galaxy is not the even spiral I always assumed it to be, but in fact has a 27,000 light-year-long bar at the center.  Our Sun is at about a 45 degree angle to it.

[PregNut]

Quote:
DruulEmpire said:
Eh, well, no telling how much of our posterity is headed for a landfill ...

In other news: it turns out that our galaxy is not the even spiral I always assumed it to be, but in fact has a 27,000 light-year-long bar at the center.

Maybe I can get a decent Margarita there.

[MasterDragonfly]

 

[Hiram]

Random you said!

 Ford Ka kills cat!

[Hiram]

A man walked into the ladies department of a Macy's and shyly walked
up to the woman behind the counter and said, 'I'd like to buy a bra
for my wife.'

What type of bra?' asked the clerk.

'Type?' inquires the man, 'There's more than one type?'

'Look around,' said the saleslady, as she showed a sea of bras in
every shape, size, color and material imaginable.

'Actually, even with all of this variety, there are really only four
types of bras to choose.'

Relieved, the man asked about the types. The saleslady replied:
'There are the Catholic, the Salvation Army, the Presbyterian, and the
Baptist types. Which one would you prefer?'

Now totally befuddled, the man asked about the differences between
them.
The Saleslady responded, 'It is all really quite simple... '

The Catholic type supports the masses.
The Salvation Army type lifts the fallen,
The Presbyterian type keeps them staunch and upright, and
The Baptist makes mountains out of mole hills.

[Hiram]

Have you ever wondered why A, B, C, D, DD, E, F, G, and H are the
letters used to define bra sizes?
If you have wondered why, but couldn't figure out what the letters
stood for, it is about time you became informed!

(A} Almost Boobs...
{B} Barely there.
{C} Can't Complain!
{D} Dang!
{DD} Double dang!
{E} Enormous!
{F} Fake
{G} Get a Reduction.
{H} Help me, I've fallen and I can't get up !

[Hiram]

A man walks into a pet shop and says, "I'd like to buy a wasp,
please."

"Sorry sir, we don't sell wasps."

"You've got three in the window."

[Hiram]

 Baby Hedgehog Eating a Carrot

[Hiram]

A flat-chested young lady went to Dr. Smith about enlarging her breasts.

Dr Smith advised her, 'Every day after your shower, rub your chest and  say,'Scooby doobie doobies, I want bigger boobies!'

She did this faithfully for several months!

To her utter amazement she grew terrific D-cup boobs! One morning she was  running late, got on the bus, and in a panic realized she had forgotten  her morning ritual.

Frightened she might lose her lovely boobs if she didn't recite the little rhyme, she stood right there in the middle aisle of the bus closed her  eyes and said, 'Scooby doobie doobies, I want bigger boobies.'

A guy sitting nearby looked at her and asked 'Oh! Are you a patient of Dr. Smith's?'

'Yes I am.. How did you know?'

He, winked and whispered, ' Hickory dickory dock...'

[ChrisR1]

I've heard plenty of clips of Elisabeth Hasselbeck spouting off conservative soundbites and towing the party line, sounding often like a moronic right-wing robot, but I'd never actually seen her before (why would I watch the view) - moronic she may sound, but she is HOT!!!

 

[MasterDragonfly]

Yes, a Sybian is everything it's cracked up to be.

[notty]

Stop procrastinating...starting tomorrow.

[MasterDragonfly]

If coffee had never been discovered, what the hell would we be using to get our day started?

[ChrisR1]

Coffee's overrated - I need my morning Dr. Pepper.

[rtpoe]

God, I HATE this song...

Here's my dream:


A few days after the incidents described in the song, the police come knocking at her door. Seems someone with her name vandalized his car ("I carved my name..."); does she know anything about it?

At the hearing, his attorney argues that "dating" does not constitute a legal or even a moral contract between two parties, and thus there was absolutely no justification for the gratuitous violence against a motor vehicle. Her attorney is unable to counter that argument, and the court finds in favor of the plaintiff.

She must either pay for the damages, or do a little bit of time.

In either case, she is branded with the stigma of being a Vindictive Psycho Bitch. Word gets around, and soon no one wants to go out with her. She falls into a spiral of alcoholism and depression, which only ends when she flees the town for distant lands where no one knows her past.

[DrHyde]

The Pizza Cravers flavor in the Doritos collisions tastes awesome...

[PregNut]

The protective box Sony sends you to pack your PS3 in to send it in for repairs is affectionately known as a "coffin"

[mastert]

I have a question for you




Have you or have you not heard






That the bird is the word!



HILARIOUS!!!!!

[PregNut]

This seems like the appropriate place.


Preg(MWAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!)Nut

[notty]

Damn you, Pregnut.

[PregNut]

What part of 'MWAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!' did you not understand?

[solvegas]

You evil,evil man .....

[SwitcherX]

Has anyone here ever head of the swap video?

[ogler]

Preg nut that's a cool avatar

Switcher No. Is asking about it a dangerous question?

[notty]

Quote:
SwitcherX said:
Has anyone here ever head of the swap video?

Oh, yes.  I remember that.  The description at Something Awful made me laugh and laugh.

http://www.somethingawful.com/d/horrors-of-porn/horrible-saga-swapavi.php