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Pastimes : Don't Ask Rambi -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Rambi who wrote (11388)	7/13/1998 9:23:00 PM
From: Ish	Respond to of 71178

The 329 thing, really, don't you wish God existed in the Old Testament style and wrecked havok on offenders? 110 and you got a sprinkler in the face? I'd call that lucky.

To: Rambi who wrote (11388)	7/14/1998 9:39:00 AM
From: DScottD	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 71178

The Hobbit was the book to read when I was in college. I had a summer job working on roofs with a bunch of other college kids and one of them was obsessed with Tolkein (sp?). He was an English major, so I thought it must be good reading, so I bought The Hobbit and the rest of the trilogy, a really nice boxed set, paperback thankfully, and set off to read it when I went back to school. I read about 50 pages, said "what the hell is so great about this?" and never opened it again. I gave the books to one of my sisters who read the whole thing and thought it was great. I attribute my lack of interest in what obviously is a literary masterpiece to my refusal to take controlled substances. The sprinkler story is a classic. First, Dan is absolutely right. A chiropractor friend of mine once told me that the worst thing one can do in the summer is work that requires bending and pulling of the back muscles. However, pitching a baseball in extreme heat is actually good for the body, as it gets the juices flowing and allows the body to be more efficient in its cooling function. That is why baseball is played in the summer. I thought everyone knew that. Second, I was wondering why you were so worried about getting refreshingly sprayed by the sprinkler until you threw in the tidbit that you were in your nightgown. Then I figured you had no interest engaging in R-rated fare in front of your neighbor so it made sense. It must have been like something out of I Love Lucy. You don't have that device in your answering machine that automatically can tell whether someone is calling the wrong number? In our efforts to attempt to keep everyone happy, we Catholics sometimes have to bear the guilt of others' wrongs. I do it all the time. Once, someone rammed a grocery cart into the side of my car when it was parked in the parking lot. The cart put a big scratch and a small dent on my car, which I had owned for maybe 3 or 4 weeks at the time. The person came over to apologize and I, in my perfect altar boy demeanor, said "That's OK, I shouldn't have parked there in the first place so really it's my fault." I figure that simple act of Christian forgiveness, when coupled with taking responsibility and shifting the guilt to myself, bought me at least 3 fewer years in Purgatory. Another million or so acts like that and I'll be in Heaven no later than 100,000 years after I die.

To: Rambi who wrote (11388)	7/14/1998 2:37:00 PM
From: Gauguin	Respond to of 71178

I've just been out in the yard. I guess this isn't a stock thread, so I'm guessing again everyone wants to know. There must be.....four million flowers out there. Infected and affected with the spirit and image of our thread's New Sprinkler Sprite, I went out in my socks. I filled Don Diego Stumpy's water bowl, with fresh water, no less. MJ wiggled the top of the water with her finger and he did too. Passed muster. ("Rub his nose. He wants his nose rubbed.") It's slightly overcast.....say pearl, not BMW, and very bright. The flower colors are ~ well, quasi-psychedelic, speaking of substance. The purple hanging petunias are so fluorescent they literally hurt your eyes. Talkin' squintos. Sandoz. Prescription sun lasses. The breeze is wiggling little things like they're impatient to get attention. There's tiers of lychnis, begonia; understories of impatiens in coral and iced-animal colors. Pink mallow, geraniums, heliotrope mmm smell yummm mmmm mmmmm. Ruby~raspberry hydrangeas. Party goer portulacas, just outside the door; hands held high. The party's here. Where was.... Oh ~ so I went out in my socks. I really like that, I can't think of anything else I enjoy more this morning. I can hear my Mother yelling at me the whole time, but I can't hear her, because she's in another county. Well, I can hear her, but she can't prove it. I try to keep them clean; ~ but it's pretty much impossible. They're getting bracts and fur and sticks and mud bits. YOU WASH THEM. GET A LIFE, MOMMA. I'm clipping spent flowers, shearing and soothing and speaking words of encouragement for bloom; and sweeping, ahead of my socks. I decide to move a lily pot, whose ribald orange flower has gone to seed, sleepy-oh-that-was-good slumber til next year. Ms Snippy Scissors says, "You can't move that in your socks." "What?" Say what? You talkin to me? "Call the cops, 'cause I'm stepping out of the Deck Area." Man. I got the blood of a rebel.