Silicon Investor (SI) -- The First Internet Community

STOCKTALK

We've detected that you're using an ad content blocking browser plug-in or feature. Ads provide a critical source of revenue to the continued operation of Silicon Investor. We ask that you disable ad blocking while on Silicon Investor in the best interests of our community. If you are not using an ad blocker but are still receiving this message, make sure your browser's tracking protection is set to the 'standard' level.

Pastimes : Let's Talk About Our Feelings!!! -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Impristine who wrote (27170)	12/20/1998 9:02:00 AM
From: Sidney Reilly	Respond to of 108807

impristine, <<where can i find a friggin cobbler, to fix my morbid soul, damn thing is shot to hell,>> As you have seen my views are not universally accepted on this thread. LOL. And my faith is questioned. But not by me. Guess who said, "Come to Me all you who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest." peace be with you, Bob

To: Impristine who wrote (27170)	12/20/1998 10:25:00 PM
From: Hubert Few	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 108807

"where can i find a friggin cobbler, to fix my morbid soul, damn thing is shot to hell, in the foot, hurts like an sob, better take the diamonds out." You, a morbid soul???? Must be so! I red it on the internet, therefore it is the immutable truth. Ask Dr. Ruth....sly wench that she is, copping for adoption, passing wind and judgement all at the same time! Ha! Nude Pix of Dr. Laura abound....someone caught her in a comprimised position with her panties down! Ha! Rot in Hell shall she, for passing judgement on her god's apprenticeship in the tossed ship at sea. Blow the man down, Monica takes a wave over the bow, it's cigars that are in fashion now I see....and laura is taking a few over the stern as well....how many facelifts can the doctor sell, pompous little bitch that she be....it's in the name of "sanctimony". I could quit while I was a head, but insist though I do, in trapping the vagrant rhyming spring-trap closed on the tail of a fleeing rat, I collapse and tune in to the radio show. Marx, Lennon, Howard, and Laura...hey! There's even a channel for the Hitler hour, we can watch the remaking of history on the histrionic channel. I can see it, just as plain as the impaled ghost of a road-kill opossum, the spearheaded driving force of wanna-be logic twister, thrust headlong into the vortex of popular opinion....an onion sandwich with so many complex layers of stinging acidic lace. I want a place on the Howard Stern show, I want to thank him for doing the inevitable, the unspeakable, the downright tacky, I want to see his fart-man impression played in the halls of medicine.....ricola, put that on your tongue and swallow. You'll belch up a sour mint smell reminiscent of robitussin dreamland...the myth, the perception of escape. The course fabric of the nomad's funeral tent. The spleen of existence, this is the throbbing spaceship phallus earth, searching impregnation between god's warm, damp, and longing legs. Ha! god is laughing at us, not with, the jist is the paradoxical rythem of entropic spherism, pluralism, catholicism. It's all in revision as the spinsters put the final touches on the patchwork universe....spinning delicate fibers of carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen. I am remiss, this is the point, I am pounded into remission, the cancer is taking over and the logical program is rewritten, the tests fail, the heart impaled, again cries out for fresh blood... 1.....2......3 CLEAR.....1......2......3