View Full Version : No one is modding this section are they?

12-02-2008, 09:15 PM

Professor Poopsnagle
12-02-2008, 09:18 PM

11th Chamber
12-02-2008, 09:20 PM
the very interesting thing about the box is that they put all kinds of vegetables in it which is good for me because normally i wouldnīt buy any broccoli or cauliflower but this way i have to eat it. very tasty things i never had assumed.

good thread. very important, not at all exaggerated. supermarket is all plastic nowadays. at the same time they have the cockiness to sell "bio"-food which isnīt neccessarily what itīs supposed to be. or do you beliefe the products come from farmers?

itīs expensive here to live healthy in terms of getting real fruit and vegetables but you have to try. nutrition shouldnt be no luxury but then again i think itīs unnormal that you can buy all these crazy colourful things. or that meat is so cheap!

sorry for getting a little bit offtopic here. but did you know there are (mainly) only two productlines(like for cars) of chicken? two big "manufacturers". they are the same meat as in mc donaldīs or supermarket. no difference, really. they get lucky if one day chicken are bread without feathers. these chickens only live 38 days. 1.6 kg chicken food makes 1 kg meat. no other animal has been made a product as much as chickens.

sometimes i seriously consider going vegetarian. then again, yesterday i ate chicken.

12-02-2008, 09:24 PM
^thats what she said

The Hound
12-02-2008, 09:25 PM
[jerry seinfeld] so what's the deal with doors? ... i just don't get it ... they're there aren't they? ... then you walk through them and you turn around and you say "it's like walking through a doorway into the next room" [/jerry seinfeld]


11th Chamber
12-02-2008, 09:26 PM

Professor Poopsnagle
12-02-2008, 09:29 PM
“You know what?” Jim Fletcher said. “I ain’t never heard your duck quack. Why is that so?”

Billy Troutman stared at Fletcher like he’d asked why more people don’t drink motor oil. “Just never you mind why that duck hasn’t quacked,” he said. “But I tell you what, if you ever do hear that duck quack – and I’m not saying the duck will ever quack, but it most certainly could – then you best run.”

“And why would I run?” Fletcher said. “It’s just a damn duck. A defective, no-quackin' duck.”

“Oh, that duck can quack,” Troutman said, “It can quack like you wouldn’t believe a duck could quack. I just pray that it don’t care to anytime soon, 'less you want to trade in them work boots for a pair a runnin' shoes and a cast-iron overcoat.”

Fletcher laughed and lit a cigarette. “Look here, friend," he said, "if that duck quacks, I ain’t goin' nowhere, and that’s a fact."

“Well,” Troutman replied, “I expect the duck'll have a thing or two to say about that.”

It wasn't long before the two men saw the duck in question waddling up from the pond. Troutman immediately dropped his cup of coffee and began backing up toward the house. The duck looked at Fletcher and then at Troutman, and then it fixed its gaze firmly back on Fletcher.

And then the duck began to quack.

The cows in a nearby pasture began stampeding. Troutman’s hogs tried to bury themselves in the mud. Troutman himself hurled open the cellar door, grabbed his screaming family and leapt inside. But Fletcher, true to his word, did not move – could not move, as if hypnotized by the duck's piercing brown eyes and glossy green head feathers and, above all, its rhythmic, scalp-tingling quacks.

The air grew deliriously hot, and the world seemed bathed in fiery orange light. And as the quacking reached its terrifying crescendo, it occurred to Fletcher that perhaps his curiosity had finally gotten the better of him.

And then his face melted off.

12-02-2008, 09:41 PM

Professor Poopsnagle
12-02-2008, 09:48 PM
It was the last night of the Kinsler family vacation in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. A buffet dinner at Davy Crockett’s Surf & Turf was followed by a visit to the wax museum and then a rousing session of Skee-ball. As the evening was winding down, the Kinslers stopped for ice cream, and that's when little Kip Kinsler, a month’s worth of allowance rustling in his pocket, wandered across the street and into one of the city's many fine souvenir shops. He returned a few minutes later with a small package tucked under his arm. "Happy birthday!" Kip yelled, handing it to his grandpa.

Stan Kinsler was touched. He unwrapped the package and there, nestled in pink tissue paper, was a coffee mug. And on this mug was written, in bright red letters, "WORLD'S HORNIEST GRANDPA!"

This was an uncomfortable moment for the Kinslers. Stan managed a chuckle or two and patted his grandson’s head, hoping the boy wouldn't notice his moist eyes and trembling lower lip. Hold it together, Stan, he thought. Kip had meant well. The boy simply had no way of knowing what all the grown-ups did: that Stan Kinsler was, in fact, not the world's horniest grandpa. Far, far from it.

But oh, the horniness he had once known!

Years ago, Stan was, without a doubt, the horniest merchant marine in the world, having established his credentials in whorehouses from Buenos Aires to Bombay. Later, he became the world's horniest air-conditioner repairman, followed by stints as world's horniest Shriner, world's horniest subscriber to Reader’s Digest and, finally, world's horniest member of a carpet-deodorizer class-action lawsuit. Time, however, had taken its irrevocable toll, and neither pills nor videos nor a cream made from the gall bladders of Bengal tigers could turn back the clock.

"World's horniest grandpa, my eye!" Mary Kinsler snorted. "If that's the case, then I'm Dolly Gosh-Darn Parton!"

Confused, Kip and the other children put down their fudge sundaes and waited for their parents to explain grandma's highly improbable assertion. Stan, meanwhile, drifted off to a nearby tavern to fill his birthday present with bitter tears, followed by pint after cathartic pint of Tennessee whiskey.

The Hound
12-02-2008, 10:10 PM