During my adventures last night, I met a crazy fat guy with a twelve-pound gold chain. He was from New Jersey, oddly enough. More details after coffee, plus this week’s riddle. …
You know who sucks? Sprint. I haven’t received an incoming call since Saturday. I apologize to all the people I hated because I thought they weren’t calling me back.
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You know what is played out? Flash mobs. They are so zeroes. What do we call this decade by the way? If the last on was the nineties, what is this one?
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WEEKLY RIDDLE:
‘Twas in heaven pronounced, and ’twas muttered in hell,
An echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed;
‘Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder.
‘Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death,
Presides o’er his happiness, honor, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser ’tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on the prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned.
Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.
‘Twill not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower,
Ah… breathe on it softly, – it dies in an hour.
–Catherine Maria Fanshawe (1765-1834)
An echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed;
‘Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder.
‘Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death,
Presides o’er his happiness, honor, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser ’tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on the prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned.
Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.
‘Twill not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower,
Ah… breathe on it softly, – it dies in an hour.
–Catherine Maria Fanshawe (1765-1834)
Here’s the answer to last week’s riddle.
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SOTD: View the power of Photoshop.The model link makes you feel better about yourself.