barrelomonkeys wrote:Belial wrote:harmony wrote:It's past Sally's bedtime.
I switched bodies. I'm now in control of a janitor named Phil.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClSC0ItN ... ed&search=
?
No
It's that time of year again
-
_Belial
-
_Yoda
harmony wrote:Belial wrote:harmony wrote:It's past Sally's bedtime.
I switched bodies. I'm now in control of a janitor named Phil.
It's gotta suck, never having your own body and always having to use someone else's. Kinda like wearing someone else's underwear without washing them.
EEEWWWW!
Bad visual!
LOL
Bravo, Tommy, Bravo!
I caught your conference speech earlier today while flipping between cooking programs.
May I say it was a classic? A stellar piece of Monsonaila, a Monsonion performance par exellance! Not a stone was left unturned, nor a cliché unuttered, in your moving recounting of the story of Teresa Patterson and her boy Arthur, a lad as tall as tree, as strong as the mountains and with a smile as big as the great outdoors! How you and your school chums idolized him! How golden were his curly locks (golden as the sun, if I recall, correctly)! How stalwart was his spirit!
Yes in those dark days of the late 1940's, when that trouble over in Europe had just turned into the battle known as World War II, young Arthur, an overgrown lad, was moved to enlist in the United State's Navy! So strong were his limbs (I think they were as strong as a horse or an ox) and so tall was his stature (as noted before, tall like a tree) that the recruitment office had no inkling he was a mere 15 years old (a stripling warrior, indeed. Hey, Tommy, how did you miss that reference?)!!!
To cut to the chase---after all, I could never tell it quite as movingly as you did with your truncated arm and hand gestures and vocal emphasis dancing between the ingenuous, the naïve, the incredulous, and sometimes, the scary---stalwart, tall, strong and idolized Arthur was killed. Leaving his mother, a hard-working widow, deep in grief. So deep in her despair was this hard-working widow woman with hands coarsened by her endless labor as a cleaning woman in a downtown office building (in those days, one could often see her, pail and mop in hand, bent over from her back-breaking wearying troubles, struggling to make her way to the bus stop) that she turned to you, saying, "Tommy, for that is what she called you, Tommy, I have no church. But you, you believe. Tell me, will I ever see my precious Arthur again?"
And so you bore your testimony to her that, yes, she would indeed be reunited with her darling, tall, yellow-haired and brave son. For you had assurance from your lord and savior, even Jesus Christ (by the way, Tommy, I've always wondered about the rhetorical elocution "even, Jesus Christ." It seems so...faux archaic, so fakey King James, so...oh, never mind).
And just as you were impressed to tell this story in General Conference on April 9th, 1969---when not having seen dear Mrs. Patterson for many years, and she having moved to California in the meantime and having been invited by member friends to watch that session of conference, none of them knowing that you were speaking nor what the topic of your talk would be, and it was no accident that she heard you tell this moving story and was moved to get in touch with you, writing, "Dear Tommy, I hope you don't mind me calling you Tommy, but that is what I like to call you," and other things----you were impressed to tell this story today.
So relentlessly did you repeat every agonizingly minor detail of this story, again and again, that even a listener of severe mental impairment would be able to grasp your message: Arthur dead. And yet the dead live!
What a great story for Halloween-time! I'm sure the subtle hint of Zombie-ism found in the tale of Arthur the dead boy who will return, was not lost on you. In fact, I am certain that is why you were impressed to retell it during October General Conference, where it would connect with the current holiday season, just like you were impressed to initially tell it in April for the Easter tie-in.
Wow!
Magnifique!
(by the way, your self-deprecating chuckles are SO much more self-deprecating than Packer's. Man, when he tries to "be human" he comes off like a cackling vampire. Hmmm...more Halloween hijinks?)
I caught your conference speech earlier today while flipping between cooking programs.
May I say it was a classic? A stellar piece of Monsonaila, a Monsonion performance par exellance! Not a stone was left unturned, nor a cliché unuttered, in your moving recounting of the story of Teresa Patterson and her boy Arthur, a lad as tall as tree, as strong as the mountains and with a smile as big as the great outdoors! How you and your school chums idolized him! How golden were his curly locks (golden as the sun, if I recall, correctly)! How stalwart was his spirit!
Yes in those dark days of the late 1940's, when that trouble over in Europe had just turned into the battle known as World War II, young Arthur, an overgrown lad, was moved to enlist in the United State's Navy! So strong were his limbs (I think they were as strong as a horse or an ox) and so tall was his stature (as noted before, tall like a tree) that the recruitment office had no inkling he was a mere 15 years old (a stripling warrior, indeed. Hey, Tommy, how did you miss that reference?)!!!
To cut to the chase---after all, I could never tell it quite as movingly as you did with your truncated arm and hand gestures and vocal emphasis dancing between the ingenuous, the naïve, the incredulous, and sometimes, the scary---stalwart, tall, strong and idolized Arthur was killed. Leaving his mother, a hard-working widow, deep in grief. So deep in her despair was this hard-working widow woman with hands coarsened by her endless labor as a cleaning woman in a downtown office building (in those days, one could often see her, pail and mop in hand, bent over from her back-breaking wearying troubles, struggling to make her way to the bus stop) that she turned to you, saying, "Tommy, for that is what she called you, Tommy, I have no church. But you, you believe. Tell me, will I ever see my precious Arthur again?"
And so you bore your testimony to her that, yes, she would indeed be reunited with her darling, tall, yellow-haired and brave son. For you had assurance from your lord and savior, even Jesus Christ (by the way, Tommy, I've always wondered about the rhetorical elocution "even, Jesus Christ." It seems so...faux archaic, so fakey King James, so...oh, never mind).
And just as you were impressed to tell this story in General Conference on April 9th, 1969---when not having seen dear Mrs. Patterson for many years, and she having moved to California in the meantime and having been invited by member friends to watch that session of conference, none of them knowing that you were speaking nor what the topic of your talk would be, and it was no accident that she heard you tell this moving story and was moved to get in touch with you, writing, "Dear Tommy, I hope you don't mind me calling you Tommy, but that is what I like to call you," and other things----you were impressed to tell this story today.
So relentlessly did you repeat every agonizingly minor detail of this story, again and again, that even a listener of severe mental impairment would be able to grasp your message: Arthur dead. And yet the dead live!
What a great story for Halloween-time! I'm sure the subtle hint of Zombie-ism found in the tale of Arthur the dead boy who will return, was not lost on you. In fact, I am certain that is why you were impressed to retell it during October General Conference, where it would connect with the current holiday season, just like you were impressed to initially tell it in April for the Easter tie-in.
Wow!
Magnifique!
(by the way, your self-deprecating chuckles are SO much more self-deprecating than Packer's. Man, when he tries to "be human" he comes off like a cackling vampire. Hmmm...more Halloween hijinks?)
From the Ernest L. Wilkinson Diaries: "ELW dreams he's spattered w/ grease. Hundreds steal his greasy pants."
Brothers and Sisters,
I guess you all saw that I made it. A miracle in these modern days.
I learned some valuable lessons indeed. You might think that I pulled that timeless volume from my shelf, The Little Engine that Could and from those pages drew strength. "I think I can, I think I can! exclaimed the Little Blue Engine, over and over as he dared to climb the hill. Oh how I longed to have the courage of the Little Blue Engine. But this book, brothers and sisters, has now been committed to the flames.
After reciting the inspiring words of the Engine, I soon felt the clouds of darkness overcome my consciousness. When I woke, sometime later, I saw the smiling faces of brothers Packer and Bednar standing over me. Yes, I stand before you today, why? Because these two men heard my cries and rushed unto me with consecrated oil. They layed hands upon my head and blessed me. I felt the power of the priesthood combating the evil toxins, the caffeine from the poison I had drank. Now, I thought I heard Packer request of the Lord that if it be his will that I pass quickly, but, perhaps I heard wrong because I yet stand before you this day!
It was the priesthood that healed me, my brothers and sisters. And I realizsed how cunning the plan of the adversary is. It was not the spirit which led me to that deceptive children's novel, it was Satan, still speaking to my mind the proto-existentialism of Nietzsche. A trick indeed. The Blue Engine did not cry out to the Lord, not even symbolically, but saved himself and took all the glory. The Little Blue Engine became a false prophet of the anti-Christ, for there was no beacon for him to trudge toward, only his own will to trudge. Nor is there any real value attached to the summit of the hill. We encounter the engine thrown and forlorn in his situation. A stretch of track that merely becomes ready-to-hand in the attitude change of the Engine. There is no Truth in the world of the Little Blue Engine.
After the blessing, I burned that horrible book. I am back to pure focus on a new toddler's Bible that contains only pictures. I need the milk of this edition before I get back to the meat of my standard children's edition.
Later I will have some comments for my brethren, and for brother mentalgymnist and sweet sister Blixa.
I guess you all saw that I made it. A miracle in these modern days.
I learned some valuable lessons indeed. You might think that I pulled that timeless volume from my shelf, The Little Engine that Could and from those pages drew strength. "I think I can, I think I can! exclaimed the Little Blue Engine, over and over as he dared to climb the hill. Oh how I longed to have the courage of the Little Blue Engine. But this book, brothers and sisters, has now been committed to the flames.
After reciting the inspiring words of the Engine, I soon felt the clouds of darkness overcome my consciousness. When I woke, sometime later, I saw the smiling faces of brothers Packer and Bednar standing over me. Yes, I stand before you today, why? Because these two men heard my cries and rushed unto me with consecrated oil. They layed hands upon my head and blessed me. I felt the power of the priesthood combating the evil toxins, the caffeine from the poison I had drank. Now, I thought I heard Packer request of the Lord that if it be his will that I pass quickly, but, perhaps I heard wrong because I yet stand before you this day!
It was the priesthood that healed me, my brothers and sisters. And I realizsed how cunning the plan of the adversary is. It was not the spirit which led me to that deceptive children's novel, it was Satan, still speaking to my mind the proto-existentialism of Nietzsche. A trick indeed. The Blue Engine did not cry out to the Lord, not even symbolically, but saved himself and took all the glory. The Little Blue Engine became a false prophet of the anti-Christ, for there was no beacon for him to trudge toward, only his own will to trudge. Nor is there any real value attached to the summit of the hill. We encounter the engine thrown and forlorn in his situation. A stretch of track that merely becomes ready-to-hand in the attitude change of the Engine. There is no Truth in the world of the Little Blue Engine.
After the blessing, I burned that horrible book. I am back to pure focus on a new toddler's Bible that contains only pictures. I need the milk of this edition before I get back to the meat of my standard children's edition.
Later I will have some comments for my brethren, and for brother mentalgymnist and sweet sister Blixa.
Tommy wrote:Brothers and Sisters,
I guess you all saw that I made it. A miracle in these modern days.
I learned some valuable lessons indeed. You might think that I pulled that timeless volume from my shelf, The Little Engine that Could and from those pages drew strength. "I think I can, I think I can! exclaimed the Little Blue Engine, over and over as he dared to climb the hill. Oh how I longed to have the courage of the Little Blue Engine. But this book, brothers and sisters, has now been committed to the flames.
After reciting the inspiring words of the Engine, I soon felt the clouds of darkness overcome my consciousness. When I woke, sometime later, I saw the smiling faces of brothers Packer and Bednar standing over me. Yes, I stand before you today, why? Because these two men heard my cries and rushed unto me with consecrated oil. They layed hands upon my head and blessed me. I felt the power of the priesthood combating the evil toxins, the caffeine from the poison I had drank. Now, I thought I heard Packer request of the Lord that if it be his will that I pass quickly, but, perhaps I heard wrong because I yet stand before you this day!
It was the priesthood that healed me, my brothers and sisters. And I realizsed how cunning the plan of the adversary is. It was not the spirit which led me to that deceptive children's novel, it was Satan, still speaking to my mind the proto-existentialism of Nietzsche. A trick indeed. The Blue Engine did not cry out to the Lord, not even symbolically, but saved himself and took all the glory. The Little Blue Engine became a false prophet of the anti-Christ, for there was no beacon for him to trudge toward, only his own will to trudge. Nor is there any real value attached to the summit of the hill. We encounter the engine thrown and forlorn in his situation. A stretch of track that merely becomes ready-to-hand in the attitude change of the Engine. There is no Truth in the world of the Little Blue Engine.
After the blessing, I burned that horrible book. I am back to pure focus on a new toddler's Bible that contains only pictures. I need the milk of this edition before I get back to the meat of my standard children's edition.
Later I will have some comments for my brethren, and for brother mentalgymnist and sweet sister Blixa.
Aren't you supposed to be in Priesthood meeting right now?
-
_Belial
-
_Belial
harmony wrote:It's gotta suck, never having your own body and always having to use someone else's. Kinda like wearing someone else's underwear without washing them.
What sucks is when you get exorcised.....it's like giving birth.
Yeah, but we must trust in the Lord of Light Lucifer and his true words that not being bound to the mortal coil is best for now and that one day our revolt against heaven will succeed. On that day I intend to take the body of Brad Pitt and have an orgy. My spouse Gomory and I wear each others underwear all the time and there are no washing machines in Hell.
Belial wrote:harmony wrote:It's gotta suck, never having your own body and always having to use someone else's. Kinda like wearing someone else's underwear without washing them.
What sucks is when you get exorcised.....it's like giving birth.
Yeah, but we must trust in the Lord of Light Lucifer and his true words that not being bound to the mortal coil is best for now and that one day our revolt against heaven will succeed. On that day I intend to take the body of Brad Pitt and have an orgy. My spouse Gomory and I wear each others underwear all the time and there are no washing machines in Hell.
You want to be a blonde empty-headed actor of mediocre skill? ROTFL! No doubt there is justice!
-
_Yoda
harmony wrote:Belial wrote:harmony wrote:It's gotta suck, never having your own body and always having to use someone else's. Kinda like wearing someone else's underwear without washing them.
What sucks is when you get exorcised.....it's like giving birth.
Yeah, but we must trust in the Lord of Light Lucifer and his true words that not being bound to the mortal coil is best for now and that one day our revolt against heaven will succeed. On that day I intend to take the body of Brad Pitt and have an orgy. My spouse Gomory and I wear each others underwear all the time and there are no washing machines in Hell.
You want to be a blonde empty-headed actor of mediocre skill? ROTFL! No doubt there is justice!
But he's a HOT blond, empty-headed actor of mediocre skill.
;)