Since Feb 19, 2005

view home page, enter name:

29 y/o married female with 5 kids. I don't feel guilty about racism because I know that I am not a racist. What does that say about you?

And now, for the good stuff!

Some people just can’t get over their hatred for dogs. ~Samogon

...your blind animalist idolatry... ~ RachelFaith

Let me be clear, I don’t like you and I don’t like your ugly dog~mojitojoe

Farewell Peace

Farewell, Peace! Another crisis calls us to "the last appeal,"
Made when monarchs and their vices leave no argument but steel.
When injustice and oppression dare avow the tyrant's plea.
Who would recommend submission? Virtue bids us to be free

History spreads her page before us, Time unrolls his ample scroll;
Truth unfolds th em, to assure us, states, united, ne'er can fall.
See, in annals Greek and Roman, what immortal deeds we find;
When those gallant sons of woman in their country's cause combined.

Sons of Freedom! Brave descendants from a race of heroes tried,
To preserve our independence let all Europe be defied.
Let not all the world, united, rob us of one sacred right:
Every patriot's heart delighted in his country's cause to fight.

Come then, War! With hearts elated to thy standard we will fly;
Every bosom animated either to live free or die
May the wretch that shrinks from duty, or deserts the glorious strife,
Never know the smile of beauty, nor the blessing of a wife.
~ Joseph Hopkinson

Put your faith in the mountain cat if you lie within his lair;
Trust the fangs of the mother-wolf, and the claws of the lead-ripped bear;
But oh, of the wiles and the gold-tooth smiles
of a dance-hall wench beware!<[>

"And how we burned in the camps later, thinking: What would things have been like if every Security operative, when he went out at night to make an arrest, had been uncertain whether he would return alive and had to say good-bye to his family? Or if, during periods of mass arrests, as for example in Leningrad, when they arrested a quarter of the entire city, people had not simply sat there in their lairs, paling with terror at every bang of the downstairs door and at every step on the staircase, but had understood they had nothing left to lose and had boldly set up in the downstairs hall an ambush of half a dozen people with axes, hammers, pokers, or whatever else was at hand? . . ."

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!

My opinion (worth everything you pay for it!) is that pit bulls are more dangerous than a similarly-sized dog of a more gentle breed. They are massive, powerful, and have the terrier drive. I think that an unintended consequence of being bred for gameness created a certain reluctance to give themselves over whole-heartedly to human beings.

Now that they are ‘fashionable’ dogs, clueless people buy them and expect them to be happy with the normal sort of human-dog interaction that most dogs thrive on. A pit bull will get bored, and even though it may adore it’s owner and never exhibit signs of aggression towards them, it will try to find a way to fulfill it’s instinctual urges.

Of course, all dogs do this. A retriever can fulfill himself playing fetch, a herding dog can chase cars...But there is nothing a pit bull can do by itself to approximate a bloody fight that’s not going to result in tragedy.

The way to give a pit bull an outlet is to get him into weight pulling. It fulfills his need for battle. It’s not hard to get into, and you don’t have to compete, you just have to invest in some equipment and a few hours every night. Are alot of people willing to do this? No. They treat the dog like a chihuahua or a lab and then are shocked when he tears apart the neighbors cat, or dog, or child.

Too many pit bull apologists spend all their energy defending the breed as gentle, loveable little fuzzballs without acknowledging that this is NOT a backyard breed, not a dog for the sedentary, or irresponsible, and not a dog to be taken lightly.

...Men's influence over women has been so great that they have been virtually able to form women's manners and morals and code of conduct. They have set the pattern for femininity and women have broken their necks trying to be what men wanted them to he. And if you doubt, this, consider what a change has come over the behavior of women in the last few years. As long as men admired modesty in women every girl was a prunes and prisms miss who went swathed in draperies from head to foot.

As long as men demanded chastity in women they kept themselves as pure as snow. As long as no man would have been seen with a drunken woman the sweet young things sang "The lips that touch wine shall never touch mine." But now, when it is the loose living girls who pet and drink and smoke and go on wild parties who have the most dates, girls have cast their inhibitions to the wind and are just as tough as men want them to be. It was men's influence that kept women good. It is men's influence that is dragging them into the mire.

Dorothy Dix, January 15th, 1941

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die...


Tango was killed Nov 30, 2007

Great Quotes
The consideration which many purchase by living beyond their income, and of course living upon others, is not worth the trouble it costs. The glare there is about this false and wicked parade is deceptive; it does not procure a more valuable friends(sic), or extensive influence. More than that, it is wrong-morally wrong, so far as the individual is concerned; and injurious beyond calculation to the interests of our country. A multitude of causes have no doubt tended to increase the evil; but the root of the whole matter is the extravagance of all classes of people. We shall never be prosperous till we make pride and vanity yield to the dictates of honesty and prudence!
-Mrs. Child, The American Frugal Housewife

And I, for suckling, no fix'd hour prescribe;
This Nature teaches best the nursing tribe:
Let her our mistress be; and when, with cries
The hungry child demands his due supplies,
Forbear not you the wish'd relief to bring; Nor then be loath your snowy breast to bare,
That he may suck, and streaming fragrance share.

Happy Fun Links

Women need to wear more hats.


Explanation of my screen name so people don't think I'm a hoochie.:

I'm 72 inches tall; Well, technically, 71 and five eighths. Most clothing stores only sell longer inseams with bigger waists; This means that I am forced to either buy ungodly expensive clothing online, or wear mens' jeans. To make up for all the money I waste, I ripped off the name of my favorite clothing store for my screen name.

A definition of true Feminism, by Rudyard Kipling

Brought to my attention by The SISUkid

When The Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside;
But the shebear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail,
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it as he can;
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preacher to Hurons and Choctaws
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale,
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when the hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other's tale-
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations-worm and savage otherwise,-
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere be lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his angerl Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue-to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity-must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions-not in these her honour dwells.
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
And the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate!
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions-in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies-
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful changes-even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons-even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw,
And the victim writhes in anguish-like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So, it comes that Man the coward, when he gathers to confer
With the fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice-which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern-shall enthrall but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of the Species is more deadly than the Male

Tommy - Rudyard Kipling

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

~ Kipling

I’ve embroidered a frock
And sewn the long seams,
While I stitched up a heartache
And mended my dreams.

I’ve patched a torn garment
And darned a big rent,
While I’ve worked in new hopes
And a sweeter content.

Why stitching brings gladness
Or ease for Life’s pain,
And healing from sadness
I cannot explain.

But for little hopes baffled
And foolish tears shed,
I’ve sought and found comfort
With needle and thread.

Tango's Favorite Kong recipes:

Cheese & Dog food
Avacado & Taco meat
Chicken & Grated Carrot
Got a good one? Freepmail me!

"SON," said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
"You've need of clothes to cover you,
And not a rag have I.

"There's nothing in the house
To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with
Nor thread to take stitches.

"There's nothing in the house
But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman's head
Nobody will buy,"
And she began to cry.

That was in the early fall.
When came the late fall,
"Son," she said, "the sight of you
Makes your mother's blood crawl,–

"Little skinny shoulder-blades
Sticking through your clothes!
And where you'll get a jacket from
God above knows.

"It's lucky for me, lad,
Your daddy's in the ground,
And can't see the way I let
His son go around!"
And she made a queer sound.

That was in the late fall.
When the winter came,
I'd not a pair of breeches
Nor a shirt to my name.

I couldn't go to school,
Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
Passed our way.

"Son," said my mother,
"Come, climb into my lap,
And I'll chafe your little bones
While you take a nap."

And, oh, but we were silly
For half an hour or more,
Me with my long legs
Dragging on the floor,

To a mother-goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
For half an hour's time!

But there was I, a great boy,
And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
To sleep all day,
In such a daft way?

Men say the winter
Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
And food was dear.

A wind with a wolf's head
Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
And sat upon the floor.

All that was left us
Was a chair we couldn't break,
And the harp with a woman's head
Nobody would take,
For song or pity's sake.

The night before Christmas
I cried with the cold,
I cried myself to sleep
Like a two-year-old.

And in the deep night
I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
With love in her eyes.

I saw my mother sitting
On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
From I couldn't tell where,

Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman's head
Leaned against her shoulder.

Her thin fingers, moving
In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
Wonderful things.

Many bright threads,
From where I couldn't see,
Were running through the harp-strings

And gold threads whistling
Through my mother's hand.
I saw the web grow,
And the pattern expand.

She wove a child's jacket,
And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
And wove another one.

She wove a red cloak
So regal to see,
"She's made it for a king's son,"
I said, "and not for me."
But I knew it was for me.

She wove a pair of breeches
Quicker than that!
She wove a pair of boots
And a little cocked hat.

She wove a pair of mittens,
She wove a little blouse,
She wove all night
In the still, cold house.

She sang as she worked,
And the harp-strings spoke;
Her voice never faltered,
And the thread never broke.
And when I awoke,–

There sat my mother
With the harp against her shoulder
Looking nineteen
And not a day older,

A smile about her lips,
And a light about her head,
And her hands in the harp-strings
Frozen dead.

And piled up beside her
And toppling to the skies,
Were the clothes of a king's son,
Just my size.

Despair - man's surrender. Laughter - God's redemption

I am nerdier than 87% of all people. Are you nerdier? Click here to find out!