doubt I will be able to split the case tonight.

http://forums.pelicanparts.com/uploa...1388352846.jpg

I am going to drive my far superior Bullit Mustang to where you park you Ferrari and crap on your union made Chicago style pizza that is on the front seat.

I know I have some pics somewhere on this computer of Porsche parts, cats and every picture taken of me since I was born. I'll post them as soon as I find them....

Bicycle pictures too?!!

She said you were "cool with it" but I have contacted a release agent.
http://www.betterpaths.com/IMAGES/IM...-small.img.JPG

Seven...yup seven is my favorite number and red....red is my favorite color!!!! OH and I like boobies!!!! All kinds of boobies!!! Big or small I likes them all!!!! Now back to the "chest thread!!!"

The Cremation of Sam McGee
BY ROBERT W. SERVICE
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Of all the Louvin Bros, I like Charlie the best, but Ira was still pretty handy with an axe.

theres NOTHING BETTER THAN BEING REMEMBERED HERE!

Green Jello

8500 rpm@165 mph targa, execmalibu.

Please correct me if you are wrong.

Look it up yourself

In the words of Socrates, "I drank what?!?!?"

Just made a ton of banana pudding, it was must delicious.

It seemed like a good idea. I read about it on the internet.

The poster below me has a clear case of cranial-posterior interference.

I resemble that remark you poopyhead

Hold my beer and watch this...

Seriously?, a trip to the store for three small red potatoes and three cans of Progresso soup?
Can I get anything else while I am there? No,Okay.Hey I thought you went shopping yesterday.
Who put the oil cooler right there? Yeah that works, looks like some sort of burnt crust half baked
Eyetalian engineering.
It's in the junk drawer

One of our measuring cups was MISSING!

Thank heavens it's been found, smells a bit like transmission fluid, but then don't we all?

Just wash the measuring cup out with coolant and you'll be good to go

Have you heard of me now? I'm The Angry Hiker. I circumnavigated Heybrook Lookout bare-chested, with a rabid wolverine under each arm and socks that don't match, without food, or water, or sunscreen, or deet, or baby powder for my boys.


I traveled a thousand miles along the Highway of Death, on the wrong side of the road, with three flat tires and Bjork playing on the radio full blast, and arrived at the trailhead 3 hours late, in a pair of button-fly jeans four sizes too small, a sheet of high-grade sandpaper smothered with Ben-Gay stuffed into my shorts.


I put the wrong pass on my dashboard, slammed each of my fingers in the car door one-by-one, and hopped up the trail on one foot, backwards, an old refrigerator filled with 1936 Indian Head Nickels strapped to my back, #2 pencils jammed into my ears all the way up to the erasers, and a rusty cheese grater wedged in my plumber's crack.


I laughed at the pathetic warnings - Ha! Ha! - and scaled the sinister tower wearing a sombrero made of copper pennies, while swinging around a pair of 9-irons, taking the Lord's name in vain, cursing the Old Gods, drinking blood out of Oprah's skull, and slipping Mother Nature an improperly labelled tub of margarine.

I stood on the roof of the lookout without a safety harness and called down the lightning, but the lightning, like all things, feared me. So I dropped my pants and bared my ass at Baring, and gave Index the finger, and on the climb back down I got a really nasty splinter on my pinky toe, and it could've got infected but I didn't call SAR, and decided instead to call it a day before my whole hiking season spiralled down the toilet like a "Cease and Desist" order from Cormac McCarthy's attorney.


I drank 4 bottles of Everclear, hammered railroad spikes into my kneecaps, and glissaded back down the mountain over shards of broken glass, with your wife on my lap and your mother on speed dial, wearing a necklace of poodle ears and a tuxedo fashioned from the skin of your precious Barefoot Jake, because I am the Angry Hiker.

This is what I do.

I am the previous posts, even though I never read one, come from a dark unwashed place of bitterness, anger, envy, greed, immorality, lust, godlessness, a willful disregard for the law, and general wrong-headedness. Or not.


And if I ever read a post by a person named Skip, I will have to recommend some very creative psychotherapy involving a nail-gun and a hula skirt.

This is the last time I post in this thread

Can a Cool Collar really give a normally aspirated 911 the performance of a turbo? Do they really cost less than $3K?

Must be an AMC event....I think I see a Matador.....

This is basically the Stijn! thread minus the plot.

This is the stream of consciousness sheet that reminds me of the 60's......you should feel really relaxed after reading this thread.:)

Plot? WTF is that?

“Taken together the Internet reads like the grandest character-driven novel humanity has ever known. Not much plot though.”

― Victor LaValle

Buttplugs

no pears or shredded carrots? The Lutheran is weak in this one.

Announcer: Los Angeles. He walks again by night! Out of the fog. Into the smog (cough cough). Relentlessly. Ruthlessly (“I wonder where Ruth is”). Doggedly (dogs bark) Toward his weekly meeting with . . . the unknown. At 4th and Drucker he turns left, at Drucker and 4th he turns right, he crosses McArthur Park & walks into a great sandstone building! ("Oh my nose!") Groping for the door, he steps inside, and climbs the 13 steps to his office. He walks in. He’s ready for mystery. He’s ready for excitement. He’s ready for anything. He’s…

Nick Danger (picking up ringing phone): Nick Danger, third eye!

Phone Voice: Yes. I want to order a pizza to go, and no anchovies.

Note to self (for the third time):

Never drink coffee while reading the OT forum! :D

I know what you mean, all that was wrong was a corroded starter cable, but the weather kept me from fixing it.

“This lawn supervisor was out on a sprinkler maintenance job and he started working on a Findlay sprinkler head with a Langstrom 7″ gangly wrench.
Just then, this little apprentice leaned over and said, “You can’t work on a Findlay sprinkler head with a Langstrom 7″ wrench.” Well this infuriated the supervisor, so he went and got Volume 14 of the Kinsley manual, and he reads to him and says, “The Langstrom 7″ wrench can be used with the Findlay sprocket.” Just then, the little apprentice leaned over and said, “It says sprocket not socket!”

“Were these plumbers supposed to be reading this thread…?”