My Computer Swallowed Grandmother
kstahl
The computer swallowed grandma
Yes honestly it's true
She pressed *Control* and *Enter*
And disappeared from view
It devoured her completely
The thought just makes me squirm
She must have caught a virus
Or been eaten by a worm
I've searched through the recycle bin
And files of every kind
I've even used the Internet
But nothing did I find
In desperation I asked Jeeves
My search to refine
The reply from him was negative
Not a thing was found on-line
So if inside your inbox
My grandma you should see
Please *Copy**Scan* and *Paste* her
And send her back to me
John Y. Iselin
Post a picture of yourself.
kstahl
> I want to make you really puke, because I am a Kornholer...
> I'll post a picture of myself.
>
Instantly, like a foaming, turbid flood, his rage swept out toward
her. "It's all her fault," he thought, grinding his teeth. "She's a fool.
If she'd hold herself in like other girls! But no; she must smile and
smile at everybody." It was a beautiful picture, but it sent a shiver
through him.
He worked on with teeth set, white with rage. He had an impulse
that would ?have made him assault her with words as with a knife.
He was possessed with a terrible passion which was hitherto latent
in him, and which he now felt to be his worst self. But he was
powerless to exorcise it. His set teeth ached with the stress of his
muscular tension, and his eyes smarted with the strain.
He had always prided himself on being cool, calm, above these
absurd quarrels that his companions had so often indulged in. He
didn't suppose he could be so moved. As he worked on, his rage
settled down into a sort of stubborn bitterness-stubborn bitterness
of conflict between this evil nature and his usual self. It was the
instinct of possession, the organic feeling of proprietor-ship of a
woman, which rose to the surface and mastered him. He was not a
self-analyst, of course, being young, though he was more
introspective than the ordinary farmer.
He had a great deal of time to think it over as he worked on there,
pitching the heavy bundles, but still he did not get rid of the
miserable desire to punish Agnes; and when she came out, looking
very pretty in her straw hat, and came around near his stack, he
knew she came to see him, to have an explanation, a smile; and yet
he worked away with his hat pulled over his eyes, hardly noticing
her.
Ed went over to the edge of the stack and chatted with her; and
she-poor girl!-feeling Will's neglect, could only put a good face on
the matter, and show that she didn't mind it, by laughing back at
Ed.
All this Will saw, though he didn't appear to be looking. And when
Jim Wheelock-Dirty Jim-with his whip in his hand, came up and
playfully pretended to pour oil on her hair, and she laughingly
struck at him with a handful of straw, Will wouldn't have looked at
her if she had called him by name.
She looked so bright and charming in her snowy apron and her
boy's straw hat tipped jauntily over one pink ear that David and
Steve and Bill, and even Shep, found a way to get a word with her,
and the poor fellows in the high straw pile looked their
disappoimment and shook their forks in mock rage at the lucky
dogs on the ground. But Will worked on like a fiend, while the
dapples of light and shade fell on the bright face of the merry girl.
Hamlin Garland
Somebody
> John Y. Iselin wrote:
> > I want to make you really puke, because I am a Kornholer...
> > I'll post a picture of myself.
>
> Instantly, like a foaming, turbid flood, his rage swept out toward
> her. "It's all her fault," he thought, grinding his teeth. "She's a fool.
> If she'd hold herself in like other girls! But no; she must smile and
> smile at everybody." It was a beautiful picture, but it sent a shiver
> through him.
> ---snip, snip---
Its not quite as poetic but the following two poems were found on
a shitstall wall at Emory in the Fall of 1968 (Longstreet Hall,
top floor, east end bathroom, center stall):
He who writes on shithouse walls,
Rolls his shit in little balls,
And he who reads these words of wit,
Eats those little balls of shit.
And
Here I sit in hellish vapor,
The man before me left no paper,
My plane is waiting I can't linger,
Look out asshole here comes my finger.
Knowing the people who lived there at the time, these rhymes
could have only been written by one of two people. The source was
either a heavyset friend of mine who regularly lit his farts and
is now an attorney in PA or else it came from my gay roommate
who has disappeared from all record and may have been killed
in Vietnam. Look on the bright side - at least one good application
has been found for the things that you learn in English 101.
--
kstahl
Well, they may have written them on the walls, but those two "poems" (or
very close approximations) have been around for a long time. At the very
least they've been around since the 60's since that is when I first
became aware of them.
Somebody
This WAS during the '60s... 1968 to be specific, but you are probably right
since it is rather generic material that may have originated with some bored
caveman letting his turds fly into a nearby river.
--
kstahl
>This WAS during the '60s... 1968 to be specific, but you are probably right
>since it is rather generic material that may have originated with some bored
>caveman letting his turds fly into a nearby river.
>
>--
>
>
>
Yep. Right up there with "Here I sit, broken-hearted. Came to shit and
only farted". Standard fare for bathroom walls across America.
I wonder what other countries write in their bathroom graffiti?
kstahl
>They don't call me stupid for nothing.
>
>
>
23
Sparing indeed is nature of its talk:
The whirlwind will not last the morning out;
The cloudburst ends before the day is done.
What is it that behaves itself like this?
The earth and sky! And if it be that these
Cut short their speech, how much more yet should
man!
If you work by the Way,
You will be of the Way;
If you work through its virtue
you will be given the virtue;
Abandon either one
And both abandon you.
Gladly then the Way receives
Those who choose to walk in it;
Gladly too its power upholds
Those who choose to use it well;
Gladly will abandon greet
Those who to abandon drift.
Little faith is put in them
Whose faith is small.
John Y. Iselin
Al Melvin
A subject you know inside out, eh, kornholer
Rich Greenberg
kstahl <kts...@yahoo.com> wrote:
>Yep. Right up there with "Here I sit, broken-hearted. Came to shit and
>only farted". Standard fare for bathroom walls across America.
And its pay toilet version:
"Here I sit, broken-hearted. Paid to shit and only farted".
Do pay toilets still exist? Haven't seen one in ages.
--
Rich Greenberg Marietta, GA, USA richgr atsign panix.com + 1 770 321 6507
Eastern time. N6LRT I speak for myself & my dogs only. VM'er since CP-67
Canines:Val, Red & Shasta (RIP),Red, husky Owner:Chinook-L
Atlanta Siberian Husky Rescue. www.panix.com/~richgr/ Asst Owner:Sibernet-L
Al Melvin
kstahl
>A subject I know inside out since I am a well-known, kornholer
>
>
>
32
The Way eternal has no name.
A block of wood untooled, though small,
May still excel the world.
And if the king and nobles could
Retain its potency for good,
Then everything would freely give
Allegiance to their rule.
The earth and sky would then conspire
To bring the sweet dew down;
And evenly it would be given
To folk without constraining power.
Creatures came to be with order's birth,
And once they had appeared,
Came also knowledge of repose,
And with that was security.
In this world,
Compare those of the Way
To torrents that flow
Into river and sea.
--Tao Te Ching
kstahl
>In article <Sc-dnfC04Mw...@comcast.com>,
>kstahl <kts...@yahoo.com> wrote:
>
>
>
>>Yep. Right up there with "Here I sit, broken-hearted. Came to shit and
>>only farted". Standard fare for bathroom walls across America.
>>
>>
>
>And its pay toilet version:
>
>"Here I sit, broken-hearted. Paid to shit and only farted".
>
>Do pay toilets still exist? Haven't seen one in ages.
>
>
>
Some places in Europe. Perhaps in Canada. The last ones I saw in the
U.S. were at the railroad station in Chicago but that was back in 1970.