samiyam wrote: 
Actually I was admiring his applied theory of evolution...

 oldviolin wrote: 
I see you are trying to put down Dr. Seagull by dissin' one of his relatives.

 plaice3 wrote: 
Oh, I'm not so bad that I forget my secret weapons.

Well, it's nice to know you have a tender side.

 oldviolin wrote: 

 Manbird wrote: 
Cool!

 hippiechick wrote: 
Instead of this, why not just remain silent when your thoughts are in the gutter.

 hippiechick wrote: 
If I had 11 children, I would sell 3 of them to buy a stingray bike with a big slick tire and and ape hanger handlebars. 

 oldviolin wrote: 
If I had 11 children, mine would prolly be blue too!!!

 hippiechick wrote: 
Depends on where your mind is.
My Mama Dunn (Grandmother) was born in a crossroad community called West Philadelphia in rural Moore County, N.C. in 1900.
She raised 11 kids in the depression, 5 in the various theaters of WW2...each one coming home to her prayers.
She grew massive gardens, canned, butchered, sewed, manufactured her own soap.
When I was a boy I would stay with her and she would send me to the store and always pull out her little blue coin purse with
her gentle, sweet manner.
Creepy for you is tender for me.

Ha!

 hippiechick wrote: 

 oldviolin wrote: 
Dude, that's a little creepy

Memories Of My Mama Dunn 1963

...continuing...

Dr. Heywood Floyd: You can tell your children of the day when everyone looked up and realized that they were only tenants of this world. We have been given a new lease and a warning from the landlord.

Clarence: <explaining> Your brother, Harry Bailey, broke through the ice and was drowned at the age of nine.
George Bailey: That's a lie! Harry Bailey went to war - he got the Congressional Medal of Honor, he saved the lives of every man on that transport.
Clarence: Every man on that transport died! Harry wasn't there to save them, because you weren't there to save Harry.
You've been given a great gift, George: A chance to see what the world would be like without you.

Antonius Block: Is it so terribly inconceivable to comprehend God with one's senses? Why does he hide in a cloud of half-promises and unseen miracles? How can we believe in the faithful when we lack faith? What will happen to us who want to believe, but can not? What about those who neither want to nor can believe? Why can't I kill God in me? Why does He live on in me in a humiliating way - despite my wanting to evict Him from my heart? Why is He, despite all, a mocking reality I can't be rid of?
Antonius Block: You drew black.
Death: Appropriate, don't you think?

The striking thing about the Precious Blood is the bond it establishes between love and suffering in our experience, a bond that has become so close that we have come to think of suffering accepted with joy as the most authentic sign of love with any depth at all.
But however measurable, there is much more life in music than mathematics or logic ever dreamed of.
Gabriel Marcel

Disiecti membra poetae
Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt -
Poeta nascitur, non fit
Probae esti in segetem sunt deteriorem datae fruges, tamen ipsae suaptae enitent

                Searchlight

The hamlet sleeps under November stars.
Only the page of numerate thought toils through
The darkness, shines on the table where, askew
And calm, the scholar's lamp burns bright and scars
The silence, sending through the slot, the bars
And angles of his window square, a true
Clean ray, a shaft of perfect light, its purview
Lonely and remote as the glow of Mars

             Fred Chappell

John Coffey: He kill them wi' their love. Wi' their love fo' each other. That's how it is, every day, all over the world.

Donnie: Why are you wearing that stupid bunny suit?
Frank: Why are you wearing that stupid man suit?

Nick: <slamming a bottle on the bar> That's it. Out you two pixies go - through the door, or out the window.

 Manbird wrote: 
"What has he got in his pocketses?"

 Latka wrote: 
Define Pooh-Poohed...

Princess Aurora
What Do These Eyes Know Now That We've Long Forgotten?


Early Morning Song
Nothing fairer than the light
On petals opening, gold and white,
To the morning, to the blue,
In a world of song and dew.

Nothing fairer than two eyes
That behold with shy surprise
The miracle that no man can stay —
Darkness turning into day.

Rachel Lyman Field