The thing is, the logical conclusion of Keynesian policy is that it's ultimately impossible to know when there are "good times." Thus, the constant overspending by the government is a logical conclusion of Keynesianism because central planners will never get their predictions right. - vagabondvet
I went to an astrologer once to "get a reading" (before you judge, it was a friend and I was curious). On a few points in the interview, I asked questions that were apparently a little too specific. She shuffled around her half-crumpled papers with scribbles and symbols and would eventually point at one random spot in the gibberish and proclaim "Ah! Here we go. As you can see, this calculation here indicates that ______."
I'm embarrassed to say that I actually knew a thing or two about how the calculations were done and gently inquired about why she was pointing at things that clearly had no relevance to what she was saying they did. At one point she rotated the paper 90° and started talking about "seeing through the numbers" and then defensively reminded me of how long she'd been doing it and her "results."
Our overlords can see through the numbers. It's best to just take their word for it and go about your business.
Oh dear lord, I hate to interrupt the normal flow of news here but I am getting a report that it is confirmed that Michael Bolton, is indeed voted off Dancing with the Stars. This is a sad day for Bolton fans all over the world as they had high hopes and aspirations of his success in winning and eventually ruling the world. (93,168)
Sue was walking down a busy street to the copy shop because she needed to print, collate, and bind a presentation. Her shoes were new and caused her pinky toe, whose nail was wonky and hard to trim well, to rub against its neighbor in such a way that Sue was sure that there must be a ragged wound there that matched the scraping pain.
She was also feeling a fairly sharp sting of regret that she'd not had some breakfast before setting out. In her mind, the copy shop was only a few minutes away by foot, but in reality, it was more like a few blocks, and she was starting to get famished. The only cafe on this strip, The Naughty Bean, had closed its doors last month -- leaving only faux-European clothing boutiques and about seven ratball Chinese joints. Sue loved Chinese food, but not at eight in the morning -- and not from places about which the paper had published unflattering Health Department reviews. So it was with a foul and shouty mood that she clicked down the street.
Then, she heard three loud sounds that could have been gunshots. She instinctively wheeled around in the direction from which they'd come to see a kerfuffle in progress far at the other end of the block. People screamed and there was a lot of commotion, but Sue could not see any detail. She turned back around and went hurriedly on her way, the rogue toenail slicing painfully with each step.
The shots had come from the short black gun of the man who only hours before had bought some Doritos from the Circle K just outside town. He had hoped to be five hundred miles away by now, but when he'd called to check in, they told him that there was something additional that was ready for pickup in the city and would he please go back and grab it? A moment after he'd fired, he wondered if this had been a setup or if the cop had legitimately recognized him from some other jurisdiction in an unhappy coincidence. In any case, the cop was dead now and the man had a hole in the right handwarmer pocket of his leather jacket.
Also dead was an old man with a pointy beard who looked like the classic stereotype of a shrink, three-piece suit and all. It had been his fortune to be standing behind the collapsing cop as the man fired his second shot from the gun still concealed in his pocket, after his first had hit the cop smack in the neck. Nearly dead was a young woman with beautiful teeth whose femoral artery had been severed by the ricochet of the cop's bullet. That bullet had been fired after the man refused to be arrested and instead of putting his hands behind his head, dropped to his knees and shot at the cop. He had a pack of cigarettes in the same pocket as the gun, which made it hard to effectively grip the weapon quickly. The cop got his hollowpoint off first, but it missed the man and hit the pavement before deflecting onto a streetlight post and finally, in its new, disclike squished form, coming to rest in the leg of the young woman, whose name was Alexandra.
The chaos created by this scene was considerable, and in a blink half the block was rushing this way or that, yelping. The man was vexed. His black Buick, with the 2-methyl glycidate in the trunk, was less than three yards from where he knelt and its parking meter was only paid for an hour. But he knew that more cops were probably mere seconds away, and if his license number was noted, the whole thing was doomed. Likewise, it was only a matter of time before someone in this crowd of ticks either attempted to heroically subdue the man.
The man decided to run now and try to sneak back later to pick up the car. He bolted horselike through the crowd into the restaurant above which was the office where he had been supposed to pick up the additional cargo. He wasn't interested in investigating the setup right now, though -- he trampled over the bohemian waitstaff, rammed through the kitchen door where he encountered some aggressive line cooks, elbowed and kneed his way past these cooks nearly losing his shades in the process, and out through the rear delivery door into the alley.
Now, the man's immediate problem was to get his appearance changed so that he wouldn't arouse suspicion when he returned to claim the car. He continued sprinting down the alley as sirens blared up the street.
Archer Postwit was headed to his nine-o'clock meeting in a sharp khaki suit, two blocks away from where the man had killed the cop. Postwit had heard the shots and ducked, but being unable to see anything, just continued on his way. (93,606)
I recently had the good fortune/misfortune of watching the very end of one of Criss Angel's shows on the A&E. Right before the credits Mr. Angel came on the screen and told me to go to the A&E website to discuss what I had seen on his show. He apparently did not know even with his magical powers that I had not actually viewed the episode being discussed, but I continued unabated by reality onto the interwebs. There I found a crazy lady who is obsessed with Criss. Here is one of her 1300 posts on the A&E website, and my response. Also a link to prove that A&E really has to deal with me (ebasher's note: I made my friend create the login on the A&E website because it was on her computer and I did not have a funny enough picture of me availible).
Her Post: Criss kissed me in a dream
I had a crazy dream last night...And it was so funny..Wanted to share it with you guys.
It started like this...I was on vacation at the Luxor..By swimming pool...And Criss walks by with all these women (7 women) in bikini's...He comes to me and ask me to be a part of his trick he is filming for this episode...I was like ok sure...Yay! So I follow everyone....LOL Everyone then walked by these stairs and the women lined up on different stairs to take a picture for the episode...They were in white bikinis with blue trim...And then I looked down and there was this table in front of the stairs...And Criss told me to go lay on the table....I said what are you going to do to me...Cut me in half? He said no...So I went to lay on this table...And Criss bent over the table and came close up in my face and told me to close my eyes...My eyes were closed and they were filming this....He moved his hand over my face and I could feel this warm heat and I could smell washing powder..A clean freash smell...LOL and then I could feel Criss kiss me....Then Criss said open your eyes...I opened my eyes and there were 3 different men standing around me...None of them were Criss...I was like ewwwwwwwwww you kissed me! No way! I thought Criss kissed me! and they said...No one kissed you...I said yes they did...I could feel it...They said you think you were kissed and Criss Angel hypnotized you...And then I looked to the right and Criss Angel smiled and walked away....I got up off the table and walked away and was like wow! Then I woke up... And then I was like WILD DREAM! Wish it was real because whoever kissed me last night...That was sweet! Funny dream..I was tricked into thinking I stole a kiss!
The end...That's it...
You had a dream, and it was good.
They say dreams are a window into our inner subconscious, now I'm no psychologist, but I have had a few dreams in my life (none of which involved Mr. Angel, though many were magical) and so feel experienced enough in the ways of the sleeping mind to discuss your dream you have shared with the world via this website.
1. Confused Sexuality: I couldn't help but notice the attention paid to detail with regards to the skimpy garments adorned by the other women in your dream, and in contrast the lack of any fashion notes for the dream men, including but not limited to Criss himself. Now, in addition to not being a psychologist, I am also not an internet psychic: I have no concrete way of determining your sexual orientation by just reading the text your fingers have typed into the internet tubes, but based on the bikinis I'm thinking you could be the proud owner of some flannel sided Doc Martins. That or your subconscious is a lesbian.
2. The Mystery of Sex: That is not to say that I am judging you whether or not your are or are considering becoming interested in the poonany, sex is a mystery to all of us, one that we unravel and hopefully come to master during the course of our lives. Anybody who tells you they haven't at least considered playing for their own team is either lying outright, completely unrealistic as a person, or waiting for that certain special somebody to expand their dirty horizons. Maybe this dream is an outcry from your subconscious begging you to consider alternate methods of sexual satisfaction, Criss clearly has not finished what he started, unless you are one of the lucky few who can get off on just a kiss.
3. Date Rape is No Laughing Matter: This leads me to a more serious avenue of discussion, they say that dreams are the art of the mind, and that true art holds a mirror up to nature. In your recount of your dream you mention that when you are kissed your eyes were closed, and also that the whole thing occurred under hypnosis. Now I'm not a chemist, but they tell me that chloroform smells sweet until you hit the floor. I am however a drinker and have come into contact with a liquor by the name of Hypnotic that I know firsthand will get you drunk. Let's say that the night before said dream you were at your favorite local bar and a guy bought you a drink of this liquor, you notice as he's sliding it over to you that he dropped something into the glass. If it don't fizz, it ain't Alkaseltzer. Make him drink some of it before you do and if he refuses mace his face off right in front of his friends! That'll show the pervert for buying you overpriced vanity liquor.
4. Abandonment Issues: Everybody has issues, some are funny eg: people that are afraid of clowns, and others are funnier still eg: clowns that are afraid of children, but every once in a while somebody will have an issue that is not in fact funny, but rather serious. Super serious. Everybody needs somebody sometimes, and when that somebody is nowhere to be found, everybody has issues. The part of your dream where Criss walks away after supposedly kissing you speaks to a deeper feeling of insecurity both with yourself and with others. Just remember, even if Criss Angel wants to hit it and quit it, there will always be other lovers both near and far. You'd be surprised the lengths people will go to for some nookie. Even in your dream there were other men available, though they preferred to watch rather than participate. Voyeurs are people too, but they would rather you didn't know that they exist.
5. Welcome to the Internet: In summation, you had a crazy dream and shared it with the world. Kudos. Just remember, you might be a lesbian or at least a little bicurious, but no matter what they tell you to drink, they're just gonna leave you once they bust a nut/uterus. Also........................... eat it I used more periods than you. Welcome to menopause.
The law, signed last week by President Obama, exempts the SEC from disclosing records or information derived from "surveillance, risk assessments, or other regulatory and oversight activities." Given that the SEC is a regulatory body, the provision covers almost every action by the agency, lawyers say. Congress and federal agencies can request information, but the public cannot.
Travel back with me if you will to a glorious time a year of greatness the taxes were low the drugs were good and the woman didn't give ya AIDS even if you put it in their butt. Surely the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and eighty six was a year to best all years besides for 1985 which really was a kickass year in and of itself. Just ask William Gibson. Also I been shat out my mams hairy vagina that year so in a sense 1985 really was the crest of the wave as far as I'm concerned. But 1986 did had its moments, one of which will go down in history because Urotsukidoji was released that year. The Man. The Legend. Toshio Maeda brought forth from his genius fuzzy Nipponese head a great work of time, much less great than Berserk but nonetheless a gift from that place where myth and story meet and are swimming together gloriously in the vaultless seas of creativity. Overcoming great adversity, Maeda struggled against insurmountable oppression to bring us the promethean Legend of the Overfiend. For what does a man of Japan love in life more than porn? Hah! Mount Fuji of course but even Hokusai himself was a fond fondler of octopus tentacley vaginas. Alas Maeda the Mighty was the genius who singlehandedly dared to defy the loathesome and vile censorship laws of Nippon. A man who saw a great mischief and decided to take a stand! This is what makes Urotsukidoji one of the greatest love stories ever told for the tale itself is a labor of love from the start. Maeda truly understands and loves womans as attested by the fact that the constant fucking of them by grotesque demons and monsterously muscular beasts is exactly what every woman wants and yearns for after they grow out of the unicorn phase. The genie in Disney's Aladdin will attest to the fact that Ten Thousand years will give ya such a crick in the neck but it only took the Overfiend 3,000 years of slumber before his semen became caustic enough to spontaneously combust the naughty night shift nurse! Indeed many life lessons can be had by paying close careful attention to Urotsukidoji, firstly that if you ever get destroyed in a battle you can always fuck the life force away from your wifes nymphettes in hell with your double pronged snake penis and in doing so get yourself a real badass spider demon body. Secondly that ferris wheels is great places to fuck the shit out of womens, the heightness of it coupled with the circular motion really wets the panties like nothing else. Probably the best take home message of the entire series would be that if there is one thing closer than a boy and his dog in this life it is probably the Overfiend and his demon womb. Like the great Shiva-Destroyer of olde Hindy Lore the Overfiend is capable of great destruction yet not entirely without a heart for you see instead of destroying all of creation as originally intended, the Overfiend pulled a Grinch and what with his heart growing three whole sizes in one day decided to remake the world and stop blowing shit up with his multiple headed tree trunk dick that ejaculates fucking lazer beams. Fucking lazer beams from out his dickholes. PewPewPew! Fuck you Japan I love you so much. Probably it is pretty important to consider that Nazi's can summon devils too, I bet you anything they done pulled a King Solomon them Nazis and had the demons to building their ovens with what to roast the Jews in. Without a doubt Akemi Ito is the luckiest little whore in Tokyo and that Overfiend bakin away in her womb is proof of that. But don't take my word for it, just ask Levar Burton the next time you get a chance. (107,000)
Hank: what is hate? Cpt. F: that's just how it do Cpt. F: That reminds me of the old stileproject game "JUNGLE COCK" Cpt. F: it was an RPG where you had tons of items, but the answer to every situation was to use the jungle cock Cpt. F: "the door is locked, what it do?" Hank: hahahar Cpt. F: "use key or JUNGLE COCK" Hank: JUNGLE COCK Hank: the old internets sucked yet ruled Cpt. F: aye Hank: new internets are 99.999999999999999999999997% gay Cpt. F: yeah but a frilllion times bigger Cpt. F: and scary too Cpt. F: I refuse to go to /b/ anymoar as I'm afraid of law enfoarcement Hank: you fool, you aren't going to get busted for lurking /b/ Hank: myhate, hatebook, ***tube, whoresquare -- all this ego bullshit that is not fun Cpt. F: you foargot twitter Cpt. F: hippo(crite) Hank: twitter is email Cpt. F: o'rly? Hank: really Cpt. F: shall I consult some of my fellow twats? Hank: please do Cpt. F: "laurenhorn Super Coffee is cash only Note to self: Start carrying real monies!" Cpt. F: FASCINATING Hank: it's as if she sent it just to you! Hank: hahahahhaar u follow hr0n Cpt. F: "pennjillette I just got back to the hotel after the Hammersmith Apollo show. It went well, great audiences. TV breakfast show tomorrow - up at 6:30" AM Cpt. F: HOW INFOARMATIVE Hank: CHUT UP Hank: those people are doing it wrong Hank: @Stalkzilla : U are gonna get buzted foar creeping on hr0n before /b/ gets you into trouble Hank: ^^ doing it rite Cpt. F: o ok Cpt. F: wtf du u mean? she has 900 followers Cpt. F: she's not gonna notice Cpt. F: besides, I never read this shit, I forgot I even had her on here Hank: that was a jolk Hank: I'm demonstrating how to do it right Cpt. F: right, I got that Cpt. F: your strawman had a point though. the fucker Hank: hahar Cpt. F: POINT BEING: twitter = gay Hank: you freak, twitter is like gold underpants Hank: it's only gay if YOU are Cpt. F: haha (98,840)
A man stood naked in the sands, his skin badly damaged from the sun. He looked up at woman in a long dress standing above him on a dune. Her headscarf was undone and her long hair whipped about her face.
“I never thought you’d take it this far!” he called with failing breath over the gritty winds.
She said nothing. Behind her eyes burned a hot hate.
She lifted up the shovel on which her right hand had rested and threw it at the man. It landed at his side, the blade grazing his ankle painfully.
The man looked up at the woman again, this time with a plaintive expression of agony.
“I won’t dig my own grave!” he said with a disbelieving near-sob.
She said nothing. Her stare was total and unblinking,
For six interminable minutes this strange confrontation continued. The man could feel the flesh on his face burn and crack as the brutish sun worked its slow carnage. His lips were like shredded coconut, flaked and white. His neck stung as if welted by a rope. His eyes itched.
Still the woman was silent. But inside him, the man began to feel the terrible fist of her wrath. His gut clenched and twisted with violence, causing him to fall to his knees and heave. In between spasms, the man saw a large desert spider the color of bone scuttle a few feet in front of him and then quickly plunge into the sand, totally covering itself in seconds. The man struggled to his feet. A sensation like boiling lead began in his gut and traveled up his torso, moving into his chest and into his throat.
His legs felt hurt and heavy. Again he fell. The woman was unchanged.
Through dry tears the man prayed for deliverance. But the sun was still there, and the woman did not move or say a thing. She stood still.
The will within him was desiccated and broke to dust like an ancient dried flower. He looked up once more and cried “No!”
His hands rebelled. The left one reached for the shovel. He tried so hard to hold it back, but his right hand colluded with the left and soon they were both gripping the blistering metal. His arms pushed him back to his feet again, using the shovel for balance. Leaning on the shovel like that, he already had the first spadeful of sand. Oh, how he fought with the little strength left in his bones. But his arms were determined to lift that sand aside and his muscle fibers ripped as he gritted his teeth in resistance. At last he could no more. Crying sorrowfully, he tossed the first shovelful to his left and stuck the blade into the infinite grains.
The woman remained silent, doing nothing.
For four hours the man dug in the unruly sands. The winds mocked his effort, filling in half of what he took out. The sand’s angle of repose made a crater much larger than the depression dug by the man as he continually shoveled out what had been filled in.
After the second hour the man could not stand, and dug while on his knees. Finally, the man stopped. He knelt in a pockmark in the desert, about two and a half feet deep, and five or so feet around, surrounded by a slanting shield of sand.
The man was utterly empty. With eyes vacant save for a dying spark of accusation, he looked up at the woman. She stood there still, her gaze unabated.
The man then capsized and lay without moving. The burning winds picked up, bringing with them thick sand and dust. The gusts lasted for fifteen minutes, then became calm. They had erased the work of the man and obscured him within it.
The woman stood unchanged except for an imperceptible smile that warped the corner of her lips.
"We are a group of professionals. We treat each other with respect and we have a great working relationship. Personal relationships are not ... an issue," said a serious-faced NASA Commander Alan Poindexter. "We don't have them and we won't."