Litsters In History.

busybody said:

Breakwall

Very talented

You outa be a writer

Click to expand...

I could write a novel on you BB. It would be a big thick novel that for some reason always leaned to the right....

I wish you would.....Outa be funny.

You mean right of Jesse Helms/Trent Lott? Those commie lovers?

I admire your wit and writing skills.

breakwall, this is amazing. i didnt know you had it in you! youre a genius.

apexpark said:

breakwall, this is amazing. i didnt know you had it in you! youre a genius.

Click to expand...

DITTO

busybody said:

I wish you would.....Outa be funny.

You mean right of Jesse Helms/Trent Lott? Those commie lovers?

I admire your wit and writing skills.

Click to expand...

Thanks.

I thought Jesse HATED commies. Didn't he want the US to nuke Cuba?
I know he blasted Canadians for bringing back all those great cigars.
And then Buchanan called us Canuckistahn (I loved that, I want to get a t-shirt with, instead of a hammer and sycle, a hockey stick and a curling broom).

breakwall said:

Thanks.

I thought Jesse HATED commies. Didn't he want the US to nuke Cuba?
I know he blasted Canadians for bringing back all those great cigars.
And then Buchanan called us Canuckistahn (I loved that, I want to get a t-shirt with, instead of a hammer and sycle, a hockey stick and a curling broom).

Click to expand...

I was being sarcastic you know, showing how right wingers were really lefties compared to me

Ironically, I dont consider myself a righty, rather a free thinker on issues.

busybody said:

I was being sarcastic you know, showing how right wingers were really lefties compared to me

Ironically, I dont consider myself a righty, rather a free thinker on issues.

Click to expand...

Up here you'd be considered a fascist.
Of course, we let our fascists run for political office, so you could probably make a bit of cash...

where do i fall in the history books?

honeylick said:

where do i fall in the history books?

Click to expand...

Between the pages that stick together, gorgeous

breakwall said:

Up here you'd be considered a fascist.
Of course, we let our fascists run for political office, so you could probably make a bit of cash...

Click to expand...

Please do me

gently

History...is not pretty.

Busybody: Rural Arkansas, 1946.

Busybody awoke to hear footsteps coming up the drive towards his tarpaper shack. He listened as his old snot hound Gravy horked and coughed up a bark. Busybody wished that he hadn't tied up the old dog up
with extension cord the night before. Gravy was slow to anger, but a mess if he got his muzzle against your pants.
There came a knock on the door. Busybody rolled off his mattress and stumbled to the door. He grabbed the squirrel gun leaning against the oil drum and opened up the rickety barnboard door. On the other side
stood a darkie, well, maybe not a darkie, but one of them Araby guys he'd heard about. He was wearing a long shirt and cotton pants, like pajamas, and he wore sandals.
"Salaam Alleykum, sir," the man said and bowed his head slightly, "My name is Ali Barakh."
"Whatchoo want?" Busybody sneered, raising the squirrel gun.
"Pardon me sir, I only want to share with you the wonderful world of Islam. Have you accepted Muhammed, peace be upon him, as the one and only prophet?"
"What in blazes are you yakkin' about?" Busybody asked.
"I'm talking about the gracious light of Allah, and the freedom you feel when you surrender yourself to him completely."
"You best better git, or it'll my gun here that does the talkin'."
"Ah, I fear not death, for a martyrdom in the service of Allah ensures me a place in the hereafter with seven virgins as my consorts."
"I'll send you to the here...what's that 'bout the virgins?" Busybody let the barrel of the gun droop a bit.
"Ah, I see I have piqued your interest. A glorious death in the name of Allah promises the reward of a harem of beauties. I indeed hope so, as my luck in this life has been less than successful."
Busybody chuckled, "Well, preach on brother, now you're talking my kind of Bible."
"Are you a virgin too?" Ali asked.
"Nah, I got the Widow Rogers down in the valley. She's 80 and in a wheelchair, but she's spry for her age." Busybody leaned forward a bit and whispered, "If'n you're ever having relations in a wheelchair, make sure the brake is on. Seriously, I can show you the scars if you wants to see."
"No, no that's quite alright," Ali coughed politely. "Well, seeing that you are both unmarried...perhaps it's not so terrible..."
"So tell me more about the virgins..."
"Well, we Muslims are not just about virgins and pleasures of the flesh."
"Mooslems, I heard about you guys." Busybody narrowed his eyes, "Y'all are in cahoots with the Jews ain'tcha?"
"Oh, my no. In fact we aren't on very good terms with the Jews lately. There have been some disagreements over our Holy Sites. We have heard that the new League of Nations or whatever they have called themselves now, may grant the Jews their own homeland. We hope this is so. I have heard they are sending them to live in northern Canada. Apparently there is a lot of unused land up there. Once they have a land of their own, they can stop pestering the Palestinians and there will be peace in the Middle East at last."
"Well," sneered Busybody, "since the boys overseas are coming home yakking about the holy-cause or whatever they call it, you can't say boo about the Jews no more."
"Well, in my faith, all who do not follow Allah and accept Muhammed as the prophet are blasphemers and infidels."
"Well, I'm having problems with my own church these days," said Busybody. "It's all 'turn the other cheek' and 'let he who is without sin cast the first stone' and 'judge not lest ye be judged'. I just think they're turnin' into a bunch of panty-waists."
"In Islam we believe that we are Allah's representatives here on Earth," said Ali, "and it is His will to have us carry out justice. If you shoplift, you lose a hand, if you rape, the consequences are most dire. If you take a life, you lose your own. Justice is proportional to the crime."
"Sheesh, it's a good thing the radio is free," said Busybody. "I can only imagine what you'd lose if you listened to stolen music."
"The Prophet Muhammed, peace be upon him, prophesized something about the 'riaa' and stolen music, but it is obscure and undecipherable."
"Well, I like what I'm hearing so far. Whyn'tchoo come on in and have a beer?"
"Thank you," said Ali, entering the cramped hut. "But Muslims are not permitted alcohol."
"No alcohol?" Busybody looked balefully at his jugs of corn-squeezings and half-empty mason jars.
"No, but I wouldn't worry. I have an excellent alternative. Do you have any knives?"
"Oh yeah, hunting knives, skinning knives, filleting knives..."
"Perhaps we will talk about that later."
"What about womenfolk in Izzam? I'm finding the women in my church are gettin' all uppity. I mean, now they all wanna go and get jobs and stuff, like they was real people!"
"In Islam, a woman knows that her place is behind her husband. She answers to him and obeys his authority."
"I like that. So, you're agin the Jews, a-fer capital punishment, agin alcohol, a-fer women stayin' at home, what else you got?"
"We read from the Qu'ran instead of the Bible. It is the word of Allah as given directly to the prophet." Ali leaned over and opened his copy of the book for Busybody to see.
"It ain't got no writing. Just this here squiggly stuff."
"Yes, it's in Arabic. It can only be understood in Arabic."
"But I don't read or understand that Harebit stuff."
"Don't worry, the priests will tell you what to believe. You listen to what they say and everything will be fine."
"Now it's starting to sound like my church."
"Well we are all a people of the book." Ali looked at his watch. "My friend I must go, but I will come back and speak more of this. I will leave you a religious tract to look at." He rose and bowed towards
Busybody. "Salaam Alleykum."
"Yeah," Busybody bowed stiffly back, "Salami on a coon to you too."

For that full Busybody effect, you need to post it 10 more times.

I was going to make them Cheyenne Indians, but ... it got too confusing so, it's Pawnee instead. Besides, Pawnee have cooler haircuts.

Cheyenne, Pawnee Village, Kansas Territory, 1780

Quietly the warriors gathered outside the tent. Cheyenne, the Storyteller sat within, the simple fire cast a huge, dancing silhouette on the stretched hide walls of her tipi. She sang softly as the wood crackled and popped, sending tiny stars of flame up on the thin smoke.

Finally, she stretched her hands upwards and arose.

She drew back the flap of her tipi and the warriors came inside. They were Pawnee Indians, a raiding tribe, and they were going over the hills before the dawn to make war on a group of Arapaho that had come near
their village. The Pawnee were not as nomadic as the other tribes and this gave them a stable base to launch raids against tribes that wandered near.

Cheyenne sat at the head of the circle, as she always did before the warriors went out. It was time to tell the stories. Cheyenne knew more stories than anyone, her memory was long and sharp. A warrior would
ask..."Tell me of the battle against Osage, when Red Bird slew the twenty braves." and Cheyenne would pause for a second, gather her thoughts and tell the story as if it had happened yesterday.

And tonight would be no different. She told stories of courage and valour, of great deeds done by great men. And long into the night did the warriors listen. Finally, they arose, each warrior, emboldened by
the spirits of their forefathers, and off they went into the gathering dawn, to create new stories for Cheyenne to tell.

Meanwhile, Cheyenne went down to the river to wash. There she met Ashnaya and Tatani, women from the village.
"Did you hear about Kishanka?" asked Tatani, "Her husband is mad because Kishanka's sister has to move in with them."
"Oh?" Cheyenne asked, "Is this the same sister who was caught a couple of years ago cheating around with that buffalo skinner from the river village?"
"I don't remember," said Tatani, "I think her name is Oba-something..."
"Obashan," said Cheyenne, "that's the one. Remember? She was caught when she came home and her husband found a skinning stone in her pouch. Apparently the river guy had snuck it in on purpose."
"Ooh, I forgot about that."
"How could you forget?" asked Cheyenne, "That was around the same time that Kishanka and her husband were going through all those problems because of her peyote addiction...here I'll post a link..."
"You'll what a what?" asked Ashnaya.

"I said...I'll....um...I have no idea..." said Cheyenne, her brow knitted in confusion.

These are really quite good Break. Please create one for me when you get the chance.
Oh and please don't make me Henry VIII.

Break

Your talent has no equal

That was extraordinary

Of course I thought I would blow awat

The ole mooslem at the end

but the salami in the coon

was genius!

Great read breakwall

Wrong Element's final moment in history: January 7, 1815

The sun slowly sinks into the Mississippi River as British Army Major General Edward Pakenham ponders the next morning's plan of attack against his nemesis, Andrew Jackson.

His men would lengthen the Villere Canal all the way to the Mississippi. This would be done so that fifteen hundred British troops could enter the river from the bayou, while shrouded in darkness and fog. These troops would overrun and take over American cannons on the west bank of the Mississippi, enabling them to attack the Americans with their own weapons.

While this happened, the bulk of Pakenham's army would assault the Americans' front line under the cover of the morning fog.

General Pakenham smirks as he looks across the river, imagining that his enemy is out there, shivering more from the fear of imminent defeat and death, than the cold. Pakenham knows that Jackson's men consist of mostly poorly armed volunteers and black slaves who had been commandeered from nearby plantations. They stand precious little chance of survival against the well trained forces of the British Army under Pakenham's command. With the help of British Colonel William Thornton, General John Lambert, and General John Keane, and a combined force of eleven thousand British troops, General Pakenham is sure Jackson's defenders will fall and New Orleans will be his that next day.

After a while, Pakenham retires to his tent, to a makeshift table. There, he picks up and looks admiringly at a document he had been sent here months ago with: the British Government's official recognition of Sir Edward Pakenham as the Governor of Louisiana...

I could have walked on the dead bodies of the British for one quarter of a mile without stepping on the ground. - William Lawrence, American militiaman.

breakwall said:

I was going to make them Cheyenne Indians, but ... it got too confusing so, it's Pawnee instead. Besides, Pawnee have cooler haircuts.

Cheyenne, Pawnee Village, Kansas Territory, 1780

Quietly the warriors gathered outside the tent. Cheyenne, the Storyteller sat within, the simple fire cast a huge, dancing silhouette on the stretched hide walls of her tipi. She sang softly as the wood crackled and popped, sending tiny stars of flame up on the thin smoke.

Finally, she stretched her hands upwards and arose.

She drew back the flap of her tipi and the warriors came inside. They were Pawnee Indians, a raiding tribe, and they were going over the hills before the dawn to make war on a group of Arapaho that had come near
their village. The Pawnee were not as nomadic as the other tribes and this gave them a stable base to launch raids against tribes that wandered near.

Cheyenne sat at the head of the circle, as she always did before the warriors went out. It was time to tell the stories. Cheyenne knew more stories than anyone, her memory was long and sharp. A warrior would
ask..."Tell me of the battle against Osage, when Red Bird slew the twenty braves." and Cheyenne would pause for a second, gather her thoughts and tell the story as if it had happened yesterday.

And tonight would be no different. She told stories of courage and valour, of great deeds done by great men. And long into the night did the warriors listen. Finally, they arose, each warrior, emboldened by
the spirits of their forefathers, and off they went into the gathering dawn, to create new stories for Cheyenne to tell.

Meanwhile, Cheyenne went down to the river to wash. There she met Ashnaya and Tatani, women from the village.
"Did you hear about Kishanka?" asked Tatani, "Her husband is mad because Kishanka's sister has to move in with them."
"Oh?" Cheyenne asked, "Is this the same sister who was caught a couple of years ago cheating around with that buffalo skinner from the river village?"
"I don't remember," said Tatani, "I think her name is Oba-something..."
"Obashan," said Cheyenne, "that's the one. Remember? She was caught when she came home and her husband found a skinning stone in her pouch. Apparently the river guy had snuck it in on purpose."
"Ooh, I forgot about that."
"How could you forget?" asked Cheyenne, "That was around the same time that Kishanka and her husband were going through all those problems because of her peyote addiction...here I'll post a link..."
"You'll what a what?" asked Ashnaya.

"I said...I'll....um...I have no idea..." said Cheyenne, her brow knitted in confusion.

Click to expand...

Very cool! Thank you for my place in history.

"How could you forget?" IS a typical question for me to ask.

Oscar Wilde:
Anybody can make history. Only a great man can write it.

just pet said:

Oscar Wilde:
Anybody can make history. Only a great man can write it.

Click to expand...

The aim of history is to assemble real facts and real speeches, to the end that lovers of knowledge may be instructed and persuaded. — Polybius: Histories, II, c. 100 B.C.

Encore! Encore!

Roswell, New Mexico - 1947

The Army company advanced slowly to surround the still smoldering alien ship that had crash landed the previous night on the mesa outside of the top secret Air Force base.

The platoon sergeant noticed that the aft hatch on the saucer shaped craft was slightly ajar. "Private JackAssJim!" he shouted to a cringing trooper in the rear of the company. "Get the hell up here..you're going in!" A low moan came from the ashen faced private. "I...I...can't!" he began to stammer. "Stow it, jackass" the sergeant snapped. With a sharp push, he propelled the cowardly soldier into the weird spacecraft.

After he had finished voiding his bladder in his uniform pants, Private JackAssJim dared to open a single eye. Glowing glyphs on the interior wall of the spacecraft spoke of an advanced intelligence far greater than any human had heretofore seen. Gathering his meager reserves of courage, he stumbled aimlessly about the darkened alien ship.

He stopped in amazement at the entrance to what had to be the cockpit of the strange craft. His eyes bulged and he had to fight the urge to flee in abject panic when he saw the alien. Fighting the rising bile in his throat, he realized that the mangled body of the inert outworlder posed no immediate threat. He stepped over the prone alien on the floor and looked down at it's slim green body. The creatures said nothing, but it's oversized eyes, racked with pain, seemed to beseech him for help. JackAssJim rolled the inert body of the alien onto its distended belly. Jim smiled wickedly when he saw the small anal opening at the base of the alien's spine.

"This will do just fine" he thought. "I may be shunned by all the girls in town and banned by both whorehouses near the base, but I doubt any of THOSE girls have anything as tight as this!" He unzipped his still sopping wet uniform trousers and pulled out his fully erect two inch penis. He knealt behind the alien....

.....and a sharp green spiked tendril shot out of the alien's body, catching a dumbfounded JackAssJim totally by surprise. It snaked up his left nostril and punctured his brain cavity. With a giant slorping sound, the alien sucked a stream of grey viscous goo that had moments before been JackAssJim's brain from his body. Another tendril shot out and entered his other nostril. The other intruder tendril began to pulse and pump a slightly glowing green syrup into the vacant cavity that until moments before had housed what little intelligence God had seen fit to bestow upon Jim.

When JackAssJim's head was filled to the brim with the green goo, the alien slowly, almost lovingly, removed both tendrils. The alien form shuddered once and then lay stilled forever.

Private JackAssJim, US Army, lurched to his feet, as if unfamiliar with his legs. He retraced his route back to the ship's aft exit, growing more confident with every step. Stepping out into the hot midday New Mexico sun, he stared at the gathered troops around him. "What's it like in there?" he heard. "What did you learn?" asked one soldier.

"I've learned everything there is to know" rasped JackAssJim. "You have no idea how much I know" he continued, his face taking on a slight greenish tinge...

DCL at The Dawn of Time

DCL: God?

GOD: Yeah?

DCL: I was just going over this work order you want filled...

GOD: Yeah?

DCL: On the first day you want me to create light, right?

GOD: Right.

DCL: But you don't want the sun created until the fourth day? Is that right?

GOD: Right.

DCL: You don't see the problem here?

GOD: You've been on my ass since Day One.

DCL: That's today.

GOD: Whatever.

DCL: Look, I just don't have faith in this project anymore, or your ability to run it.

GOD: You saying you don't believe in me?

DCL: That's exactly what I'm saying.

GOD: You have a better plan?

DCL: Yes, actually. It involves the explosion of a singularity of infinite density and...

GOD: Fine, fine, whatever. But I get credit.

DCL: For the first 14 billion years. After that I'm calling a press conference...

GOD: What's a "year"?

DCL: Jesus!

GOD: Who?

DCL: Nothing...

Islandman: Stratford-on-Avon 1583

O Morgie-O, Morgie-O, wherefore art thou Morgie-O?
Deny thy suitors and refuse yon cocks;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but mine whilst I am a-visiting,
And I'll no longer be a basketcase....
'Besmirching thy name in the Iso Blurt thread;--
only to repent in chagrin mere days later.
What's Mongamy? Tis not a hand, nor foot,
Nor tit, nor ass, nor any other naughty bit
With thee on thy coast, and me on mine own
Mine absence makes thine heart go wander..
Our love but grist from the Lit mill
My wheat to thine chaff