General Calculus.

I heard it was the head of ROTC, Colonel Angus.

The other day during lunch-hour I saw Camille Claudel and he was like: “Whatup!”

And I was like: “Dude!”

And he was like: “Check it, I finally got Ghost to go out with me. And I’m tellin ya that it ain’t no coincidence the second and third letters of that nic spells HO! Let’s just say that I got from a to z on the first date yo!”

And I was like: “Nice! Talk about givin up the Ghost.”

And he was like: “Word.”

And I was like: “You are a badass…in a white Canadian guy with a girl’s name sort of way.”

Then he was like: “But you can’t tell anyone I told you, okay?”

And I was like: “Don’t worry dog, if I do tell anyone I’ll say that I found out through an email from LaurieAnn or catnapping.”

And he was like: “Cool! Peace out Eggs.”

he would be the area beneath your curves.

It was in Reno, not Dallas.

Jac

greeneggsnham:

The other day during lunch-hour I saw Camille Claudel and he was like: “Whatup!”

And I was like: “Dude!”

And he was like: “Check it, I finally got Ghost to go out with me. And I’m tellin ya that it ain’t no coincidence the second and third letters of that nic spells HO! Let’s just say that I got from a to z on the first date yo!”

And I was like: “Nice! Talk about givin up the Ghost.”

And he was like: “Word.”

And I was like: “You are a badass…in a white Canadian guy with a girl’s name sort of way.”

Then he was like: “But you can’t tell anyone I told you, okay?”

And I was like: “Don’t worry dog, if I do tell anyone I’ll say that I found out through an email from LaurieAnn or catnapping.”

And he was like: “Cool! Peace out Eggs.”

Love it!

She was like, "Cool, dude,funny shit!"

;-)

Thanks for everything,

Julie Newmar

"Dear [insert name of ICPer]:

Please check your e-mail! Love,

[insert name of ICPer]"

Never signed anyone's yearbook then, so it'd be a dishonor to all of my classmates to sign a virtual one now. I mean, if I did, you know, sign anyone's, I don't remember anyway.

I'm shaken at my misjudgement. I pride myself in gauging the mood here and then serving up the grits. It all seemed so promising at first. What went wrong?

Let's examine:

1. A first reply by Jack Dallas is a guaranteed thread killer.

2. I underestimated how shy everyone is here.

3. Lots of posters were drunk and busy changing their urine-soaked sheets.

if only for greeneggsnham's two responses.

It was a fine idea. I think everyone got too caught up in the spirit National Attack Fellow Posters Day & forgot to make good quality posts.

I didn't post anything because I couldn't think of anything clever.

I do like your option 3, that very well could be the case, considering how everyone is at everyone else's throats.

....somewhere deep in the tropics.

Three men sit at a table next to an Olympic size swimming pool on a palatial estate dominated by an immense colonial style mansion. Behind the massive pool looms a dark and menacing jungle.

A cultured, well-maintained, Mediterranean looking man with dead eyes sits across from the two other men. One of the two is skinny, dressed in a white suit and a loud Hawaiian shirt, his nervous rat-like face covered with beads of sweat. The second has brutal features highlighted by a long pale scar that splits an eyebrow and runs down one cheek all the way to the man's jawline. This man burns with an animal vitality and raw ambition. His open-throated shirt collar reveals numerous gold chains offset by dense black chest hair.

All three men speak English with phony Spanish accents.

Tony: "...Si Señor Sosa, we gonna take care of it. We gonna move all the fuckin' yeyo jou wan' into the States."

Omar: "What the fuck Tony? Frank didn't okay this. We gotta clear this with Frank first."

Sosa: "Señor Suarez, my associates can take you to my private airport and Learjet. I can have you in Miami in a few hours so that you may secure Señor Frank Lopez' permission to continue our negotiations."

Omar is escorted into the mansion while Sosa and Tony remain seated. Several minutes later a helicopter flies past and Omar Suarez is thrown out of it. He has a rope looped around his neck in a noose, the other end of the rope is tied inside the 'copter. He dangles grotesquely under the helicopter until its pilot flies off into the distance with Omar's limp body in tow.

Tony: "You guys killed Omar cause he was a chivato, right? You probably recognized him as the informer who put Vito Duval and the Ramos brothers, Nello and Gino, away for life, correcto?"

Sosa: "Not really. He seemed like a pretty nice guy to me actually. But my associates have informed me that he spilled his mohito as he was climbing into the helicopter. I just hired a new pilot, Señor Michael, an American. As a condition of his employment he required me to have the seats inside the helicopter re-upholstered in the finest Corinthian leather. I said, 'What is wrong with the Naugahyde seats the 'copter presently has? I find them quite fetching Señor Michael.' But Señor Michael said, quite angrily I might add, 'Naugahyde!? Do you realize that Naugahyde sticks to your ass when it gets hot? Look around! We live in a frigging jungle! How do you expect me to effectively move your yeyo under such conditions?'"

Tony: "Yes, well, Naugahyde does tend to do that in my experience."

Sosa: "Exactamente Tony, I could not argue with Señor Michael's logic. So I sprang for the fine Corinthian leather seats. Apparently Señor Michael did not take kindly to Omar's failure to control his mohito and the effect such spillage had on his new seats. I like you Tony, there is no lying in you and I also note that you keep a firm grip on your appletini. I hope you will not replicate Omar's mistake."

Tony: "Let's get this straight right now Patrón! I never liked or trusted Omar! One time that piece of chit ate a bunch of Moon Pies in my Cadillac and I had to get the whole fucking interior detailed to get rid of the crumbs. And I always use a fucking coaster! Just ask anybody in Miami. Sometimes I even lay down plastic sheeting! You fucking tell that to Señor Mike!"

Sosa, chuckling softly: "Okay, okay. I think you speak from the heart Montana. Salut!"

The men clink glasses and continue their negotiations as they stare into the green hell of twisting vines behind Sosa's estate....

Totally.

That greeneggs ... and not forgetting ... the ham is a friggin new fangled genius. I didn't appreciate it before ... when I had to spit a few hacks at him ... but now I see it ... Mine eyes have been opened.

Note to self: You're liking them ellipses way too much. Cut that shit the fuck out.

....locked for posterity....