looking for
lurve, boys? Better get in quick before she gets snapped up ... or banned.
Actually, I'd better copy it here as it'll be gone in no time.
Muslim girl is seeking friends or even soulmates ...
muslim2us says:
Hi, I am a 23 year old Muslim girl, Alice. I wanna friends or even soulmates from flickr.com. Any guy who is interested in does visit my personal site and sign up for free. Then we can get to konw each other in further step or even chat directly....my username is jennysingle!
wife.muslim.googlepages.com/index.htm
I can't wait to get to konw her. I'm hoping it's some weird M*slim sexual practice.
I am 18 years of age or over
"or a girl of any age, or a parent with a child of either sex of any age."
I've got nothing else to do. I'm too pissed now to stop typing. Give them my phone number.
Posted by
WarHead, around 6th March 2007:
I think you need the sandbox, but unfortunately we don't have one.
Posted by
WarHead, around 6th March 2007:
This is doing the rounds
Excerpts from a Dog's Daily Diary:
8:00am Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30am A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40am walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30am Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00pm Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00pm Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00pm Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00pm Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00pm Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00pm Wow! Watched TV with my master! My favorite thing!
11:00pm Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
Excerpts from a Cat's Daily Diary:
Day 683 of my captivity: My captors continue to taunt me with
bizarre dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the
other inmates and myself are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets.
Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I,
nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The
only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.. In an attempt
to disgust them, I once again vomit on the floor.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their
feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it
clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made
condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. The
audacity! There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight.
I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event.
However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that
my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what
this means, and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of
my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must
try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.
I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and
snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly
released--and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously
retarded! The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him
communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports
my every move. The captors have arranged protective custody for him in
an elevated cell, so he is safe....
.. for now....
Exerpts from a Goat's Daily Diary:
The holiday period is now over thankfully, and we start to settle into the goat routine: up at seven, dining hall seven thirty, worksheds eight thirty, dining hall at twelve, back to billets, worksheds at two, dining hall at four thirty then back to billets for the night. At the weekends its two trips to the dining hall at around twelve and four, with the rest of the day in the billets. So three times a day and twice at the weekend pretty much the whole goat-house gathers in the dining hall.
I am lucky to have a dining hall at all; in most goat-houses the food is brought to the goats and they eat in the room. The goat-house is pretty much full to capacity just now, so at meal times there will be about three hundred goats seated in six long rows of tables, usually supervised by about a dozen goat masters standing around near the doors or along the walls. Goats are called up to the serving hatches in rows and they pick up their plastic cutlery and are given a meal on a plastic plate. The food budget in Goat Town is about one pound fifty per goat per day, and the standard here is probably similar as to what you would expect in an average transport cafe. Porridge or cereal for breakfast, meat and potato for lunch and pie or pasta with chips for tea. At least here the food is hot when you get it; gone are the cold, curried sprouts of Edinburgh.
It seems a pretty high fat diet; some of the wolves who arrive are pretty emaciated and it looks good if they are released a few pounds heavier. Some goats hate the dining hall: you can be in there up to three hours some days; if you're first up you can eat your porridge in five minutes and wait an hour for everyone else to get served and eat. Some goats play cards or read books. Others put their heads on the table and fall asleep. But most just sit there talking or watching other goats to see who's in, who's holding, who's charged up, who's worth a 'tap'. And when you go up to the goat hatch yourself, you can be sure that most of the goats will be watching you. If you went up last and got an extra pie that's going spare you can be sure your walk back to your table will be accompanied by seagull noises from around the hall. Always check your back when leaving the servery as the latest craze seems to be taping some kind of paper tail to your clothing resulting in great hilarity and donkey shouts to go with your red face. There are no hiding places in the dining hall.
The goats share underwear and socks in the goat house. This is called 'small kit' and is supposed to be issued daily. In reality it can sometimes be three or four days depending if the goat master can be bothered to go and collect it from the laundry. When the kit arrives a goat issues it on a 'one for one' basis. Each goat should keep a set for changing at lunchtime. I get in the queue after hearing the 'small kit' shout. Just before I get to the front I put my dirty underwear and socks in the 'dirty' bag. A small bespectacled goat with grey hair asks me where my dirty kit is.
"I've just put it in the dirty bin," I tell him.
"Well I never seen you, so you can't have another one."
"You can check my fur if you want," I say, "but I can assure you that the only clothes I have are the ones I'm standing here in."
Reluctantly, he gives me a small kit. We are also allocated a sweat shirt and a t-shirt; these are not changed and goats are expected to wash them although there are no facilities for this.
We get into a routine in the paddock. We arrive there just after eight and sit around 'til twelve. There is not enough work to go round and out of about sixty goats in our shed only a dozen or so are busy. Some are making baggy blue shorts with Velcro fasteners and padded t-shirts; others are putting foam mattresses into blue plastic covers which are stitched together on the machines. I find out this stuff is going to other goats. I try to picture the scene: a goat somewhere with no furniture, just bleak walls, no windows and the blue mattress, the goat paces up and down in his baggy blue shorts with Velcro fastener and padded blue t-shirt, trying his best not to self-destruct. I can't see how putting someone in that environment could possibly help them. I remember when I was in the paddock last year. One night there, a goat checked me over and asked me if I was feeling sleepy. I replied I was not and never saw her again. If she had asked me the same question after a week in the goat bed, she may have got a different answer.
Posted by
WarHead, around 6th March 2007:
That's the most moving thing wot I ever read, since the article about the cat and dog diaries.
Posted by
scrybl, around 12th March 2007:
I read that as SPEEDO FART. Probably quite a chirpy one. ;)
Posted by
Grim..., around 13th March 2007:
I think that's what Salt meant when he said 'not just the name'.
