Pirate1974

Goey, If you find any pfal books for sale, let Mike know. I don't think he's ever read them.

I could not possibly care less if twi is recording what I write here. In fact, I think I'm going to start posting under my real name: Craig Martindale

Hey Mike, Were you ever really in the way? Did you ever really hear vp speak? Did you ever really take pfal? That whole "believe for it and you'll get it" stuff was pounded into our heads all the time with no restrictions on what you could believe for: a good parking space, a good grade on a test, a better job, winning the Powerball lottery. If your believing is strong enough... I remember hearing that the only thing you couldn't believe for was something that affected another person's free will, like believing for somebody to fall in love with you. "Believing is a law, just like the law of gravity." I wish I had a dollar for every time I heard that phrase.

Mike, Here's an index for you. Since this thread started on March 30th, all these posters have responded to it. Yanagisawa George Aar WordWolf vickles Stayed Too Long Steve! Golfie Shellon johniam LarryP2 Zixar GarthP2000 What The Hay karmicdebt excathedra nolongerlurking SlingShot diazbro mj412 Wayfer Not! Mandii Jesse Joe Rafael 1969 TheSongRemainsTheSame Paul M.Stanley CWF sirguessalot shazdancer MATILDA Mark Clarke SunshineRain wow 76-78 Goey Oakspear socks Jbarrax AdiosMiCorazon Charlie A la prochaine Mr. Hammeroni Lifted Up alfakat Steve Lortz Ginger Tea Cynic E.W. Bullinger dizzydog TheInvisibleDan DATWAY ljn698 bumpyrama def59 bowtwi Trefor Heywood rascal CoolWaters seaspray Hopefull Jonny Lingo laleo firebee lindyhopper Charlie krysilis Mark Sanguinetti ex10 Thomas Heller Plotinus chwester Jim Tom Strange lovematters wyteduv58 and me That's an amazing total of 74 different posters, some of whom seem to have registered just to respond to this thread. Guess how many of them said, "Right on, Mike!" "You da man!" "Keep on postin'" (Hint: You won't need more than one hand to count 'em.)

That's almost exactly what the limb leader of NC told us 30 years ago when we were warned not to see "The Exorcist" because it glorified the Catholic church. I ignored that advice like pretty much everything else I was warned about in "the world." It's just a story.

No, I can't take credit for it. They read it on one of the radio stations here a few years ago and I thought it was pretty good. It's on their website, but it doesn't give an author.

Here's to the fathers, who always begin, on the outside of children, but looking in. Such curious men snapping cameras like mad, recording the moment, they turn into "Dad." Here's to the fathers, who put in their time, who don't say to mother's that's your job, not mine. Who wipe chins and noses and never say "won't" who do with the diapers, what some fathers don't. Here's to the fathers who manage to stay when so many fathers are turning away. When so many run, leaving families to rot, here, then, a cheer, for those who do not. Here's to the fathers whose big money dreams, die in the corner while their baby screams. And yet without anger, dread or regrets, they comfort the child, hold it close to their chests. And as the child grows, they grow with it too, learning a depth, that they never knew. And soon they are older, their hair slightly gone, chasing two children around the front lawn. Or carpooling teams to Little League games, buying them hamburgers after it rains. They mend broken dolls and fix broken wheels, they cringe when their daughters, try their first pair of heels. They reach in their pockets, but never keep count, they pay dear for parenthood awful amounts They postpone their plans to sail across seas, instead they sing "Barney" and bandage skinned knees. Here's to the fathers who miss on promotions, who forego the bonus for birthday commotions. Who come home from work and a boss they don't like pull in the drive.... and run over a bike. Here's to the fathers who get off the phone, to hear their sons practice their new saxophone Who leave work to see their daughter's recital Here's to the heroes who work without title. For this is a world now full of neglect, with everyday stories of lives that are wrecked. Of fatherless children who take up with guns to kill other children of fatherless sons. Divorce shattered families, childhoods derailed, mothers still waiting for checks still unmailed You wonder what wrongs these souls ever did to make a grown man turn away from his kids. So here's to the fathers who won't compromise who see a light shining in their children's eyes And feel a rare glow as if from a gem and know that once someone saw this glow in them. For all the good boys they have raised in the world for all the examples they set for their girls For all the loved children whose stories they'll tell Here's to the father's that taught them so well. Happy Father's Day, Dad.

There was an article about this place in our paper yesterday. It's a heck of a marketing concept. Check out their website: Freedom Paradise

A drunk stumbles across a baptismal service one Sunday afternoon down by the river. He proceeds to walk down into the water and stand next to the preacher. The preacher turns and notices the old drunk and says, "Mister, are you ready to find Jesus?" The drunk looks back and says, "Yes, preacher, I sure am." The minister then dunks the fellow under the water and pulls him right back up. "Have you found Jesus?" the preacher asked. "No, I didn't!" said the drunk. The preacher then dunks him for quite a bit longer, brings him up and says, "Now, brother, have you found Jesus?" "No, I didn't, Reverend." The preacher in disgust holds the man under for at least 30 seconds this time, brings him out of the water and says in a harsh tone, "My God, man, have you found Jesus yet?" The old drunk wipes his eyes and says to the preacher... "Are you sure this is where he fell in?"

Responding to this thread is like beating your head against a brick wall. It feels so good when you stop.

The Moonlight Bunny Ranch, a legal brothel in Moundhouse, Nevada is offering the first 50 veterans of the Iraq war who show up "one on the house." This is a great deal for our boys in uniform as the minimum rate is $150 an hour for this "service," and can be over $250 depending on the "merchandise." You know this is a high-class place since Gov. Jesse Ventura has been a customer there and has a room named for him. You gotta take your hat off (or anything else you like) to these ladies for wanting to do their part to keep up morale. [This message was edited by Pirate1974 on June 05, 2003 at 12:38.]

Larry, In the interest of helping a fellow human being with an obvious problem, I offer you this link to the Large Penis Support Group (LPSG.) LPSG The LPSG claims to be a support group for people (well, probably men) with "abnormally large male genitals" and people (anyone's guess here) who have been injured by same. Why these guys would need a support group is beyond me, but this claims to be a "serious" site. But then there's this quote: You have to register to get into the site and one can only imagine what sort of spam would come from registering. File this under: "There Is a Website for EVERYTHING!!"

This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at football games Friday night instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see me?" they could say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world," and mean it. This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here. This is for all the mothers of Kosovo and Baghdad who fled in the night and can't find their children. This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes. For all the mothers who have sent their sons and daughters off to war proudly, praying for their safe return. And all the mothers who have had to hold a folded flag at their child's funeral. For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T. What makes a good mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time? Or is it heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time? The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby? The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby dying? So this is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't. This is for reading "Goodnight, Moon" twice a night for a year. And then reading it again. "Just one more time." This is for all the mothers who mess up. Who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet like a tired 2-year old who wants ice cream before dinner. This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead. For all the mothers who bite their lips - sometimes until they bleed - when their 14-year old dyes their hair green. Who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won't stop. This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse. This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot. This is for all the mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home, or grown up. This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children's graves, even after 50 years. This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can't find the word to reach them. This is for all the mothers who sent their sons to school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away! This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go. For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without. This is for you all. So hang in there. Happy Mother's Day.

I played in a kazoo band once at a baseball game

Earth to Mike. Come in, Mike. You did write this, didn't you? Sorry if I jumped to "concussions" but that's about the biggest crock of b.s. I've ever heard and then you try to pretend like you never said it. Time for a reality check.

Holy ....!!! GOD covered up for VPs sexual abuse??? Keeping quiet is better than putting a stop to it??? I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt before, but if you really believe that you are a certifiable lunatic. Take your post and shove it.

If Mike does one of his "mastering PFAL" posts and there's nobody around to read it, is it still irritating?

Carpe Cerevisi! Seize the Beer!

This whole "Mike" scenario reminds me so much of the stuff you see on sports message boards all the time. Heck, I've even done it myself. Last year when the Charlotte Hornets were trying to relocate to New Orleans, I posted a lot of stuff on a New Orleans message board. Junk like, "The Hornets will never move to New Orleans. There's nothing there but drunks and perverts and cross-dressers and hookers." The New Orleans people would respond by calling Charlotte "Mayberry" saying it was full of rednecks and calling me "Goober." Most took it all in fun, but some got on their high horse to explain how wrong I was at length, pointing out facts and figures at length. I had to keep registering under different user names because they would ban me from the site. Eventually the Hornets did move to New Orleans and they quit responding to me, except for the occasional "nyah nyah nyah." Then it wasn't any fun anymore because I couldn't get a rise out of anybody and get them riled up. I think that's exactly what you have here.

I DID question everything he taught, right from the start. That's why I got out in '77.

The best thing about this year's Oscar show: Whoever designed this see-through dress deserves some kind of award.

excathie, I think you might be on to something there. Maybe in one of those extremely long posts, Mike will reveal that he really is VP and he's been hiding out in California all these years.

I live in Charlotte now, but in another life I used to travel eastern NC as a sales rep. Abbott Labs was one of my biggest customers. I spent a lot of time in Rocky Mount and it always seemed like a pretty nice place. Not too big, but big enough to have eveything you need. If you're a sports fan, it's right up the road from Greenville, home of the East Carolina Pirates. Fortunately, the state hq of the way isn't there anymore.

I don't believe that somebody who works hard to be the best they can be at a sport should be thought of as "worshipping a game." By that definition, I guess these folks also "sold their soul:" Tiger Woods Michael Jordan Venus & Serena Williams Pete Sampras Jerry Rice Emmitt Smith Lance Armstrong Wayne Gretzky Barry Bonds Michelle Kwan Annika Sorenstam

Happy birthday, Kit. Thanks for all you do here.