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Caporegime
The plane does take off from the conveyor belt.
If you could tell the world one thing..
- Thread starter salami1212
- Start date
Soldato
- Joined
- 4 Mar 2010
- Posts
- 5,038
Don't allow people to walk over you.
Also reach for the Übermensch.
Also reach for the Übermensch.
Caporegime
His stats say otherwise
For me id say: opinions are like ***holes, everyone has one but you only tend to listen to yours
Soldato
- Joined
- 18 Mar 2008
- Posts
- 12,751
Permabanned
Nothing lasts forever, even cold November rain.
Soldato
Wear sunscreen....
Associate
Spend less time worrying about what you think every one else is doing wrong and spend more doing what you believe is right.
Accept other people for who they are.
Don't do it just because your religion tells you too.
War is an atrocious waste of human life, but ultimately it is sometimes necessary.
Other people are different from you, but that is no reason to persecute them.
Accept other people for who they are.
Don't do it just because your religion tells you too.
War is an atrocious waste of human life, but ultimately it is sometimes necessary.
Other people are different from you, but that is no reason to persecute them.
Soldato
show me god....
Soldato
- Joined
- 12 Dec 2002
- Posts
- 2,951
Open the door, get on the floor... Everyone walk the dinosaur.
Soldato
Religion is a farce
Associate
I SHOT JR!
Caporegime
GTX680 is the worlds fastest single GPU 
Caporegime
good waiters don't exist
“Listen," I say. "I have a reservation. Where's the maître d? I know Jackie Mason," and she sighs, "I can seat you. Don't need a reservation," as she reaches for a menu. She leads me to a horrible table in back near the rest rooms and I grab the menu away from her and rush to a booth up front and I'm appalled by the cheapness of the food - "Is this a goddamn joke?" - and sensing a waitress is near I order without looking up. "A cheeseburger. I'd like a cheeseburger and I'd like it medium rare."
"I'm sorry, sir," the waitress says. "No cheese. Kosher," and I have no idea what the **** she's talking about and I say, "Fine. A kosherburger but with cheese, Monterey Jack perhaps, and - oh god," I moan, sensing more cramps coming on. "No cheese, sir," she says. "Kosher..."
"Oh god, is this a nightmare, you ******* ***?" I mutter, and then, "Cottage cheese? Just bring it?"
"I'll get the manager," she says.
"Whatever. But bring me a beverage in the meanwhile," I hiss.
"Yes?" she asks.
"A... vanilla... milk shake..."
"No milk shakes. Kosher," she says, then, "I'll get the manager."
"No, wait."
"Mister I'll get the manager."
"What in the **** is going on?" I ask, seething, my platinum AmEx already slapped on the greasy table.
"No milk shake. Kosher," she says, thick-upped, just one of billions of people who have passed over this planet. "Then bring me a ******* ... vanilla... malted!" I roar, spraying spit all over my open menu. She just stares.
"Extra thick!" I add. She walks away to get the manager and when I see him approaching, a bald carbon copy of the waitress, I get up and scream, "**** yourself you retarded *********** ****," and I run out of the delicatessen and onto the street ...
“Listen," I say. "I have a reservation. Where's the maître d? I know Jackie Mason," and she sighs, "I can seat you. Don't need a reservation," as she reaches for a menu. She leads me to a horrible table in back near the rest rooms and I grab the menu away from her and rush to a booth up front and I'm appalled by the cheapness of the food - "Is this a goddamn joke?" - and sensing a waitress is near I order without looking up. "A cheeseburger. I'd like a cheeseburger and I'd like it medium rare."
"I'm sorry, sir," the waitress says. "No cheese. Kosher," and I have no idea what the **** she's talking about and I say, "Fine. A kosherburger but with cheese, Monterey Jack perhaps, and - oh god," I moan, sensing more cramps coming on. "No cheese, sir," she says. "Kosher..."
"Oh god, is this a nightmare, you ******* ***?" I mutter, and then, "Cottage cheese? Just bring it?"
"I'll get the manager," she says.
"Whatever. But bring me a beverage in the meanwhile," I hiss.
"Yes?" she asks.
"A... vanilla... milk shake..."
"No milk shakes. Kosher," she says, then, "I'll get the manager."
"No, wait."
"Mister I'll get the manager."
"What in the **** is going on?" I ask, seething, my platinum AmEx already slapped on the greasy table.
"No milk shake. Kosher," she says, thick-upped, just one of billions of people who have passed over this planet. "Then bring me a ******* ... vanilla... malted!" I roar, spraying spit all over my open menu. She just stares.
"Extra thick!" I add. She walks away to get the manager and when I see him approaching, a bald carbon copy of the waitress, I get up and scream, "**** yourself you retarded *********** ****," and I run out of the delicatessen and onto the street ...
Soldato
OP is homo
Caporegime
Save Ferris !