We all got em. Some are insightful, some are worthy of a chuckle, and some are truly epic. So lets hear some of your favorites totse.

I have but 1. Mostly because i forgot who the others were.


I believe it was a thread were the person stated bong resin had a good smell.

Apparently Thabee disagreed with him.

mine is

mine is

mine is

Orly?

Mine:

"When 4chan goes down, it's like the internet has explosive diarrhea." - Encyclopedia Dramatica.

Oh God damit!!!

Mine is

Mine is:

I believe this falls under the "truly epic" category.

GRAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!

Noobs i tell you!!! YOUR ALL NOOBS!!




EDIT: you know what? FUCK THIS THREAD!!

"There are some things in life you just don't tell people, if it has to do with your sister and your penis, it's probably one of those things" - Zok

"There's a mummy on the loose and that son of a bitch can drive a stick" - Psych
Survival of the fittest is the law of nature. We decieve or we are decieved. Thus, we flourish or perish. Nothing good ever happened to me when I trusted others. That is the lesson.
I tell ya, instead of being alone in a group, it's better to have real solitude all by yourself.
"One death is a tragedy, a million a statistic."
"I have lived through much, and now I think I have found what is needed for happiness. A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done for them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for ones neighbor - such is my idea of happiness. And then, on top of all that, you for a mate, and children, perhaps - what more can the heart of a man desire?" -Leo Tolstoy
"If you keep the small rules, you can break the big ones."
"You can trouble me for a warm glass of shut-the-hell-up. Now, you will go to sleep or I will put you to sleep. Check out the name tag. You're in my world now, grandma. "
Everything has a beginning and an end. Life is just a cycle of starts and stops. There are ends we don't desire, but they're inevitable, we have to face them. It's what being human is all about.
The past is the past and the future is the future. A man is a man and a woman is a woman. The present is the present. I am who I am and you are who you are. That's all there is to it. Does it really matter? Or do we just think it does?Whatever happens, happens. Either way, we were destined to end up like this.
There was a woman, first time I'd found someone who was truly alive. At least, that's what I thought. She was... the part of me I'd lost somewhere along the way, the part that was missing, that I'd been longing for. She's dead. There is nothing I can do for her now.
I've been seeing the past in one eye and the present in the other. So, I thought I could only see patches of reality, never the whole picture. I felt like I was watching a dream I could never wake up from. I was dreaming, and I knew it was a dream. And yet, I couldn't out soon enough...
I was just all alone. I couldn't enjoy a game with anyone else. Like living in a dream... That's the kind of man I was... I was just looking for a door to open.
Disinformation is sometimes required for enemies as well as allies.
Do not fear death. Death is always at your side. When you show fear, it will spring at you faster than light. If you do not show fear, it will only gently look over you...
I'm not a criminal. Oh that makes me seem even more like a criminal, doesn't it?
That is no ordinary star. That is the tear of a warrior, one who has finished his battle here. A lost soul that cannont find his way to the lofty realm that awaits us all. My star is about to fall. I have seen it.
Im not going there to die. Im going there to see if I am really alive.
In my lifetime, do you think we would have become friends?
I picked up my first gun at the age of seven. And I shot. I remember how strangely easy it was to pull the trigger. Ha. I actually laughed. Because that one shot was all that was needed to silence that sickening piece of garbage who had the nerve to call himself my guardian. Ha. It was that simple. And so I was free. Yes, tomorrow would be different. Hm. Tomorrow. As much as I wanted to believe, it only went from bad to worse. A vicious cycle... I didn't want other kids to grow up like me, so I started my own orphanage. It was gratifying work, I was actually doing something for the good of others. It was my place of peace and happiness... Yet sometimes, I still think to myself 'there's no place worse than this planet. It's horrible here.
Everything... Everything was so horribly dry, even peoples hearts. From far away, as I watched the people who lived there, I always found myself wondering how and why could they possibly keep on living? What motivation did they have that would get up everyday, no matter what, for the rest of their lives??"
"You were always smiling, real friendly like, but the way you smiled was so empty it hurt to watch you."
"Whenever I look at you, I'm reminded about everything I hate about myself. It hurts."
"Every one who touches me dies."
Life is like an incessant series of problems, all difficult, with brutal choices, and a time limit. The worst thing you can do is to make no choice, waiting for the ideal conclusion to present itself."
"Please... Please don't look at me like that."

"Every moment hesitated is a moment gone from life."

"Even at such an impossible situation, he kept saying that no one had to die. How can he believe that?

“If the majority can be saved by the death of a lesser amount, than so be it.”
“It really is a shame what happened. But at least now you know just how much pain there is in living.”

'No fear. No distraction. The ability to let that which does not matter, truly slide'
'Roses are red, violets are blue. I'll Fuck you with a Rake'
Religion is what keeps the poor from murdering the rich.

Hi, this is Robert Evens from the ESPN sports network. Ya know back when I was making my Godfather films back in the early 70s, I had a whirlpool bath installed in my trailer that I would fill with apple juice every night. Do you have any idea what Diane Kettens pussy taste like after its been soaking in apple juice all day? Not half as sweet as the sports shots your gonna catch here on ESPN every sunday.
The human rectum is almost nightmarishly elastic. I had four rubix cubes jammed up there one day on a cruise boat with Brian Danihe when a heroin crazed Allen Ripley burst into my set a punched me in the solor plexus. Well I shat out all four cubes, and dammed if they didnt emerge solved...But thats nothing like the Hail Mary plays your gonna see on ESPN's Sports Network.
Tom Wopack loved the three F's. Food, Fun, and Fisting. Well, he took Buck Rogers out on my ciggeratte boat memorial weekend 1979 and I swear to you over those sweet savage 72 hours he turned that poor man into his personal finger puppet. His screams of agony alerted the Coast Guard, and I pointed the nose of that fiberglass beauty into international waters. Thats nothing like the defensive plays your gonna catch here on ESPN.
Angie Dickinson could suck the sorrow off a recent widow, and I had just buried my trouser snake tonsil deep when a heroin crazed Brian Danihe burts into my trailer and punched me right in the solor plexus I ejaculated my central nervous system and she ate it up like a pinball machine at Binnaginns. But thats nothing compared to the plays here on ESPN on sunday.

My other one is:

mine is

okay then back on track.

i forget who said the this one.

"then stop deepthroating your toothbrush."

I like this one too.

A brave arm makes a short sword long. ~Author Unknown

To him that waits all things reveal themselves, provided that he has the courage not to deny, in the darkness, what he has seen in the light. ~Coventry Patmore

The only real progress lies in learning to be wrong all alone. ~Albert Camus

To dare is to lose one's footing momentarily. To not dare is to lose oneself. ~ Søren Kierkegaard

In the beginning of a change, the patriot is a scarce man, and brave, and hated and scorned. When his cause succeeds, the timid join him, for then it costs nothing to be a patriot. ~Mark Twain, Notebook, 1935


All tyranny needs to gain a foothold is for people of good conscience to remain silent.
Thomas Jefferson

Do you want to know who you are? Don't ask. Act! Action will delineate and define you.
Thomas Jefferson

One man with courage is a majority.
Thomas Jefferson

The god who gave us life, gave us liberty at the same time: the hand of force may destroy, but cannot disjoin them.
Thomas Jefferson

Don't hit at all if it is honorably possible to avoid hitting; but never hit softly.
Theodore Roosevelt

I care not what others think of what I do, but I care very much about what I think of what I do! That is character!
Theodore Roosevelt

It is only through labor and painful effort, by grim energy and resolute courage, that we move on to better things.
Theodore Roosevelt

The boy who is going to make a great man must not make up his mind merely to overcome a thousand obstacles, but to win in spite of a thousand repulses and defeats.
Theodore Roosevelt

With self-discipline most anything is possible.
Theodore Roosevelt


Far better is it to dare mighty things, to win glorius triumphs, even though checkered by failure... than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in a gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.
Theodore Roosevelt

50000000000char

"What's Life? You start with nothing, end with nothing. In between, it's all jazz." - E. J. Gold

Life is a weird and retarded miracle.

-----------------

I'm going to put "Queen of the Carboniferous Skies" on my resume and see what happens.

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lol y u locate the exact point of fusion between my chromosome?

-----------------

when I turned off the water I realised for the first time in my life that being wet is just like being a fish. I acknowledged this by wriggling around and lathering the water all over myself…cold and slippery in some kind of trance muttering “I am fish” over and over and over.

Two of my favorite quotes:

__________________
metaphysicist@hotmail.com

Hey there, baby. Are youre parents Muslim extrememists?? Because youre the BOMB!!

Hahaha. I remember this being posted.

"Americans would buy AIDS if the A stood for America".

One of my own.

My brothers

"You stupid lump of fuck"

I remember that, twas fucking brilliant.

I also remember the entry 'I am bloodydiaperman' on his own page.

"Just in terms of allocation of time resources, religion is not very efficient. There's a lot more I could be doing on a Sunday morning."
Bill Gates

Screeeeaawwww!

Badass.

taxi driver

PART I: January 1976
Chapter One
ON THOSE CLOUDY DAYS, Robert Neville was never sure when sunset came, and
sometimes they were in the streets before he could get back.
If he had been more analytical, he might have calculated the approximate time of their arrival;
but he still used the lifetime habit of judging nightfall by the sky, and on cloudy days that
method didn’t work. That was why he chose to stay near the house on those days.
He walked around the house in the dull gray of afternoon, a cigarette dangling from the corner
of his mouth, trailing threadlike smoke over his shoulder. He checked each window to see if any
of the boards had been loosened. After violent attacks, the planks were often split or partially
pried off, and he had to replace them completely; a job he hated. Today only one plank was
loose. Isn’t that amazing? he thought.
In the back yard he checked the hothouse and the water tank. Sometimes the structure around
the tank might be weakened or its rain catchers bent or broken off. Sometimes they would lob
rocks over the high fence around the hothouse, and occasionally they would tear through the
overhead net and he’d have to replace panes.
Both the tank and the hothouse were undamaged today. He went to the house for a hammer
and nails. As he pushed open the front door, he looked at the distorted reflection of himself in
the cracked mirror he’d fastened to the door a month ago. In a few days, jagged pieces of the
silver-backed glass would start to fall off. Let ‘em fall, he thought. It was the last damned
mirror he’d put there; it wasn’t worth it. He’d put garlic there instead. Garlic always worked.
He passed slowly through the dim silence of the living room, turned left into the small
hallway, and left again into his bedroom.
Once the room had been warmly decorated, but that was in another time. Now it was a room
entirely functional, and since Neville’s bed and bureau took up so little space, he had converted
one side of the room into a shop.
A long bench covered almost an entire wall, on its hardwood top a heavy band saw; a wood
lathe, an emery wheel, and a vise. Above it, on the wall, were haphazard racks of the tools that
Robert Nèville used.
He took a hammer from the bench and picked out a few nails from one of the disordered bins.
Then he went back outside and nailed the plank fast to the shutter. The unused nails he threw
into the rubble next door.
For a while he stood on the front lawn looking up and down the silent length of Cimarron
Street. He was a tall man, thirty-six, born of English-German stock, his features undistinguished
except for the long, determined mouth and the bright blue of his eyes, which moved now over
the charred ruins of the houses on each side of his. He’d burned them down to prevent them
from jumping on his roof from the adjacent ones.
After a few minutes he took a long, slow breath and went back into the house. He tossed the
hammer on the living-room couch, then lit another cigarette and had his midmorning drink.
Later he forced himself into the kitchen to grind up the five-day accumulation of garbage in
the sink. He knew he should burn up the paper plates and utensils too, and dust the furniture and
wash out the sinks and the bathtub and toilet, and change the sheets and pillowcase on his bed;
but he didn’t feel like it.
For he was a man and he was alone and these things had no importance to him.
It was almost noon. Robert Neville was in his hothouse collecting a basketful of garlic.
In the beginning it had made him sick to smell garlic in such quantity his stomach had been in
a state of constant turmoil. Now the smell was in his house and in his clothes, and sometimes he
thought it was even in his flesh.
He hardly noticed it at all.
When he had enough bulbs, he went back to the house and dumped them on the drainboard of
the sink. As he flicked the wall switch, the light flickered, then flared into normal brilliance. A
disgusted hiss passed his clenched teeth. The generator was at it again. He’d have to get out that
damned manual again and check the wiring. And, if it were too much trouble to repair, he’d
have to install a new generator.
Angrily he jerked a high- legged stool to the sink, got a knife, and sat down with an exhausted
grunt.
First, be separated the bulbs into the small, sickle-shaped cloves. Then he cut each pink,
leathery clove in half, exposing the fleshy center buds. The air thickened with the musky,
pungent odor. When it got too oppressive, he snapped on the air-conditioning unit and suction
drew away the worst of it.
Now he reached over and took an icepick from its wall rack. He punched holes in each clove
half, then strung them all together with wire until he had about twenty-five necklaces.
In the beginning he had hung these necklaces over the windows. But from a distance they’d
thrown rocks until he’d been forced to cover the broken panes with plywood scraps. Finally one
day he’d torn off the plywood and nailed up even rows of planks instead. It had made the house
a gloomy sepulcher, but it was better than having rocks come flying into his rooms in a shower
of splintered glass. And, once he had installed the three air-conditioning units, it wasn’t too bad.
A man could get used to anything if he had to.
When he was finished stringing the garlic cloves, he went outside and nailed them over the
window boarding, taking down the old strings, which had lost most of their potent smell.
He had to go through this process twice a week. Until he found something better, it was his
first line of defense.
Defense? he often thought. For what?
All afternoon he made stakes.
He lathed them out of thick doweling, band-sawed into nine- inch lengths. These be held
against the whirling emery stone until they were as sharp as daggers
It was tiresome, monotonous work, and it filled the air with hot-smelling wood dust that
settled in his pores and got into his lungs and made him cough.
Yet he never seemed to get ahead. No matter how many stakes he made, they were gone in
no time at all. Doweling was getting harder to find, too. Eventually he’d have to lathe down
rectangular lengths of wood. Won’t that be fun? he thought irritably.
It was all very depressing and it made him resolve to find a better method of disposal. But
how could he find it when they never gave him a chance to slow down and think?
As he lathed, he listened to records over the loudspeaker he’d set up in the bedroom—
Beethoven’s Third, Seventh, and Ninth symphonies. He was glad he’d learned early in life, from
his mother, to appreciate this kind of music. It helped to fill the terrible void of hours.
From four o’clock on, his gaze kept shifting to the clock on the wall. He worked in silence,
lips pressed into a hard line, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his eyes staring at the bit as it
gnawed away the wood and sent floury dust filtering down to the floor.
Four- fifteen. Four-thirty. It was a quarter to five.
In another hour they’d be at the house again, the filthy bastards. As soon as the light was
gone.
He stood before the giant freezer, selecting his supper.
His jaded eyes moved over the stacks of meats down to the frozen vegetables, down to the
breads and pastries, the fruits and ice cream.
He picked out two lamb chops, string beans, and a small box of orange sherbet. He picked the
boxes from the freezer and pushed shut the door with his elbow,
Next he moved over to the uneven stacks of cans piled to the ceiling. He took down a can of
tomato juice, then left the room that had once belonged to Kathy and now belonged to his
stomach.
He moved slowly across the living room, looking at the mural that covered the back wall. It
showed a cliff edge, sheering off to green-blue ocean that surged and broke over black rocks.
Far up in the clear blue sky, white sea gulls floated on the wind, and over on the right a gnarled
tree hung over the precipice, its dark branches etched against the sky.
Neville walked into the kitchen and dumped the groceries on the table, his eyes moving to the
clock. Twenty minutes to six. Soon now.
He poured a little water into a small pan and clanked it down on a stove burner. Next he
thawed out the chops and put them under the broiler. By this time the water was boiling and he
dropped in the frozen string beans and covered them, thinking that it was probably the electric
stove that was milking the generator.
At the table he sliced himself two pieces of bread and poured himself a glass of tomato juice.
He sat down and looked at the red second hand as it swept slowly around the clock face. The
bastards ought to be here soon.
After he’d finished his tomato juice, he walked to the front door and went out onto the porch.
He stepped off onto the lawn and walked down to the sidewalk.
The sky was darkening and it was getting chilly. He looked up and down Cimarron Street, the
cool breeze ruffling his blond hair. That’s what was wrong with these cloudy days; you never
knew when they were coming.
Oh, well, at least they were better than those damned dust storms. With a shrug, he moved
back across the lawn and into the house, locking and bolting the door behind him, sliding the
thick bar into place. Then he went back into the kitchen, turned his chops, and switched off the
heat under the string beans.
He was putting the food on his plate when he stopped and his eyes moved quickly to the
clock. Six-twenty- five today. Ben Cortman was shouting.
“Come out, Neville!”
Robert Neville sat down with a sigh and began to eat.
He sat in the living room, trying to read. He’d made himself a whisky and soda at his small
bar and he held the cold glass as he read a physiology text. From the speaker over the hallway
door, the music of Schonberg was playing loudly.
Not loudly enough, though. He still heard them outside, their murmuring and their walkings
about and their cries, their snarling and fighting among themselves. Once in a while a rock or
brick thudded off the house. Sometimes a dog barked.
And they were all there for the same thing.
Robert Neville closed his eyes a moment and held his lips in a tight line. Then he opened his
eyes and lit another cigarette, letting the smoke go deep into his lungs.
He wished he’d had time to soundproof the house. It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t that he
had to listen to them. Even after five months, it got on his nerves.

He never looked at them any more. In the beginning he’d made a peephole in the front
window and watched them. But then the women had seen him and had started striking vile
postures in order to entice him out of the house. He didn’t want to look at that.
He put down his book and stared bleakly at the rug, hearing Verklärte Nacht play over the
loud-speaker. He knew he could put plugs in his ears to shut off the sound of them, but that
would shut off the music too, and he didn’t want to feel that they were forcing him into a shell.
He closed his eyes again. It was the women who made it so difficult, be thought, the women
posing like lewd puppets in the night on the possibility that he’d see them and decide to come
out.
A shudder. ran through him. Every night it was the same. He’d be reading and listening to
music. Then he’d start to think about soundproofing the house, then he’d think about the
women.
Deep in his body, the knotting heat began again, and be pressed his lips together until they
were white. He knew the feeling well and it enraged him that he couldn’t combat it. It grew and
grew until he couldn’t sit still any more. Then he’d get up and pace the floor, fists bloodless at
his sides. Maybe he’d set up the movie projector or eat something or have too much to drink or
turn the music up so loud it hurt his ears. He had to do something when it got really bad.
He felt the muscles of his abdomen closing in like frightening coils. He picked up the book
and tried to read, his lips forming each word slowly and painfully.
But in a moment the book was on his lap again. He looked at the bookcase across from him.
All the knowledge in those books couldn’t put out the fires in him; all the words of centuries
couldn’t end the wordless, mindless craving of his flesh.
The realization made him sick. It was an insult to a man. All right, it was a natural drive, but
there was no outlet for it any more. They’d forced celibacy on him; he’d have to live with it.
You have a mind, don’t you? he asked himself. Well, use it?
He reached over and turned the music still louder; then forced himself to read a whole page
without pause. He read about blood cells being forced through membranes, about pale lymph
carrying the wastes through tubes blocked by lymph nodes, about lymphocytes and phago cytic
cells.
“—to empty, in the left shoulder region, near the thorax, into a large vein of the blood
circulating system.”
The book shut with a thud.
Why didn’t they leave him alone? Did they think they could all have him? Were they so
stupid they thought that? Why did they keep coming every night? After five months, you’d
think they’d give up and try elsewhere.
He went over to the bar and made himself another drink. As he turned back to his chair he
heard stones rattling down across the roof and landing with thuds in the shrubbery beside the
house. Above the noises, he heard Ben Cortman shout as he always shouted.
“Come out, Neville!”
Someday I’ll get that bastard, he thought as he took a big swallow of the bitter drink.
Someday I’ll knock a stake right through his goddamn chest. I’ll make one a foot long for him, a
special one with ribbons on it, the bastard.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d soundproof the house. His fingers drew into white-knuckled
fists. He couldn’t stand thinking about those women. If he didn’t hear them, maybe he wouldn’t
think about them. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
The music ended and he took a stack of records off the turntable and slid them back into their
cardboard envelopes. Now he could hear them even more clearly outside. He reached for the
first new record he could get and put it on the turntable and twisted the volume up to its highest
point.
“The Year of the Plague,” by Roger Leie, filled his ears. Violins scraped and whined,
tympani thudded like the beats of a dying heart, flutes played weird, atonal melodies.
With a stiffening of rage, he wrenched up the record and snapped it over his right knee. He’d
meant to break it long ago. He walked on rigid legs to the kitche n and flung the pieces into the
trash box. Then he stood in the dark kitchen, eyes tightly shut, teeth clenched, hands damped
over his ears. Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone!
No use, you couldn’t beat them at night. No use trying; it was their special time. He was
acting very stupidly, trying to beat them. Should he watch a movie? No, he didn’t feel like
setting up the projector. He’d go to bed and put the plugs in his ears. It was what he ended up
doing every night, anyway.
Quickly, trying not to think at all; he went to the bedroom and undressed. He put on pajama
bottoms and went into the bathroom. He never wore pajama tops; it was a habit he’d acquired in
Panama during the war.
As he washed, he looked into the mirror at his broad chest, at the dark hair swirling around
the nipples and down the center line of his chest. He looked at the ornate cross he’d had tattooed
on his chest one night in Panama when he’d been drunk. What a fool I was in those days! he
thought. Well, maybe that cross had saved his life.
He brushed his teeth carefully and used dental- floss. He tried to take good care of his teeth
because he was his own dentist now. Some things could go to pot, but not his health, he thought.
Then why don’t you stop pouring alcohol into yourself? he thought. Why don’t you shut the hell
up? he thought.
Now be went through the house, turning out lights. For a few minutes he looked at the mural
and tried to believe it was really the ocean. But how could he believe it with all the bumpings
and the scrapings, the howlings and snarlings and cries in the night?
He turned off the living-room lamp and went into the bedroom.
He made a sound of disgust when he saw that sawdust covered the bed. He brushed it off
with snapping hand strokes, thinking that he’d better build a partition between the shop and the
sleeping portion of the room. Better do this and better do that, he thought morosely. There were
so many damned things to do, he’d never get to the real problem.
He jammed in his earplugs and a great silence engulfed him. He turned off the light and
crawled in between the sheets. He looked at the radium- faced clock and saw that it was only a
few minutes past ten. Just as well, he thought. This way I’ll get an early start.
He lay there on the bed and took deep breaths of the darkness, hoping for sleep. But the
silence didn’t really help. He could still see them out there, the white-faced men prowling
around his house, looking ceaselessly for a way to get in at him. Some of them, probably,
crouching on their haunches like dogs, eyes glittering at the house, teeth slowly grating together,
back and forth, back and forth.
And the women ...
Did he have to start thinking about them again? He tossed over on his stomach with a curse
and pressed his face into the hot pillow. He lay there, breathing heavily, body writhing slightly
on the sheet. Let the morning come. His mind spoke the words it spoke every night, Dear God,
let the morning come.
He dreamed about Virginia and he cried out in his sleep and his fingers gripped the sheets like
frenzied talons.

It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society. -Jiddu Krishnamurti

And anything Oscar Wilde or George Orwell have ever said.

http://img71.imageshack.us/img71/3521/lolci7.png

To live is to die.
- Cliff Burton

"The real owners are the big wealthy business interests that control things and make all the important decisions. Forget the politicians, they're an irrelevancy. The politicians are put there to give you the idea that you have freedom of choice. You don't. You have no choice. You have owners. They own you. They own everything. They own all the important land. They own and control the corporations. They've long since bought and paid for the Senate, the Congress, the statehouses, the city halls. They've got the judges in their back pockets. And they own all the big media companies, so that they control just about all of the news and information you hear. They've got you by the balls. They spend billions of dollars every year lobbying * lobbying to get what they want. Well, we know what they want; they want more for themselves and less for everybody else."

"But I'll tell you what they don't want. They don't want a population of citizens capable of critical thinking. They don't want well-informed, well-educated people capable of critical thinking. They're not interested in that. That doesn't help them. That's against their interests. They don't want people who are smart enough to sit around the kitchen table and figure out how badly they're getting fucked by a system that threw them overboard 30 fucking years ago.

"You know what they want? Obedient workers * people who are just smart enough to run the machines and do the paperwork but just dumb enough to passively accept all these increasingly shittier jobs with the lower pay, the longer hours, reduced benefits, the end of overtime and the vanishing pension that disappears the minute you go to collect it. And, now, they're coming for your Social Security. They want your fucking retirement money. They want it back, so they can give it to their criminal friends on Wall Street. And you know something? They'll get it. They'll get it all, sooner or later, because they own this fucking place. It's a big club, and you ain't in it. You and I are not in the big club."

"This country is finished."

George Carlin

The big posts are from the novel of I am legend.

My real quota is by Pascal.

Fu, that's the one I was gonna post!
*plugs in USB drive, opens quotes.txt*

Reject
http://www.totse.com/community/showp...8&postcount=15

Well, that and
Anon 2917003
7chan