Yo mama so fat she has been declared a natural habitat for Condors
I think its the mental image that makes me laugh.
Yo mama so fat she fell in love and broke it.
This is an old one but i couldnt stop snickering when i heard it the first time.
Yo mama so ugly when she joined an ugly contest, they said "Sorry, no professionals."
Yo mama so ugly just after she was born, her mother said "What a treasure!" and her father said "Yes, let's go bury it."
Heh.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
The Midnight Ride
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
the Mystic, being the Mystic river.... It is one thing to read this poem when you are a kid. Another to spand in the very spots that are touched upon in the Poem, Paul Revere's Ride, of which the above is just an exerpt. One could close his mental eyes and look back, and see the events take place in the very spot he stands. It is a powerful spectre if a person is open to it. To imagine the cold night, the sleeping soldiers, the misting air and sleepy farmers in these very real places. It's a strange feeling, to be in the spot where legends were born. I get caught up in all the news of political games that go on in our country today, then I go to these places and feel grounded.
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
the Mystic, being the Mystic river.... It is one thing to read this poem when you are a kid. Another to spand in the very spots that are touched upon in the Poem, Paul Revere's Ride, of which the above is just an exerpt. One could close his mental eyes and look back, and see the events take place in the very spot he stands. It is a powerful spectre if a person is open to it. To imagine the cold night, the sleeping soldiers, the misting air and sleepy farmers in these very real places. It's a strange feeling, to be in the spot where legends were born. I get caught up in all the news of political games that go on in our country today, then I go to these places and feel grounded.
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