anyone who doesn't wanna go to war
https://youtube.com/shorts/g_ZtAouHEO0?feature=share
a battle between the greeks and the trojans which probably never happened, but remains one of the most famous battles not in history.
the war allegedly began (sometime in the 12th century BC) over helen of troy, a queen who jilted her greek husband, king menelaus, for a trojan prince named paris. menelaus, incensed, declared war on the trojans and summoned his fellow greeks (including his brother agamemnon, who sacrificed his own daughter to the gods to get them some favorable sailing winds) to lay siege to the shining city of troy.
what follows is a long complicated story involving guys with long greek names, and is most notably summed up in homer's "iliad." the famous conclusion of the war, which actually isn't in said story, involved greeks sneaking themselves into troy inside a big wooden horse and massacring the populace. some of the participants got their own little self-contained sequels; for example, the tale of odysseus' return home in homer's "odyssey," and agamemnon getting iced by his wife in a play by aeschylus
the war allegedly began (sometime in the 12th century BC) over helen of troy, a queen who jilted her greek husband, king menelaus, for a trojan prince named paris. menelaus, incensed, declared war on the trojans and summoned his fellow greeks (including his brother agamemnon, who sacrificed his own daughter to the gods to get them some favorable sailing winds) to lay siege to the shining city of troy.
what follows is a long complicated story involving guys with long greek names, and is most notably summed up in homer's "iliad." the famous conclusion of the war, which actually isn't in said story, involved greeks sneaking themselves into troy inside a big wooden horse and massacring the populace. some of the participants got their own little self-contained sequels; for example, the tale of odysseus' return home in homer's "odyssey," and agamemnon getting iced by his wife in a play by aeschylus
A narrative, commonly untrue. The truth of the stories here following has, however, not been successfully impeached.
One evening Mr. Rudolph Block, of New York, found himself seated at dinner alongside Mr. Percival Pollard, the distinguished critic.
"Mr. Pollard," said he, "my book, The Biography of a Dead Cow, is published anonymously, but you can hardly be ignorant of its authorship. Yet in reviewing it you speak of it as the work of the Idiot of the Century. Do you think that fair criticism?"
"I am very sorry, sir," replied the critic, amiably, "but it did not occur to me that you really might not wish the public to know who wrote it."
Mr. W. C. Morrow, who used to live in San Jose, California, was addicted to writing ghost stories which made the reader feel as if a stream of lizards, fresh from the ice, were streaking it up his back and hiding in his hair. San Jose was at that time believed to be haunted by the visible spirit of a noted bandit named Vasquez, who had been hanged there. The town was not very well lighted, and it is putting it mildly to say that San Jose was reluctant to be out o' nights. One particularly dark night two gentlemen were abroad in the loneliest spot within the city limits, talking loudly to keep up their courage, when they came upon Mr. J. J. Owen, a well-known journalist.
"Why, Owen," said one, "what brings you here on such a night as this? You told me that this is one of Vasquez' favorite haunts! And you are a believer. Aren't you afraid to be out?"
"My dear fellow," the journalist replied with a drear autumnal cadence in his speech, like the moan of a leaf-laden wind, "I am afraid to be in. I have one of Will Morrow's stories in my pocket and I don't dare to go where there is light enough to read it."
Rear-Admiral Schley and Representative Charles F. Joy were standing near the Peace Monument, in Washington, discussing the question, Is success a failure? Mr. Joy suddenly broke off in the middle of an eloquent sentence, exclaiming: "Hello! I've heard that band before. Santlemann's, I think."
"I don't hear any band," said Schley.
"Come to think, I don't either," said Joy; "but I see General Miles coming down the avenue, and that pageant always affects me in the same way as a brass band. One has to scrutinize one's impressions pretty closely, or one will mistake their origin."
While the Admiral was digesting this hasty meal of philosophy General Miles passed in review, a spectacle of impressive dignity. When the tail of the seeming procession had passed and the two observers had recovered from the transient blindness caused by its effulgence —
"He seems to be enjoying himself," said the Admiral.
"There is nothing," assented Joy, thoughtfully, "that he enjoys one-half so well."
The illustrious statesman, Champ Clark, once lived about a mile from the village of Jebigue, in Missouri. One day he rode into town on a favorite mule, and, hitching the beast on the sunny side of a street, in front of a saloon, he went inside in his character of teetotaler, to apprise the barkeeper that wine is a mocker. It was a dreadfully hot day. Pretty soon a neighbor came in and seeing Clark, said:
"Champ, it is not right to leave that mule out there in the sun. He'll roast, sure! — he was smoking as I passed him."
"O, he's all right," said Clark, lightly; "he's an inveterate smoker."
The neighbor took a lemonade, but shook his head and repeated that it was not right.
He was a conspirator. There had been a fire the night before: a stable just around the corner had burned and a number of horses had put on their immortality, among them a young colt, which was roasted to a rich nut-brown. Some of the boys had turned Mr. Clark's mule loose and substituted the mortal part of the colt. Presently another man entered the saloon.
"For mercy's sake!" he said, taking it with sugar, "do remove that mule, barkeeper: it smells."
"Yes," interposed Clark, "that animal has the best nose in Missouri. But if he doesn't mind, you shouldn't."
In the course of human events Mr. Clark went out, and there, apparently, lay the incinerated and shrunken remains of his charger. The boys did not have any fun out of Mr. Clark, who looked at the body and, with the non-committal expression to which he owes so much of his political preferment, went away. But walking home late that night he saw his mule standing silent and solemn by the wayside in the misty moonlight. Mentioning the name of Helen Blazes with uncommon emphasis, Mr. Clark took the back track as hard as ever he could hook it, and passed the night in town.
General H. H. Wotherspoon, president of the Army War College, has a pet rib-nosed baboon, an animal of uncommon intelligence but imperfectly beautiful. Returning to his apartment one evening, the General was surprised and pained to find Adam (for so the creature is named, the general being a Darwinian) sitting up for him and wearing his master's best uniform coat, epaulettes and all.
"You confounded remote ancestor!" thundered the great strategist, "what do you mean by being out of bed after taps? — and with my coat on!"
Adam rose and with a reproachful look got down on all fours in the manner of his kind and, scuffling across the room to a table, returned with a visiting-card: General Barry had called and, judging by an empty champagne bottle and several cigar-stumps, had been hospitably entertained while waiting. The general apologized to his faithful progenitor and retired. The next day he met General Barry, who said:
"Spoon, old man, when leaving you last evening I forgot to ask you about those excellent cigars. Where did you get them?"
General Wotherspoon did not deign to reply, but walked away.
"Pardon me, please," said Barry, moving after him; "I was joking of course. Why, I knew it was not you before I had been in the room fifteen minutes."
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
One evening Mr. Rudolph Block, of New York, found himself seated at dinner alongside Mr. Percival Pollard, the distinguished critic.
"Mr. Pollard," said he, "my book, The Biography of a Dead Cow, is published anonymously, but you can hardly be ignorant of its authorship. Yet in reviewing it you speak of it as the work of the Idiot of the Century. Do you think that fair criticism?"
"I am very sorry, sir," replied the critic, amiably, "but it did not occur to me that you really might not wish the public to know who wrote it."
Mr. W. C. Morrow, who used to live in San Jose, California, was addicted to writing ghost stories which made the reader feel as if a stream of lizards, fresh from the ice, were streaking it up his back and hiding in his hair. San Jose was at that time believed to be haunted by the visible spirit of a noted bandit named Vasquez, who had been hanged there. The town was not very well lighted, and it is putting it mildly to say that San Jose was reluctant to be out o' nights. One particularly dark night two gentlemen were abroad in the loneliest spot within the city limits, talking loudly to keep up their courage, when they came upon Mr. J. J. Owen, a well-known journalist.
"Why, Owen," said one, "what brings you here on such a night as this? You told me that this is one of Vasquez' favorite haunts! And you are a believer. Aren't you afraid to be out?"
"My dear fellow," the journalist replied with a drear autumnal cadence in his speech, like the moan of a leaf-laden wind, "I am afraid to be in. I have one of Will Morrow's stories in my pocket and I don't dare to go where there is light enough to read it."
Rear-Admiral Schley and Representative Charles F. Joy were standing near the Peace Monument, in Washington, discussing the question, Is success a failure? Mr. Joy suddenly broke off in the middle of an eloquent sentence, exclaiming: "Hello! I've heard that band before. Santlemann's, I think."
"I don't hear any band," said Schley.
"Come to think, I don't either," said Joy; "but I see General Miles coming down the avenue, and that pageant always affects me in the same way as a brass band. One has to scrutinize one's impressions pretty closely, or one will mistake their origin."
While the Admiral was digesting this hasty meal of philosophy General Miles passed in review, a spectacle of impressive dignity. When the tail of the seeming procession had passed and the two observers had recovered from the transient blindness caused by its effulgence —
"He seems to be enjoying himself," said the Admiral.
"There is nothing," assented Joy, thoughtfully, "that he enjoys one-half so well."
The illustrious statesman, Champ Clark, once lived about a mile from the village of Jebigue, in Missouri. One day he rode into town on a favorite mule, and, hitching the beast on the sunny side of a street, in front of a saloon, he went inside in his character of teetotaler, to apprise the barkeeper that wine is a mocker. It was a dreadfully hot day. Pretty soon a neighbor came in and seeing Clark, said:
"Champ, it is not right to leave that mule out there in the sun. He'll roast, sure! — he was smoking as I passed him."
"O, he's all right," said Clark, lightly; "he's an inveterate smoker."
The neighbor took a lemonade, but shook his head and repeated that it was not right.
He was a conspirator. There had been a fire the night before: a stable just around the corner had burned and a number of horses had put on their immortality, among them a young colt, which was roasted to a rich nut-brown. Some of the boys had turned Mr. Clark's mule loose and substituted the mortal part of the colt. Presently another man entered the saloon.
"For mercy's sake!" he said, taking it with sugar, "do remove that mule, barkeeper: it smells."
"Yes," interposed Clark, "that animal has the best nose in Missouri. But if he doesn't mind, you shouldn't."
In the course of human events Mr. Clark went out, and there, apparently, lay the incinerated and shrunken remains of his charger. The boys did not have any fun out of Mr. Clark, who looked at the body and, with the non-committal expression to which he owes so much of his political preferment, went away. But walking home late that night he saw his mule standing silent and solemn by the wayside in the misty moonlight. Mentioning the name of Helen Blazes with uncommon emphasis, Mr. Clark took the back track as hard as ever he could hook it, and passed the night in town.
General H. H. Wotherspoon, president of the Army War College, has a pet rib-nosed baboon, an animal of uncommon intelligence but imperfectly beautiful. Returning to his apartment one evening, the General was surprised and pained to find Adam (for so the creature is named, the general being a Darwinian) sitting up for him and wearing his master's best uniform coat, epaulettes and all.
"You confounded remote ancestor!" thundered the great strategist, "what do you mean by being out of bed after taps? — and with my coat on!"
Adam rose and with a reproachful look got down on all fours in the manner of his kind and, scuffling across the room to a table, returned with a visiting-card: General Barry had called and, judging by an empty champagne bottle and several cigar-stumps, had been hospitably entertained while waiting. The general apologized to his faithful progenitor and retired. The next day he met General Barry, who said:
"Spoon, old man, when leaving you last evening I forgot to ask you about those excellent cigars. Where did you get them?"
General Wotherspoon did not deign to reply, but walked away.
"Pardon me, please," said Barry, moving after him; "I was joking of course. Why, I knew it was not you before I had been in the room fifteen minutes."
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(n.) when dogs become children, you start to feel bad to just leave them, and so you give them over to a 4-or-5 star hotel of their own. but, it's one thing to treat pets as children. that's not even the problem.
but to treat any sentient being as a 'doll' to match your 'lifestyle' (with outfits, spa services, vegan/ gluten-free diets, etc.) is truly cruel. upper end doggy daycares may include such extravagances as spa treatments & getting nails done, clearly pandering more to the humans in charge than the dogs.
but to treat any sentient being as a 'doll' to match your 'lifestyle' (with outfits, spa services, vegan/ gluten-free diets, etc.) is truly cruel. upper end doggy daycares may include such extravagances as spa treatments & getting nails done, clearly pandering more to the humans in charge than the dogs.
In a math textbook, a self-important term for a word problem
(n.) a lifestyle of comfort and enjoyment, justifiable only through abstruse philosophical ramblings
(also: bacchanalia)
(also: food)
(also: drugs)
(also: sex)
(also: alcohol)
(also: bacchanalia)
(also: food)
(also: drugs)
(also: sex)
(also: alcohol)
(adj.) the golden people who know how to give, how to take, and how to set boundaries -- the people who keep the world flowing (much like a healthy river).
https://knowledge.wharton.upenn.edu/article/givers-vs-takers-the-surprising-truth-about-who-gets-ahead/
(also: happy, smart, useful)
(also: reciprocation)
(also: flowing)
https://knowledge.wharton.upenn.edu/article/givers-vs-takers-the-surprising-truth-about-who-gets-ahead/
(also: happy, smart, useful)
(also: reciprocation)
(also: flowing)
a Jewish religious official who performs pediatric surgery
being a bystander, i.e. being an aggressor
(n.) the belief that any sacrifice is worth it to make the world a worse place
The only place in the word were you can find that many retarted.
(1766 – 1844) English chemist and physicist. Made contributions to atomic theory.
(also: john dalton quotes)
He is also shortest member of dalton brothers, even his criminal years everybody were expecting him to become scientist.
(also: dalton brothers)
(also: john dalton quotes)
He is also shortest member of dalton brothers, even his criminal years everybody were expecting him to become scientist.
(also: dalton brothers)
A competing or opposing lawyer.
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(n.) a polygon of twelve faces
like my ex! thank you, i'll be here all night
like my ex! thank you, i'll be here all night
A careless abbreviation of requiescat in pace, attesting an indolent goodwill to the dead. According to the learned Dr. Drigge, however, the letters originally meant nothing more than reductus in pulvis.
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(n.) what inevitably happens when you cut off the tail end of culture and leave it hanging, when you rip the religion (aka nascent metaphysics) out of a culture's foundation and deem it 'passe', 'ignorant' or some such without providing a suitable alternative. a bastard child of culture who, on a bad day, develops bpd, does coke, and engages in love-bombing, isolation, gaslighting and other manipulation.
(also: culture)
(also: religion)
(also: metaphysics)
(also: culture)
(also: religion)
(also: metaphysics)
Absurdly chivalric, like Don Quixote. An insight into the beauty and excellence of this incomparable adjective is unhappily denied to him who has the misfortune to know that the gentleman's name is pronounced Ke-ho-tay.
When ignorance from out our lives can banish
Philology, 'tis folly to know Spanish.
—Juan Smith
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
When ignorance from out our lives can banish
Philology, 'tis folly to know Spanish.
—Juan Smith
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
The state and title of a king. Regarded with a just contempt by the Most Eminent Grand Masters, Grand Chancellors, Great Incohonees and Imperial Potentates of the ancient and honorable orders of republican America.
(also: America)
(also: the devils dictionary)
(also: America)
(also: the devils dictionary)
sign-up or face the consequences!
“"observers" must obey the call.”
join