it's a jersey thing...
![new jersey]( "new jersey")
![new jersey]( "new jersey")
someone who makes shoes. Was that not obvious? Why did you have to look this up? You're not a bright one, are you?
A military gentleman with a field-marshal's baton in his knapsack and an impediment in his hope.
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
noun/bi nɑt əˈfreɪd/
I mean, the Bible. Here we explore the mysteries of the universe, from the creation of the heavens and the earth to the existence of biblically accurate angels.
Now, biblically accurate angels are not your run-of-the-mill winged creatures. They're more like fiery-eyed, sword-wielding badasses who deliver messages of hope and comfort to humanity. And when they say "be not afraid," they mean it - you'd better listen up.
But how do these intimidating beings manage to be so comforting? Well, it's all in their demeanor. You see, biblically accurate angels have been around for thousands of years, and they've had plenty of time to perfect the art of making humans feel at ease.
It's a delicate balance, really. On one hand, you want to inspire awe and reverence in the humans you're talking to. On the other hand, you don't want to scare them half to death. That's where the "be not afraid" comes in - it's a reassurance that everything is going to be okay, even if you're talking to a creature with eyes like fire.
Of course, not everyone is comforted by the presence of an angel. Some people would rather stick their heads in the sand than face the reality of a sword-wielding messenger from on high. But for those who are willing to listen, the words "be not afraid" can be a powerful reminder that there is always hope, even in the darkest of times.
So, if you ever find yourself face to face with a biblically accurate angel, don't panic. Take a deep breath, look them in the eye (if you can), and remember - "be not afraid." It might just be the best advice you'll ever get.
I mean, the Bible. Here we explore the mysteries of the universe, from the creation of the heavens and the earth to the existence of biblically accurate angels.
Now, biblically accurate angels are not your run-of-the-mill winged creatures. They're more like fiery-eyed, sword-wielding badasses who deliver messages of hope and comfort to humanity. And when they say "be not afraid," they mean it - you'd better listen up.
But how do these intimidating beings manage to be so comforting? Well, it's all in their demeanor. You see, biblically accurate angels have been around for thousands of years, and they've had plenty of time to perfect the art of making humans feel at ease.
It's a delicate balance, really. On one hand, you want to inspire awe and reverence in the humans you're talking to. On the other hand, you don't want to scare them half to death. That's where the "be not afraid" comes in - it's a reassurance that everything is going to be okay, even if you're talking to a creature with eyes like fire.
Of course, not everyone is comforted by the presence of an angel. Some people would rather stick their heads in the sand than face the reality of a sword-wielding messenger from on high. But for those who are willing to listen, the words "be not afraid" can be a powerful reminder that there is always hope, even in the darkest of times.
So, if you ever find yourself face to face with a biblically accurate angel, don't panic. Take a deep breath, look them in the eye (if you can), and remember - "be not afraid." It might just be the best advice you'll ever get.
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)
“He's not perfect. You aren't either, and the two of you will never be perfect. But if he can make you laugh at least once, causes you to think twice, and if he admits to being human and making mistakes, hold onto him and give him the most you can. He isn't going to quote poetry, he's not thinking about you every moment, but he will give you a part of him that he knows you could break. Don't hurt him, don't change him, and don't expect for more than he can give. Don't analyze. Smile when he makes you happy, yell when he makes you mad, and miss him when he's not there. Love hard when there is love to be had. Because perfect guys don't exist, but there's always one guy that is perfect for you.”
― Bob Marley
(also: Bob Marley)
― Bob Marley
(also: Bob Marley)
so undeniably true that you cannot possibly take the risk that you might accidentally show it false
(n.) what water?
(link is not broken, though it looks like it is)
(link is not broken, though it looks like it is)
(adj.) of language; meant to persuade, imply and suggest, for all those times when plainspokenness would be too pussy
An appellate court which reverses the judgment of a popular author's contemporaries, the appellant being his obscure competitor.
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
n. A vulgarian's name for a woman. A Lieutenant-Governor of California and Warden of the State Prison once reported the number of prisoners under his care as "931 males and 27 ladies."
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
Something god prohibit me to do or else I will be so powerfull.
(v.) to use a valuable thing or resource carefully. to not waste it.
"[these snails] would attach themselves to a convenient branch, construct a thin, paper like front door over the mouth of the shell, and then retreat deep into its convolutions in order **to husband** the moisture in their bodies from the fierce heat of the sun." -- Birds, beasts and relatives by Gerry Durrell
"[these snails] would attach themselves to a convenient branch, construct a thin, paper like front door over the mouth of the shell, and then retreat deep into its convolutions in order **to husband** the moisture in their bodies from the fierce heat of the sun." -- Birds, beasts and relatives by Gerry Durrell
The art of depicting nature as it is seen by toads. The charm suffusing a landscape painted by a mole, or a story written by a measuring-worm.
(also: real life)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: real life)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(adj.) gathering resources, gettin' plump, blooming, rising star shining bright.
(also: moon)
(also: wheel of life)
(also: wheel of fortune)
(also: shape of stories)
(also: moon)
(also: wheel of life)
(also: wheel of fortune)
(also: shape of stories)
(n.) a figment of one's conscious mind that rates the moral consequences of one's actions; the central aim of civilization is learning that the conscience's dictates cannot be ignored, and thus must be more cleverly circumvented
In the manner of a traveling railroad magnate.
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
A coalition of nations in a hope to bring a war torn land together
n. A person who goes to the capital of his country to increase his own; one who makes laws and money.
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
sign-up or face the consequences!
“"observers" must obey the call.”
join