Ennui, the state or condition of one that is bored. Many fanciful derivations of the word have been affirmed, but so high an authority as Father Jape says that it comes from a very obvious source — the first words of the ancient Latin hymn Te Deum Laudamus. In this apparently natural derivation there is something that saddens.
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
informal term for ladypox
there are a number of naturally occurring metallic elements which have historically been noted to be worth significant monetary value, by which standard mining them has been known to be extremely lucrative. historically some of them have been used to mint coins, and today people invest in large lumps of them
among these precious metals are gold (the mac daddy of precious metals, which glows like the sun) and silver (the mac mommy, which glows like the moon), as well as platinum and its orgy buddies ruthenium, rhodium, palladium, osmium, and iridium (these guys just sort of glow like industrial kitchenware).
it is unclear which of these is used to make printer's ink, but it must surely be one of them.
among these precious metals are gold (the mac daddy of precious metals, which glows like the sun) and silver (the mac mommy, which glows like the moon), as well as platinum and its orgy buddies ruthenium, rhodium, palladium, osmium, and iridium (these guys just sort of glow like industrial kitchenware).
it is unclear which of these is used to make printer's ink, but it must surely be one of them.
(n.) a word used in wishful thinking to describe a condition of increased order and technological progress with time.
the supposed end result of extropy will be the achievement of some kind of technological singularity. fingers crossed, i suppose.
the supposed end result of extropy will be the achievement of some kind of technological singularity. fingers crossed, i suppose.
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. An infernal river whose waters caused those who drank them to forget all they knew; whereas the drinker of Spring Valley forgets nothing but the Third Commandment and the pious precepts of a sainted mother.
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(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.
There are only two tragedies in life. One is not getting what you want, the other is getting it.
(also: life)
(also: getting what you want)
(also: life)
(also: getting what you want)
when something is born it will die after its life
meaning we are all born to die
meaning we are all born to die
Bacon is simply the best part of the pig, in my opinion. It is salt cured, often smoked, and usually from the belly. The fatty belly pieces are just amazing and can be used in so many ways. I like to grill or fry bacon, and use it in sandwiches, bacon & egg and other breakfast combinations, wrapped around grilled scallops, as a topping for grilled oysters, etc. I much prefer it in decent sized slices, not bacon bits, but bacon bits do have their uses, e.g. in salad.
A sharp and clever remark, usually quoted, and seldom noted; what the Philistine is pleased to call a "joke."
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(n.) a group of people that joins together in the purpose of festivity and the making of merriment. what fun!
or:
a group of people forming a political faction within the government with the intention of pushing for certain policies and platforms. not terribly fun.
or:
a group of people forming a political faction within the government with the intention of pushing for certain policies and platforms. not terribly fun.
Noun. A calm and wise individual skilled in the art of profound contemplation, often found seeking serenity amidst misplaced car keys and existential dilemmas.
(also: humans)
(also: humans)
to sing some medieval Hebrew poetry that you've half-memorized out of a book along with all the other congregants. If you want to seek a true connection to God beyond mere recitation, the translation can be found on the opposite-facing page.
The known part of the route from an arboreal ancestor with a swim bladder to an urban descendant with a cigarette.
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
one of the more pervasive postulates in the field of hooey.
in summarium, the idea that veins of vague, unquantifiable "energy" crisscross the planet, intersecting at points of equally vague significance, usually ones humans handily chose to mark with photogenic landmarks such as stonehenge
equivalent to "dragon paths" in chinese culture, to "songlines" in australian aboriginal culture, and (functionally) to aliens building the pyramids in sane person culture.
in summarium, the idea that veins of vague, unquantifiable "energy" crisscross the planet, intersecting at points of equally vague significance, usually ones humans handily chose to mark with photogenic landmarks such as stonehenge
equivalent to "dragon paths" in chinese culture, to "songlines" in australian aboriginal culture, and (functionally) to aliens building the pyramids in sane person culture.
A play representing life in another world, whose inhabitants have no speech but song, no motions but gestures and no postures but attitudes. All acting is simulation, and the word simulation is from simia, an ape; but in opera the actor takes for his model Simia audibilis (or Pithecanthropos stentor) — the ape that howls.
The actor apes a man — at least in shape;
The opera performer apes an ape.
(also: the devil's dictionary)
The actor apes a man — at least in shape;
The opera performer apes an ape.
(also: the devil's dictionary)
(v.) the act of desperately trying to salvage a plan that has gone horribly awry
A nether habiliment of the adult civilized male. The garment is tubular and unprovided with hinges at the points of flexion. Supposed to have been invented by a humorist. Called "trousers" by the enlightened and "pants" by the unworthy.
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
market too
sign-up or face the consequences!
“"observers" must obey the call.”
join