Shiftless2
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Ah yes. The "Christmas Alphabet" - the difference between that and the regular alphabet is that it has Noel.
Photos, vids, etc ....
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Shiftless2
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You owe it to yourself to listen
I can't figure out from what nation, or even what continent that's from.
Shiftless2
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From my FB page
Jim Henson was able to capture the beauty of the iconic Jim Croce song “Time in a Bottle” for The Muppet Show in a moment that is both heartwarming and heartbreaking.
Jim Henson was able to capture the beauty of the iconic Jim Croce song “Time in a Bottle” for The Muppet Show in a moment that is both heartwarming and heartbreaking.
Shiftless2
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Shiftless2
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Definitely a Grown-Uppy Question
Shiftless2
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Shiftless2
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Shiftless2
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This thread is "Photos, vids, etc. This is "an etc."
He was a real good guy, through and through. Never met anyone quite like him since, never really expect I will either.
People like Joe don't come around often. Once in a lifetime maybe, if you're lucky.
Almost everyone I've ever met had the tiny silvered papercuts of white-lies on their fingers. It's a price of formalities, a camouflage of sorts- as everyone has a few, some deeper cut than others over the years; opened and reopened time after time. And not just that, but the larger cuts, silvery things on forearms and shins, necks or backs. People lie, it's just the way of things.
Sometimes the pain it worth the deception, the balancing scale plays out mentally before a person's mouth opens.
Joining the force was what I wanted. There was a lie I told myself: A Lie I scratched in deep, over and over again. I wanted to change, I wanted my parents to be proud: All lies, tiny scratching lines on my shoulder to create a strange and deceitful pattern that never seemed to heal completely.
In truth, I joined the force because I had nothing left. I joined as a last ditch effort to save myself from rock bottom. Among the elite, surrounded by the brave and the successful, I simply kept my head down. It felt like being a fox, stuck among a pack of wolves. Just being there in the first place felt like deception.
But then, there was instructor Joe.
I had more scars than most, and that earned little trust- but if people were politely cold with me, they were visibly frigid with Joe. See, he didn't have the traditional marks on his hands, he didn't have cuts and nicks along his arms, his face or neck: At a quick glance you might have thought him the most honest man alive. In fact, at first people did. A man in his fading thirties without scars?
That's like a god-damn unicorn. They're more myth and legend than person- yet there he was. Plain as day.
Everyone liked Joe that first week. Everyone wanted to be on good terms with him- I mean, who wouldn't? In a world of liars and cheats, proof reminded at every twist and turn of the road, who wouldn't want someone they could trust?
Well, that was before he took of his shirt in the locker-room. Before we all saw the hideous mark that covered half his back. One lie, but the most gruesome thing I've ever seen. From his shoulder blade to his ribs, it looked like a crashing comet of red and silvered white. A tiny portion of it just finally healing, a rough tear now recovered again.
It was all the same lie. That's something you can just tell sometimes, just know it. Usually you can tell how many times too, but whatever the number was which he'd said that aloud, I don't know.
He rarely spoke to begin with, issuing the orders with a stern smile, instructing as all the rest did. He was positive, encouraging, truthful: But that scar was on everyone's mind. Deep, dark, and terrible: Someone who could tell a lie like that... Well, there was someone to watch out for. In the end though, it was at the range when things went well and truly sour.
Live-fire runs, we'd done them a thousand times, but that day I guess someone forgot themselves. Maybe they thought too much on what and how and their brain skipped a beat, or maybe they were just careless. Regardless of the reason, a shot fired when it shouldn't have. Brass spit fire, Air swallowed metal, and lead took its first taste of iron, calcium, iron and dirt.
In that order.
We all stopped, eyes wide and watching that kid fall down real slow. First standing, staring with his hand pulling away- not even scared, just shocked. Red, like deep crimson soaking and spreading, he dropped down to his knees. Still, he wasn't even there yet, it hadn't quite processed.
That's when Joe caught him- and all the shouting erupted. The pandemonium, the first real training turned to action kicking in. Cries for "Medic!" and "KIT! Get the kit!" as people ran for the directions they thought mattered.
I was close enough to know that wasn't going to make a difference. Center of mass was what we trained for, the reason was straight and forward: Shoot to kill. Eliminate the target and move on.
So I sat there, weapon heavy in my hands as I watched Joe hold this kid, blood pouring out into the dirt like a faucet, and I listened to him repeat the words that cut deep. Over, and over, and over again.
"Hang on, look at me. You're gonna be alright."
"You're gonna be alright."
He was a real good guy, through and through. Never met anyone quite like him since, never really expect I will either.
People like Joe don't come around often. Once in a lifetime maybe, if you're lucky.
Almost everyone I've ever met had the tiny silvered papercuts of white-lies on their fingers. It's a price of formalities, a camouflage of sorts- as everyone has a few, some deeper cut than others over the years; opened and reopened time after time. And not just that, but the larger cuts, silvery things on forearms and shins, necks or backs. People lie, it's just the way of things.
Sometimes the pain it worth the deception, the balancing scale plays out mentally before a person's mouth opens.
Joining the force was what I wanted. There was a lie I told myself: A Lie I scratched in deep, over and over again. I wanted to change, I wanted my parents to be proud: All lies, tiny scratching lines on my shoulder to create a strange and deceitful pattern that never seemed to heal completely.
In truth, I joined the force because I had nothing left. I joined as a last ditch effort to save myself from rock bottom. Among the elite, surrounded by the brave and the successful, I simply kept my head down. It felt like being a fox, stuck among a pack of wolves. Just being there in the first place felt like deception.
But then, there was instructor Joe.
I had more scars than most, and that earned little trust- but if people were politely cold with me, they were visibly frigid with Joe. See, he didn't have the traditional marks on his hands, he didn't have cuts and nicks along his arms, his face or neck: At a quick glance you might have thought him the most honest man alive. In fact, at first people did. A man in his fading thirties without scars?
That's like a god-damn unicorn. They're more myth and legend than person- yet there he was. Plain as day.
Everyone liked Joe that first week. Everyone wanted to be on good terms with him- I mean, who wouldn't? In a world of liars and cheats, proof reminded at every twist and turn of the road, who wouldn't want someone they could trust?
Well, that was before he took of his shirt in the locker-room. Before we all saw the hideous mark that covered half his back. One lie, but the most gruesome thing I've ever seen. From his shoulder blade to his ribs, it looked like a crashing comet of red and silvered white. A tiny portion of it just finally healing, a rough tear now recovered again.
It was all the same lie. That's something you can just tell sometimes, just know it. Usually you can tell how many times too, but whatever the number was which he'd said that aloud, I don't know.
He rarely spoke to begin with, issuing the orders with a stern smile, instructing as all the rest did. He was positive, encouraging, truthful: But that scar was on everyone's mind. Deep, dark, and terrible: Someone who could tell a lie like that... Well, there was someone to watch out for. In the end though, it was at the range when things went well and truly sour.
Live-fire runs, we'd done them a thousand times, but that day I guess someone forgot themselves. Maybe they thought too much on what and how and their brain skipped a beat, or maybe they were just careless. Regardless of the reason, a shot fired when it shouldn't have. Brass spit fire, Air swallowed metal, and lead took its first taste of iron, calcium, iron and dirt.
In that order.
We all stopped, eyes wide and watching that kid fall down real slow. First standing, staring with his hand pulling away- not even scared, just shocked. Red, like deep crimson soaking and spreading, he dropped down to his knees. Still, he wasn't even there yet, it hadn't quite processed.
That's when Joe caught him- and all the shouting erupted. The pandemonium, the first real training turned to action kicking in. Cries for "Medic!" and "KIT! Get the kit!" as people ran for the directions they thought mattered.
I was close enough to know that wasn't going to make a difference. Center of mass was what we trained for, the reason was straight and forward: Shoot to kill. Eliminate the target and move on.
So I sat there, weapon heavy in my hands as I watched Joe hold this kid, blood pouring out into the dirt like a faucet, and I listened to him repeat the words that cut deep. Over, and over, and over again.
"Hang on, look at me. You're gonna be alright."
"You're gonna be alright."
Not sure I get it, but it seems funny anyway.
I am sure I don't get it, not sure it's all that funny. Not sure an extensive re-write would help much.
Winter:
Shiftless2
Well-known member
It's not supposed to be funny - the whole point is that "Joe" only had one scar from telling a lie - and it was a huge one. He knew the kid was done for but he was trying to comfort him.
#1011
Pretty much what I figured. It's a potentially useful message, even if not quite up to universal standard. There's probably a better way to impart the insight.
Rock solid honesty can be disarming. The surgery scene in Bogart's To Have And Have Not comes to mind. BUT
inaccuracy is sssoooooo much easier, consistent true sincerity and honesty is quite rare.
Pretty much what I figured. It's a potentially useful message, even if not quite up to universal standard. There's probably a better way to impart the insight.
Rock solid honesty can be disarming. The surgery scene in Bogart's To Have And Have Not comes to mind. BUT
inaccuracy is sssoooooo much easier, consistent true sincerity and honesty is quite rare.
Shiftless2
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One of the more reliable indications of a false argument is that it is wrong. This doesn't seem to trouble those for whom their own position is a higher priority than truth.
Shiftless2
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Does this mean that Jesus was a communist? After all, loaves and fishes
Shiftless2
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I don't have a source for the numbers in the first two pics but sounds about right - the third is absolutely true.
Shiftless2
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Shiftless2
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You think morons who don’t even understand how vaccines work are going to be able to understand my complex Big Scarf conspiracies?? This thing goes all the way to the top…. Lenny Kravitz himself!
A quarter century of self-indulgent, resplendent seclusion (along with a few years of isolation from global pandemic) has weakened my connection to such artistic / social references. Perhaps there's a song lyric I'm missing.
I have wondered about the health affects of a flow-impeding mask over nose / mouth, whether N95, or a Winter scarf. Not clear on "conspiracies". But such masking probably decreases the amount of Oxygen reaching vital organs including heart and brain.
Shiftless2
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Then the next time you (or a family member) has to undergo surgery you should tell the surgeon not to wear a mask. After all, depending on the nature of the operation they may well end up wearing that mask for hours with no interruption .