allthumbs

bullshit there's never enough

We still piss on you from great height steamy-shit.

sacrilege!

What are you, a communist or something? American football as you call it is the shit.

Very cool - kill kill kill kill

Trojan and Ramses make nice small bags, although the ziplock feature appears to be under development.

Ya, no shit. The A4 is an very nice car, but nothing to blow your cookies over. Anyone with 1/2 a job can afford one assuming they hadn't already maxed out their VISA cards. If you want to pick on cars, why not the Hummers, Porsche's, Ferrari's, F350 Crew Cab 1 ton pickups, Dodge Vipers, Corvettes, and shit like that.

I predict RIE will clone Eddie Bauer within 5 years, if not sooner. Money talks, plain and simple.

"Quite. Well I've finished my biscuit and must get back to my hoovering".

Roger that JCassidy. The Cougs suck hind teat. Dawgs will gnaw their scroads and serve up little Cougar testes as halftime appetizers. Apple Cup: Dawgs 31 - Cougs 17

quote: Originally posted by allison: Sure, I was there. Congrats on bagging the Slutiest 100 in Washington! thanks sweetie.

quote: Originally posted by Fence Sitter: you should come on up trasky boy. okay, but do I have to shave my nipples first?

What are you doing Layton, trolling for DFA? hahaha

dude, no one really wants to hear about your nipple fetish

Don't forget my show tonight you horn dawgs.

quote: Originally posted by allison: I'll get back to you after the slide show tonight with input! Cool, Allison, you're coming to my slideshow tonight?

42 - 14 Dawgs. QUACK,QUack,Quack,quack,qua....

35 - 14 Dawgs, and still cookin' baby! Ruff Ruff!!!

Huskies 14 Ducks 14 ... time for gurlz on trampolines!

Can anyone think of an indoor game? I can...

Not worth reading though, because Mtn.Goat is so in love with himself that he can never compromise, let alone even hear another's argument. He's a spewing machine.

Fuck the Planet The World is my Garbage Can

quote: Originally posted by allison: OK, I'm all ears: How do you propose we solve the region's transportation problems? I propose we open up all lanes for one. I also believe that as the economy continues to spiral downwards, that more and more people will egress out of this state. Boeing is leaving, Weyerhauser is shutting down and many techy businesses are leaving...probably including most of Microsoft, soon enough. The short of it, wait the bastards out, they will move back to Kalifornia soon enough. I also propose that home-offices should be a mandatory thing. With telecommuting so easy now, there's no reason to be driving into work just to be fucked with by a nerdy supervisor. I home-office and manage to produce much more than I ever did working out of an office. Anyway, this option takes a shitload of cars off the road. Carpool. Yeah right. It does work though. I have other ideas, but no one really wants to hear them.

Thought you all might like this - Rick Reilly is a writer for Sports Illustrated. On a Wing and a Prayer, by Rick Reilly Now this message for America's most famous athletes: Someday you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country's most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have -- John Elway, John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few. If you get this opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity.... Move to Guam. Change your name. Fake your own death. Whatever you do, do not go. I know. The U. S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was pumped. I was toast! I could've known when they told me my pilot would be Chip (Biff) King of Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach. Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like, triple it. He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time. If you see this man, run the other way. Fast. Biff King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions. ("T-minus 15 seconds and counting...." Remember?) Chip would charge neighborhood kids a quarter each to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps surrounded by nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, "We have a liftoff." Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60 million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not unlike Colin Montgomerie. I was worried about getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I should eat the next morning. "Bananas," he said. "For the potassium?" I asked. "No," Biff said, "because they taste about the same coming up as they do going down." The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign -- like Crash or Sticky or Leadfoot -- but, still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I had a chance to nail Nicole Kidman, that was it. A fighter pilot named Psycho gave me a safety briefing and then fastened me into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would "egress" me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be immediately knocked unconscious. Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. In minutes we were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out and then canopy-rolled over another F-14. Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life. Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80. It was like being on the roller coaster at Six Flags Over *. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, sap rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per minute. We chased another F-14, and it chased us. We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G-force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was smashing against me, thereby approximating life as Mrs. Colin Montgomerie. And I egressed the bananas. I egressed the pizza from the night before. And the lunch before that. I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth grade. I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of the G's, I was egressing stuff that did not even want to be egressed. I went through not one airsick bag, but two. Biff said I passed out. Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a mock bombing target and the G's were flattening me like a tortilla and I was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was the first person in history to throw down. I used to know cool. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or Norman making a five-iron bite. But now I really know cool. Cool is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and Freon nerves. I wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but I'm glad Biff does every day, and for less a year than a rookie reliever makes in a home stand. A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. Said he'd send it on a patch for my flight suit. What is it? I asked. "Two Bags." Don't you dare tell Nicole.

Bad Snafflehound