Gaius Octavius

Here, in America, we have a new invention - keys! We have a tendency to carry them with us for just such occasions.

Can't help you there. But, this Wednesday is Holey Sfachemes Day in Napoli. I'm sure they have good cause to celebrate. If it wasn't for sfacheme, the descendants of the ancient Romans (tall or short) wouldn't be here today. -- Nephele

Can't help you there. But, this Wednesday is Holey Sfachemes Day in Napoli.

The first two are not conservative in the American sense. They would be hanged if they were. berlusconi is a traitor and convicted criminal. He is a conservative in the American sense.

Moon, Kosmo, and all. The vehemence in this blog is directed to one person in conjunction with my post elsewhere. I think that you all know that I would have been more jocular if I wanted to direct it to all.

Are you a Morris dancer?

Wasn't there a financial qualification to be in the Senate?

Since I will probably be a member of the 'Damnatio" by Evening Song, let me get this off of my chest. I am perfectly willing to return all the meager taxes you Liberarians and other neo-con job artists have ever paid on your paltry income, with compound interest at the then prevailing Treasury bond rate. I will now teach you what 'Capitalism' is. If you ever breathe the air, ching-ching, at MY rate. If you ever go to a university, hospital, ball park - ching-ching. Have a sewer line, telephone, ching-ching, at MY calling. Dare to comesticate anything that has passed the King's highway, ching-ching. Even if you cultivate the seeds that have traversed the King's highway - ching-ching. Drive your Kia, on MY roads, ching-ching. Since you have gotten all your taxes back, when you fall ill, it will be up to your spawn to care for you. Your doctor won't be able to get into a hospital on your account, unless he pays MY rates. Get the idea? I'd rather pay an illegal Mexican's truck, than have to pay yours. He is willing to pay taxes to live in AMERICA! Please don't go to Hell, I don't want to meet up with you.

Komrades: This may be my last blog due to a certain post of mine. So.... ---------------------------------------------------------- And now for some cultural reportage. To start with, it is El Cinco de Mayo once again. You've all heard the libelous term 'Italian Football Wedding', but you probably never had the pleasure of having attended one, since the most of you are barbarians. Herein, I shall describe one to you. But, for contrast, I shall open things with an inter-racial and inter-religious affair. My cousin's kid, an Eyetalian Roman Catholic, wedded himself off to a Jewish lass. Unfortunately, I was invited to the doings. Had to give the kids a present! The festivities took place at some ritzy North Shore Lon Giland yacht club. The opening goodies were Jewish, Chinese (natch!) and Italian. The Jewish goodies were mostly glommed before Consort and I got there, so we had to settle for the other slops. I know that you won't believe that Jewish goodies are top of the line, because of the way their regular cooking stinks (literally) to the high heavens. Probably to get God's attention. Anyway, both races mingled amicably. No brawls at all. When it came to the knot tying bit, a rabbi and a priest's time was wasted. I thought to myself, why not have a mullah and a pastor, really cement things? I also indicated to any who would listen, that since I am a defrocked priest, I would do the work, and at a small discount, since blood was involved. No one paid any attention. Somehow, I wound up behind everyone. Bride muscled her way up front. Since I couldn't hear or see what was going on, I summoned a steward and required him to fill a few beakers of Scotch and to deposit them on a balcony table. There I repaired, alone and peaceful, to watch the yachts bobble and the gulls enjoy themselves. Gulls and I do not see eye to eye on much. I hate the flying garbage cans with a passion beyond passion. Their object in life is to strafe the Imperial Chariot. There I sat, peacefully and alone, enjoying the libations and puffing away at cancer sticks. Unknowingly, (Like bloody hell!), I flipped the puff butts into the air. The gulls would swoop down and knock them back. God!, it was a pleasure to see them perform insane acrobatics whilst screeching their gizzards out. Yup! They got even with me. Never missed the target of their desires. Had a speckled burgundy chariot. Dinner was great. Anything one wanted - even pork. Now, off to the object of this Journal. The broom's party would hit the church and assemble at the altar reeking of booze, and holding their heads, as a result of the recently terminated bachelor party. Very dirty jokes were swapped when the boys could coordinate the operations of brain and tounge. The priest, who had just adjourned the poker game at Dinty Moore's Back Room, put in a lordly appearance. The opposing Families sat across the nave from each other, taking every opportunity to glare at each other. Did I mention that this was an inter-racial marriage - Calabrese versus Barese? Iron heads against kerosene people? Don't get it? Forget it! After some extended while, the brides party shows up and marches up the nave. Oh! How beautiful! Pigs! She deserves much better. The witch can't cook. How handsome. Schmuck. (Yes, schmuck is an Eyetalian word.) Why doesn't he/she marry one of his/her own? The worst of ours, is better than the best of theirs. Even a Sicilian would be better. The priest does his thing, and the guests of honor agree to all the lies. All march down the nave to the feigned approbation of the enemies. When the happy couple get outside the church, they are pelted with rice. (I always thought that that stuff was grace.) After a short hiatus, all repair to the church hall, which is a combination basketball court/theatre. The tables are set up in an upside down 'U' fashion. Each has a bottle of Seagrams, a bottle of Teachers, and a few gallons of Gallo's Very Best. The beer is in kegs at the open end of the U. Here also repose several grosses of Italian hero sandwiches, clothed in butcher's paper, from Nickie's Gourmet Emporium. A band is stuck somewhere thereabouts. The bride and broom, along with their attendants, sit at the head table. The band strikes up a tarantella. The little boys commence doing cart wheels on the stage. The little girls start picking nits out of each other's hair. The opposing quarter backs start passing the heros. Gaspare, fried eggplant? Zi Pep, pepper and eggs? Don Cicci, meat balls? Fiatella, ham and provolone? Gina, mortadella? After a bit, the bride traipses about the tables picking up the cash (No checks, please.), in the folds of her wedding dress. Oh, none of your useless presents - we'll get our own. She dishes out candied almonds in a porcelain swan. Now, everyone goes about dancing and b. essing. Guguzio happens to espy his personal bookmaker, Irving, who has been somewhat tardy paying off. Ugly words turn into fisticuffs. Every one takes a hand in matters, settling old scores with anyone who comes into view. Even the ladies have a good hair pulling. Bras and corsets wind up on the basketball hoops. Priest retires to poker game. Irish cops are summoned. One winds up in a garbage barrel wrong side up with a zucchini sticking out of his nether part. Things don't go as planned for cops. They call for Italian back up. No Way! Cops retreat; back to fun and games. Things settle down and the canoli, sfoiliatelle, and Napoleons are passed around. Espresso with anisette. (Sorry, no eXpresso!) All good things must come to an end. So people pick themselves up as best they can, and start loading up on the remaining goodies and booze. There are some minor encore scuffles. Once safely tucked in bed, husband and wife exclaim that it was such a great affair, but.... Didn't Aunt Angelina look stupid in that outfit. The marriage won't last out the year.

I have waited a while before answering this inane post. It is obviously from one without a clue about American history. It is my fondest, fervent wish that he eat none but imported foods, particularly the oriental slops. I wish the same for any medicine that he will, hopefully, need. Had he a 'high income', taxes wouldn't trouble him. He wouldn't pay any. I don't. Yes, I am having a couple of brews - the kind he can't afford. Do your damndest. With my permission, of course. For more ammo, check my blog.

This sounds like Mommsen again. Since Mommsen's time, new archaeological evidence has shown evidence of widespread smallholdings (aka, peasant farming) before, during, and after (1) the import agreement with Sicily and (2) the Punic Wars. For a systematic look at this issue, see Nate Rosenstein's Rome at War. The idea that the Roman farmer was turning into landless proletarii is the biggest myth of the history of the middle republic (except maybe the one about Rome salting the earth at Carthage). Without defining 'small holding', i.e., keeping body and soul in touch, how can anyone get anywhere here? 23 jugera? One jugera? Tenant farmer? How does one know that this 'new' information, (that is not from primary sources), is nothing more than propaganda? I hope that none will ever have the temerity to use Mommsen as a source, on any matter, again!

Like it even better now. Radar domes and pillows are particular favourites of mine.

Komrades: Father M. stopped cold in his tracks at the altar. Nah, not in MY church! Millions of thoughts can traipse through the human mind at once. Was it a bosons pipe? The wind through an open window? A deranged Black Protestant? Nah, I have a Truce of God with Father F. at the Episky operation. The altar boys, who had just made easy work of the communion wine, were sniggering. They knew. A vicious glance from the kindly padre put an end to their hilarity. The nuns were alarmed and thus alerted. This abomination came from the area of the Fourth Station of the Cross. That was the public school kid's territory. They had no respect. The reason for the foregoing is summed up thus: In the late 40's and early 50's, guys signed up before being drafted. Only one of our guys got thrown out of the navy. He had a penchant for falling out of his bunk. We were suspicious of him. In reality, a draft dodger? A communist? A future president? When the guys came home on leave, we would all gather at the flag pole, real genuine pizza, pepperoni, and beer to hand. (In those days, the flag went up and down with the sun.) These guys would tell the most hilarious, truly filthy jokes for hours. During a hiatus, we young ones would wash down the bricks under foot. Nothing would dare to grow between the cracks. Someone would shinny up the flag pole and get the rope; wind it around the pole and then take a ride round the pole hanging on for dear life from the rope. There was a down side to this bit. If one dropped off too early, he crashed into the bricks or the steps. Too late, and he bashed his head on the hollow pole with a resounding Booowng. The goodies and jokes usually ran out at the same time. There was a Greek guy, Andy. He had a neck like a johnny-pump; his name used the entire alphabet - several times. Something about Constantinople. Strong like the bull! But he was such an easy going lad. He had a new 1950 black Pontiac. We all would pile into and onto it. Then it was off to Boro Park for fresh bagels. (Did you know that there are 13 bagels in a dozen?) In lieu and/or subsequent to that, it was off to Coney Island for hot dogs and sauerkraut at Nathan's. We'd buy gaggles of them. Andy would curse out the Jewish guys serving up the dogs - in Greek, and with that ever present smile. No one knew what curses the Jewish guys flang at us. Then it was back home and off to a metal door down the docks. We each took turns at the same spot and in the end sliced it open. I think that you all are personally aware of the other results of these affairs. And thus it was the Saturday before the Sunday Mass we speak of here. To continue. As one whistle tailed off another tailed on. (So to speak.) The wax in Fr. M's ears melted. The sound of a Gatling gun then chimed in. Almost popped Fr. M's skull. Fr. M couldn't leave the altar. But the nuns were on the way. Some rowdies in the general area of this most mortal sin were seen to have their faces buried in their hands as they knelt. Were they praying? Covering up their laughing or the crime itself? When the clicker signaled sitting, it seems as if it also signaled a broadside from Yamato's 18 inchers. It echoed off the back of the pew. A general cacophony of artillery ensued. Some have claimed that Fr. M's head was now on fire. Some urchins in the vicinity of the launch zone were gagging; some had tears in their eyes; a couple had passed out. One is alleged to have gone blind. A final great WOOOOFFFF channeled itself up a scoundrel's shirt and out of his collar. All was silence as the nuns reached the kill zone and passed out. The bishop was immediately summoned to re-sanctify the church. God, himself, was ticked off! You all do know that God lives in the Vatican; speaks Latin, (Gave up on Greek.), and has a nice bit of lasagna with the Pope after Mass? Now we come to Confession. It was standard practice for the louts to kneel in a pew and observe who came out of which confessional and what he was up to. If he was on his knees with a Rosary in his hands and rambling about the church, this was not to be your confessor. Sometimes mistakes were made. The next Saturday one of our heroes blundered. Bless me father for I have sinned most grievously. I broke wind at Mass Sunday last. Wuuuhaht? That was your work? Fly! Flee! Escape! The kid charged out of the confessional and bashed his head on the back of the last pew. He saw rockets and many stars. But this was no time to pass out. That would have to wait for later. Much later. It was a great Mitzvah that these doings did not take place in a crowded elevator or on an escalator. Cecil

"I already met someone there I think I'll be able to really connect with!!!" Please be exceptionally careful.

http://www.fool.com/investing/dividends-in...hpdspmra0000001 http://www.fool.com/investing/dividends-in...flfollnk0000003

If it's any consolation, I've just tried to load up the home page and failed.

G.H., that was the clincher! I've taken to rags for my head, and beg terms.

C., I beg honourable terms!

I am compelled to say that Melinda has a most inviting nether pillow. The northern atmo spheres are an excellent cure for male depression.

Did I happen to mention that I like your new picture?

Thanks.

N., your life would have been referred to in the past tense, had you made him a bathroom attendant. Anyway, I thought that he was seeking out bats with a pair of Doc's chop sticks.

Now some god damned WOP is at it! "" CONGRATULAZIONI " Gentile Cliente, Poste Italiane S.p.A. premia il suo account con un bonus di fedeltа pari a 250,00 Euro. Per ricevere il bonus и necesario accedere ai servizi online entro 48 ore dalla ricezione di questa e-mail. Il bonus le sarrа accreditato nelle prossime 72 ore. Importo bonus vinto: 249,00 Commissioni: 1,00 Importo totale: 250,00 Accedi ai servizi online per accreditare il bonus fedeltа

We have a 13 year old on the forum. Welcome and happy hunting Zanatos.

B.H., would you please supply the URL's.