WURW Monday 11.06.2017

WURW Monday 11.06.2017

Postby Thunder1 » November 6th 2017, 4:53am

For work..
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For later this afternoon..
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Ebels are a lot like women that lack a low cut dress that zips up the side...neither get the love that they deserve...
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Re: WURW Monday 11.06.2017

Postby NorthCountry » November 6th 2017, 5:42am

Orient Ray today I say.

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After a quick walk outside from one building to the next, not bad for a dark dreary day.
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Re: WURW Monday 11.06.2017

Postby TemerityB » November 6th 2017, 5:56am

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"To really be a watch company, you have to make your own watch with your own movement. Otherwise, you're a casing company." - Roland Murphy
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Re: WURW Monday 11.06.2017

Postby Rusty » November 6th 2017, 6:58am

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Re: WURW Monday 11.06.2017

Postby bedlam » November 6th 2017, 7:17am

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"If I could put a finger on the moment we genuinely fucked ourselves, it was the moment we decided that data was something you could use words like believe or disbelieve around...

The Water Knife

Paolo Bacigalupi
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Re: WURW Monday 11.06.2017

Postby foghorn » November 6th 2017, 9:51am

Yesterdays thread on the new Timex vintage auto caused me to whip out the quartzy homage to Timexes past.


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GET OFF MY LAWN
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Finding out the time is about as difficult as finding a cheesburger.
boneyguy, Sep 12, 2007 #12
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Re: WURW Monday 11.06.2017

Postby iwasbanned » November 6th 2017, 10:04am

Going back home to ATX.

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Re: WURW Monday 11.06.2017

Postby SynMike » November 6th 2017, 12:55pm

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Before you criticize a man, walk a mile in his shoes. That way you'll be a mile away and you'll have his shoes.
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Re: WURW Monday 11.06.2017

Postby Mortuus » November 6th 2017, 8:58pm

TemerityB wrote:Image

Oh, TB, that gorgeous silver-grey Orient dress watch, with that bright blue strap, makes me get all gooey between the ears, as a sudden genitalia-wide empurplement takes place and I become fraught with horological horniness to the point of strangulation as I look down to my custard-chucking love snake and realize that a mess is coming, And That Right Soon, as Warden Borden's sampler opined as it covered the hidden safe in his office, where millions of dollars are kept to prevent this very thing from happening during, say, a prisoner sit-in, or worse, a violent takeover of the kitchen because the food sux like an Electrolux, but who cares?

They're fucking prisoners, for Denny's sake, and nothing ELSE is open at two-fifteen in the morning, and -- Oh lucky YOU! -- you've harpooned yourself a nice fat girl who wants TWO of the Rooty-Tooty-Fresh 'n Fruity Meat 'n Cheese Lover's Special's, and nothing else will fucking DO, but when you try and explain to her that it's EYE-EYE-EYE-HOP! that features the Rooty-Tooty-thingy, she hauls off and slaps you with one of her massive, fat-laden hands, and you notice that even the fat on the back of her fingers flobs and grupples like cottage-cheese-in-a-condom as her hand makes contact with your face with a wet, smack-the-cadaver-with-a-snow-shovel sound that you know you'll remember forever, even as you begin to lose consciousness and fly over the dirt-mottled plastic flowers (set in ancient bark bits and flaking green Styrofoam blocks) between your booth and the next, where you land face-first in something they call a "pizza omelet," and just the name "Pizza Omelet" is SO gross and disgusting that you begin to vomit, even as you're heading into a deep unconsciousness, and a merciful unconsciousness at THAT, because 'ol Bertha Butte isn't finished with you -- oh NO, of course she isn't! -- as she takes all three of her utensils, still wrapped in their paper place-holder ring, into one enormous and shimmering-with-imaginary-animal-fat fist and, taking a huge wind-up with one gigantic, fat-and-cellulite-laden arm held high, brings it down at full force into your right buttock, and the sound of the fat in her arm, as it bounces up-and-down -- sort of a "Squisha-squisha-glurp-squisha" noise, follows you down into the black pit of unconsciousness, where you're rolling this big donut, and a snake wearing a vest says, "Hey, buddy, I lost my motorcycle up here, and if you help me find it, I'll give us BOTH a ride outta here!"

You say thanks, but then you're suddenly awake, realizing that you're not at home in your own bed, and there's an arm around you -- a big, hammy thing -- an arm that's four-fifths of the way chewed through, but is still holding you in that bed, and your bedmate appears to be Raymond Burr's nemesis, Godzilla (or "Gotzirra," for those of you in Tokyo), whose snoring sounds like you've got two rumbling John Deere Super Sports Field Special's™, idling at just below top-dead-center, next to you in bed, and that's all the inspiration you need as you gnaw your way through the rest of that gawdawful arm, spitting out huge runnels of horrifying brown and yellow fat, spitting it out and hearing the wet smack ("gah-fwoop!) as it hits the floor and rolls away, joining up with other globs of adipose, beginning to coalesce into some sort of strange life form, one never seen before, neither here nor anywhere else...

"SPOCK!" you yell, "YOUR ANALYSIS?"

"Unnecessary, Captain," he responds. "Vulcans don't use drugs."

"He said 'Your Analysis,' Spock, NOT Urinalysis, you green-blooded, moronic DOPE!" yells Dr. McCoy from somewhere you can't see.

"I've had as much bullshit as I'm gonna TAKE from you, you loud, foul-mouthed pederast!!" screams Spock, and he begins walking toward the sound of McCoy's petulant voice.

"What? WHAT? WHAT did you call me?" McCoy screams.

"You heard me, Doctor Pockmarks!" yells Spock, himself nearly screaming.

And that's when you hear the sounds of terrible hand-to-hand fighting between Spock and 'Bones,' and you realize suddenly that THIS TOO is a dream!

So you stand up and yell, "Conjurer is a Dolt with a Bolt" three times, and suddenly, a giant bolt of lightning strikes, and you wake up in your snuggly-warm bed, all safe 'n soundy, just YOU and your WIFEY...but then you notice that one of her arms is draped casually over you, and it's chewed four-fifths of the way through. You suddenly taste something coppery in your mouth, and realize that it's the awful taste of blood and fat together, and then you feel the huge globules of fat that are suddenly and inexplicably bubbling up from under your tongue. And THAT's when you start screaming and screaming and screaming, never to stop until you feel the little pinch on your arm and the Haldol slowly begins to calm you into something approximating your normal self.

"Habbla babba son mabbluh?" you ask the doctor.

"Of course," he says, sounding warm and comforting.

An orderly arrives with a covered dinner tray. The doc tells you, "bone appetitty!" as he leaves, and then the orderly is gone, as well, leaving behind the scent of White Shoulders™ and the lingering memory of scuffed, squeaky white shoes.

You slowly lift the top from the steaming tray and, as part of you somehow knew would be the case, a char-grilled arm is there, garnished with carrots, celery and radishes, and with little sprigs of parsley and sage. It's a left arm, and weirder than weird, it's got your watch and wedding band on it. And that's when you suddenly realize that you no longer have a left arm.

You scream and scream and scream, until you feel another pinch, and then sweet-blessed-sleep takes over. Later on, the hospital will claim that it was an induced coma to help you heal from your horrible, self-inflicted injury. After five years, you regain a semblance of consciousness, but all you do is stare, and occasionally look at the TV and yell "WOWEM!" every few minutes, until you're either taken back to your room or someone shuts off the set. Ten more years go by. Then twenty. Your wife finally divorces you, and moves in with the Pool Boy. Your daughter joins the Hell's Angels and gets passed around like a bad cold until the gang gets tired of her and then leaves her early one morning after she falls into a deep, post meth-binge sleep. They left her nothing but an Invicter Super Dolt and a ten-spot, held down by a douche bottle with a brand name she'd never heard of nor seen before: ¡empujar y apretar!. Only your mom continues to visit, but after 40 years, she has a stroke and can only mutter, "Ah tension k mar shoffurs blu lyte speshal is own nile free." She dies soon afterward.

And the dead guy got tired at this point and couldn't thunk of a proper ending, so sod off, you bunch of diarrhea-shooting lumpens! Have a nice evenin'!.

Gunter. Globen. Glaussen. Glieben.
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Re: WURW Monday 11.06.2017

Postby Mortuus » November 6th 2017, 9:00pm

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Gunter. Globen. Glaussen. Glieben.
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