Mate-Pairing & The Prevalent Order Of Things- NWO

[Ducky]

Ever wonder if you are with the right person in your life right now?

Ever wonder why only the rich get ahead in life and not YOU?

Worry no futher.

It was predestined.

It's a rare thing to see those who have succeded in life be a 'memorial in others eyes' these days.

I'm pretty sure if we googled or better yet "Really looked up the history" surrounding these individuals, that we'd see some sort of political or entertainment value permeating within their ancestral lines.

All you have to do is look up a celebrity or political figures past history, and I GUARENTEE you'll find the connections.

Now how does this pertain to our own lifestyles?

"Like is attracted to Like" to some minute shape or form.

Though I'm inclined to think that one REALLY must be born with a silver spoon in their mouths, in order to gain attributes and favors from the 'rich life style'.

The more I think about it, the more I see just how much more esthetically pleasing, these rich offspring are, compared to the rest of the world...........................NOT.

Ok...let's come back to earth.

I'm talking about folks we deal with on a day-to day basis in our normal and mundane lives.

No doubt, there's someone in the fam, who's 'somebody' from somewhere, and is a good friend of the cousin (2nd removed) of Brad Pitt, and is from bumfuck-iowa-somewhere.

Everyone's trying to make it in some business..some where. Trying to copulate and spread our genes amongst the most beautiful and infamous out there. Survival of the fittest.

I often wondered, as we ALL go through our daily life rigormurals, and that we were supposed to 'meet up' with whom we did, because it was 'all laid out' by someone or something.

Besides getting all ethereal and whatnots, there was always a question in the back of my mind...

"Am I supposed to be where I am RIGHT NOW?"

[Lexion]

Not really.

My Father was the son of
a share-cropper in Georgia.

My Grandfather committed
suicide in his early twenties
because he felt like a failure.

My Father now drives a 300k
Coach. He is quite wealthy.

I'm doing too bad, either.

You can go from rags to
riches.

Regards,
Lex

[Ducky]

Not really.

My Father was the son of
a share-cropper in Georgia.

My Grandfather committed
suicide in his early twenties
because he felt like a failure.

My Father now drives a 300k
Coach. He is quite wealthy.

I'm doing too bad, either.

You can go from rags to
riches.

Regards,
Lex

I hear ya.

I'm pretty sure that there hasn't been anything substanial in my ancestral neck of the woods that would merit anything significant in the history books or another. Except for mabey a bit of folk-lore that attributes to the 'naming of the Nile' and "ministers to the pharoah of Egypt; to which this has to be proven.

[WarlordZeroOne]

You know its really easy to talk,the people who have these silver spoons in the mouths really have a great life,the unlucky ones who are the people in a majority in this world and i am one of them born into poverty and live just above the poverty line it sucks not having enough money to purchase a house or a good automobile, and you think how do i stretch the next pond or dollar,the wealthy do not have our kind of problems,for the wealthy they have the boats homes with pools automobiles that cost more money that we could earn in 10 years, i would give my left arm to be weathy ( not my right arm i masterbate with that ) and enjoy all those things, and i would never ever say i wish i was skint like before, only IDIOTS talk like that, so come you members tell us if you want without telling lies who drops in what catergory or who is on easy street,because i WISH i was on easy street,i also wish some old guy who has not got long to live or women would make me a millioaire i would really enjoy life then and be very thankful to the person who gave me the money in any way they wanted. and thats a promise.

[GeneralStriker]

In the last analysis all wealth will afford you is a really expensive casket.

[WarlordZeroOne]

When i go i want the cheapest box money can buy because i am going to th crematorium i just like being warm and tight.

[GeneralStriker]

Just for you, Warlord. Enjoy!

Robert Service (1874-1958)

The Cremation of Sam McGee

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead — it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you, to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — Oh God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared — such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear, you'll let in the cold and storm —
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

[pack3tg0st]

hrm...


I'm pretty sure if we googled or better yet "Really looked up the history" surrounding these individuals, that we'd see some sort of political or entertainment value permeating within their ancestral lines.

I've chanted that mantra quite often lol... many people in history are famous simply because they help put names/faces to the ideology they're preaching... The history you're taught in school... is almost worthless... names aren't really all that important...

To learn from history, you don't need the "Who, when or where"... Its all about the "why and how"... Most people don't realize that... they just get impressed when someone spouts off the signing date of the Magna Carta and the likes...

Now all this about equating success to money... makes me uneasy...

Why do I need to be rich and well off to be successful? Is someone a success who leaves their mark in their neighborhood/hometown?

Fuck "who's-who"... Fuck "success" and Fuck "Fortune 500".

My contribution and personal success will reside in the acts of my children.

[boycotteverything]

My contribution and personal success will reside in the acts of my children.And that's the whole story, isn't it? And with that attitude I'm sure it will be the case. Most raise eaters, some raise gifts. Gifts are better.

[WarlordZeroOne]

Just for you, Warlord. Enjoy!

Robert Service (1874-1958)

The Cremation of Sam McGee

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead — it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you, to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — Oh God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared — such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear, you'll let in the cold and storm —
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Thanx a Million General this Sam Mcgee i really enjoyed reading,where the fuck do you find this related stuff.Well Done.