Hmmm

Nothing generic or 9-5 about holding Americans for ransom

/eyes BW

Hmmmm

hahahahahaha

you should write that for MS for an ad

'I'm a PC'

"I'm a Mac...and, what's up with you?"

"Dude screw you, you are using a Mac <gunshot> enough said"

If it were me out there on the Alabama, and I heard my captain was ransomed for $2 million, I'd take my 3 pals hostage for the bargain price of $5 million

thought maybe 1 canuck would claim they don't smell

ha ha so many views, so little comment

hmmm well the last book sucked.  and Douglas Adams died before he could make it right.  but he meant to make it right.

I haven't got into Harry Potter but it would be like, Harry Potter kills Voldemort by blowing up the sun and killing all mankind. Forever. Irreversibly. THE END.  that would suck.

first three books PWND tho.

"   "Now Earthlings ..." whirred the Vogon (he didn't know that Ford
   Prefect was in fact from a small planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse,
   and wouldn't have cared if he had) "I present you with a simple
   choice! Either die in the vacuum of space, or ..." he paused for
   melodramatic effect, "tell me how good you thought my poem was!"

   He threw himself backwards into a huge leathery bat-shaped seat and
   watched them. He did the smile again.

   Ford was rasping for breath. He rolled his dusty tongue round his
   parched mouth and moaned.

   Arthur said brightly: "Actually I quite liked it."

   Ford turned and gaped. Here was an approach that had quite simply not
   occurred to him.

   The Vogon raised a surprised eyebrow that effectively obscured his
   nose and was therefore no bad thing.

   "Oh good ..." he whirred, in considerable astonishment.

   "Oh yes," said Arthur, "I thought that some of the metaphysical
   imagery was really particularly effective."

   Ford continued to stare at him, slowly organizing his thoughts around
   this totally new concept. Were they really going to be able to
   bareface their way out of this?

   "Yes, do continue ..." invited the Vogon.

   "Oh ... and er ... interesting rhythmic devices too," continued
   Arthur, "which seemed to counterpoint the ... er ... er ..." He
   floundered.

   Ford leaped to his rescue, hazarding "counterpoint the surrealism of
   the underlying metaphor of the ... er ..." He floundered too, but
   Arthur was ready again.

   "... humanity of the ..."

   "Vogonity," Ford hissed at him.

   "Ah yes, Vogonity (sorry) of the poet's compassionate soul," Arthur
   felt he was on a home stretch now, "which contrives through the medium
   of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to
   terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other," (he was reaching
   a triumphant crescendo ...) "and one is left with a profound and vivid
   insight into ... into ... er ..." (... which suddenly gave out on
   him.) Ford leaped in with the coup de gr@ce:

   "Into whatever it was the poem was about!" he yelled. Out of the
   corner of his mouth: "Well done, Arthur, that was very good."

   The Vogon perused them. For a moment his embittered racial soul had
   been touched, but he thought no - too little too late. His voice took
   on the quality of a cat snagging brushed nylon.

   "So what you're saying is that I write poetry because underneath my
   mean callous heartless exterior I really just want to be loved," he
   said. He paused. "Is that right?"

   Ford laughed a nervous laugh. "Well I mean yes," he said, "don't we
   all, deep down, you know ... er ..."

   The Vogon stood up.

   "No, well you're completely wrong," he said, "I just write poetry to
   throw my mean callous heartless exterior into sharp relief. I'm going
   to throw you off the ship anyway. Guard! Take the prisoners to number
   three airlock and throw them out!"

   "What?" shouted Ford.

   A huge young Vogon guard stepped forward and yanked them out of their
   straps with his huge blubbery arms.

   "You can't throw us into space," yelled Ford, "we're trying to write a
   book."

   "Resistance is useless!" shouted the Vogon guard back at him. It was
   the first phrase he'd learnt when he joined the Vogon Guard Corps.

   The captain watched with detached amusement and then turned away.

   Arthur stared round him wildly.

   "I don't want to die now!" he yelled. "I've still got a headache! I
   don't want to go to heaven with a headache, I'd be all cross and
   wouldn't enjoy it!"

   The guard grasped them both firmly round the neck, and bowing
   deferentially towards his captain's back, hoiked them both protesting
   out of the bridge. A steel door closed and the captain was on his own
   again. He hummed quietly and mused to himself, lightly fingering his
   notebook of verses.

   "Hmmmm," he said, "counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying
   metaphor ..." He considered this for a moment, and then closed the
   book with a grim smile.

   "Death's too good for them," he said.

you still here? I told you take a walkabout

I know, that's why I say you should go offline until you have.

the ONLY excuse I would accept is Obama saying "I told the King, "pull my finger"

should know I ate 8 rolls and a block of sharp cheddar, a pot of coffee and a pepsi