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Old 12-11-2017, 03:21 AM   #11576
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

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And Christmas? What happens to Christmas, Masque?
Its Christmas every day in scientific society. Havent you recognized that yet? Thats the plan. Love and a good time supported by scientific organization and rational behavior that is forgiving to deviations all the time but not moronic about it all.

Spartan is in the sense that you get what you need to survive well like a basic services home and transportation and all the educational material you need plus health care but the rest are only available if you work and they are that great that makes working very desirable.

Of course ultimately create a world that you work only if you like it because AI and technology overall does it all for free. The start of scientific society will be careful and rational to be sustainable so it cant be party time without work and accountability for it. But in the end the objective is to work only for fun because it makes you happy or gives you benefits above the average available to all.
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Old 12-11-2017, 06:02 PM   #11577
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

A favorite game of life to play is "Life is not a game". Fun for the whole family!
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Old 12-12-2017, 02:42 PM   #11578
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

London is the greatest city in the world. I'm biased, but that's how it is anyway. I mean, it really is the greatest city in the world.
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Old 12-12-2017, 03:19 PM   #11579
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

Westminster is a far better city
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Old 12-12-2017, 05:26 PM   #11580
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

Well I had a Southwark day. The Shard and the Royal Oak pub (it's in The Book, of couse) and Geoffrey Chaucer. No clouds to spoil the view, but it was hazy.
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Old 12-12-2017, 05:39 PM   #11581
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

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Well I had a Southwark day. The Shard and the Royal Oak pub (it's in The Book, of couse) and Geoffrey Chaucer. No clouds to spoil the view, but it was [I]hazy[/I].
Hazy because of the ale you consumed or because of the normal atmospheric conditions in London?, The Greatest City in the World.

royaloaklondon Menu

They stop serving food at ~ 9:30 PM. What the hell, are all you Londoner's in bed by then? Or is everyone too drunk to order food by then?

From menu:

Steak and Kidney Pudding, Mash and Vegetables...11.75

Steak and Kidney Pudding? Do you Limeys actually eat such gruel? Say it isn't so!
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Old 12-12-2017, 05:45 PM   #11582
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

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Westminster is a far better city
I've been thinking of moving there. I can sleep by the River.
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Old 12-12-2017, 06:01 PM   #11583
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

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Hazy because of the ale you consumed or because of the normal atmospheric conditions in London?
I wouldn't call it quite normal. And I grew up in a tower block, so I know exactly what I'm talking about.

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Steak and Kidney Pudding, Mash and Vegetables...11.75
Damn, we very nearly had that. Went for the steak & ale pie instead, which, unusually, was home-made and excellent.

They do a good pint of mild in that pub, apparently. I have never tried mild. Are foreigners even less familiar with it?
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Old 12-12-2017, 06:13 PM   #11584
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

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I wouldn't call it quite normal. And I grew up in a tower block, so I know exactly what I'm talking about.


......snip................

They do a good pint of mild in that pub, apparently. I have never tried mild. Are foreigners even less familiar with it?
Since 95% of the people in this world haven't a clue what they are taking about, it has always been a pleasure having you around Lastcard.

Mild? What the hell is mild in reference to a pint? Mild in US usually means less spicy. As in "make that Liang ban ji mild". It has nothing to do with pints, and no one in America refers to "Pints". That is lame talk.

Last edited by Zeno; 12-12-2017 at 10:20 PM. Reason: corrected wording
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Old 12-12-2017, 06:21 PM   #11585
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

Thank heavens for the internet:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mild_ale

I'm too nice to live in the Shard, that's what it is.
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Old 12-12-2017, 11:09 PM   #11586
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

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Arguably the best worst music video ever. If you click on it, I advise that you watch it closely until the end. It has twists and turns.

Never ever does BTM fail to deliver on a funny vid.. (i show them off like it was me that found them Last fav was the wonky eye

Last edited by drowkcableps; 12-12-2017 at 11:14 PM. Reason: those smilies were not meant to be actual emojis...:(
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Old 12-12-2017, 11:14 PM   #11587
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

Is whistle girl maggie gillynhal >?
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Old 12-13-2017, 01:52 AM   #11588
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

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Last fav was the wonky eye
I posted that 5 years ago
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Old 12-14-2017, 06:57 AM   #11589
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

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I had a dream last night. My youngest son and I, along with a third person, whose face I could not see, boarded a ferry. The ferry was a fully functioning water vessel, but we boarded at the corner of 5th Ave. and Luminous St. We never once touched water, instead hovering just above the black, baking in the summer sun pavement.

I almost did not make it onto the ferry. My ID was mistaken for a man who had passed away many years ago. That man had been a world famous jockey.

The security woman, 4' 2" tall and wearing a green scarf with wild horses galloping across a desert landscape stitched meticulously in shades of brown and grey, recognized the photo of the famous man and eyed me wearily. Seeing the ID I had given to the petite and willowy, almost transparent, woman, I at once attempted to snatch it from her hand. She shrunk from my aggression, turned and walked away.

I protested, trying to tell her that the famous jockey was my great, great uncle. She disappeared into the aft section of the asphalt skimming transport.

With no one to question me about a now lack of ID, I hurried to catch up with my son. Just as I reached his side, and was within shouting distance of the captain of the craft, the most amazing sight floated above and then in front of us.

Hi above, but not hi enough to clear the marble and limestone buildings lining Luminous Ave. was a gigantic bus, four stories tall and six-hundred feet long. The monstrous flying bus was weaving side to side. I couldn't help myself, I walked to the front of the ferry and tapped the captain on the shoulder.

"You need to slow down," I said. The captain brushed my hand aside and continued forward. She nodded to a man next to her. I glanced at the man, only able to see him from behind. Startled, I, at once, realized this was the man who had come aboard with my son and I.

Before I could step forward and finally see this mans face, the bus hi above and in front of us glanced against a stately brick building on our right. Bricks fell to the pavement, a hole opening up on the side of the building as the reeling airborne vehicle tacked left and slammed into the capital building, destroying the dome atop the three-hundred year old marble monolith.

"Please slow down," I yelled at the captain, sure we would be crushed by falling debris.

It was then that my son grabbed my shoulders and said....

"Everything is fine, dad. We will make it to the island in a few minutes."

##############################

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The faceless man turned and…

The world around me turned to sand. Everywhere I looked sand. Impossibly tall dunes rising, rising, rising to the slowly moving clouds, white with purity taken from the souls of children cast aside in the rage of war.

Once a part of the ocean’s saltwater tapestry; fluorescent pink and blue coral, shellfish cast ashore over millennia, worn thin by the insufferable wind. The dunes hiding that silent aching ancient life within each tiny grain exhaled a tormented yearning. The hushed wail wished to salvage the children’s souls trapped in microscopic ice prisons resting on the wistful dust of civilization held aloft by the foul wind.

To reclaim even one of the imprisoned souls, to mix the sea’s silent aching ancient life with innocence lost upon the shoulders of human conceit would unleash upon the shores of ignorance the force of beauty, the notion of the jungle running rampant, armies of creativity melting gun powder and it’s histories spawn.

The man laughed; guttural, from the sewer’s rotting detritus, **** and piss filled flow. Sand dunes lurched into the sea, giving up their noble quest and uncovering pistons coated in oil, messengers shackled to desks, phones looped over their thinning hair, mountaintops shorn of boulders, thick trunked trees and their very tops. This was the face of the unknown man.

How much time passed, I don’t know. I yearned for the island. Where was the island?

My son approached the man. I wanted to grab my son and run from this place. I couldn’t move. I screamed inside as the man’s face, pistons moving up and down and dripping thick black oil where his mouth should have been, crumbling mountain replacing his nose and brows, tiny shackled beings mirrored in the millions where his eyes should have been, became obscenely concerned about my son’s wellbeing.

My son addressed the monstrous visage. “Will we be safe on the island?”

“Of course.” Oil spilled on the deck of the ferry. “We take care of everyone on the island.”

My son smiled. “That’s good. My dad was worried.”

Dirt and forest green fern shook loose from the man’s eyebrows when he jerked his head to look at me.

Millions of mirrored beings peered at me from beneath the disintegrating brow. “There is something for everyone on the island, even you.” The pistons pumped faster, like metal teeth ratcheting up and down, up and down.

I forced my head to shake side to side. “No.”

My son frowned. “But, dad, that’s just the way it is. The island is safe, and we can have whatever we want.”

#######################################

Breeze heavy with the freshwater scent of humanity’s tepid discards, the ferry silently swung east off Luminous St. onto Coral Dreams Ave.

Bodies jumping from the windows of the gigantic bus as it disintegrated in midair filled my mind’s vision. I pressed my fists painfully against watery eyes, trying to force white knuckles through pupil and ocular nerve in a vain attempt to destroy impressionable brain matter. Accepting silence enveloped the ferry, but was broken by the screeching impact of metal upon ivory tower, marble accepting engineering marvel without question. Finally, the sounds of destruction ceased. Silence returned, and the scent of humanity’s tepid discards grew stronger.

The glittering ocean appeared in front of our floating vessel, the city’s skyscrapers, littered sidewalks and blinking lights forgotten for a moment. The ferry slowed, slowed, and stopped at the water’s edge.

My son was standing in front of me, next to the man with the factory carnival face. They were peering out at the gently rolling water. The captain cleared her throat and in a trapped within a tiny box baritone voice announced, “We have arrived at the island. Please begin disembarking.” She then turned and walked to the aft section of the eerily still boat.

With my right hand, I grabbed my son’s left hand. “We are leaving and going back to the city.” He looked at me confused. He then turned to the man next to him.

“This isn’t an island. This is the ocean.”

The man turned to him. The man’s face had changed. Soft, wrinkle-free skin, slim straight nose, blue eyes, light brown hair and perfect white teeth had replaced the pistons and rotting countenance. He smiled an angelic smile.

“Look into the water. What do you see?”

My son and I both looked out to the water. Just the rolling waves and the musky scent of nature meeting humanity’s onslaught. “Let’s go,” I said as I pulled my son away from the front of the boat.

The man laughed. Not condescendingly or in malice. He laughed as if we had missed seeing the eighth wonder of the world. “You must peer deeper, deep below the surface.”

My son turned back to the ocean. I couldn’t help myself, I turned with him. The man’s voice was like a song trailing off into the distance, begging for those who could hear to follow the melody wherever it led.

Something was in the water. Closer we inched to the rail. The smell of the ocean gobbling up concrete, metal, stone and human rind grew overwhelmingly sweet.

There, just below the surface were people walking as if on clouds in the air. All around them were fields of green, forests and mountains. Far below the people were stars and planets, multiple suns and a distance unfathomable.

My son gasped. “Look at that, dad. We can hike forever. Do you see the horses and deer?” I did.

And there were fields of wheat, fruit trees as far as the eye could see, and a rainbow, so bright it cast its colors over the entirety of everything beneath the waves.

“This isn’t real,” I mumbled, wanting to disbelieve my own words.

The angelic man smiled at me. “Search your heart.”

I wanted so much to reach out and touch the water. I wanted it all to be real. My son smiled back at the man. A barely perceptible metallic glint shone through the man’s perfect white teeth. I frowned. His smile faltered, but only for a fraction of moment.

He looked at my son. “Jump in. You won’t be sorry.”

I gathered strength, filled my mind with thoughts of all that was good about life.

“Son,” he turned towards me. “Underneath the city behind us was once all those things you see under the water. They are still there. We simply need to help the world see through the machines and blacktop.” My son frowned. I continued. “Out there,” I waved at the sea. “Out there is what we want our world to be again, but it is not real. Look closely at the man next to you.”
The man’s smile was wavering. More steel replaced his teeth, the crumbling mountains sprung from his brow, brown eyes gave way to millions of souls trapped somewhere unreal.

My son stepped back from the thing in front of him. “I want to go with my father.”

“Noooo!” wailed the visage in front of us. “You chose this ride. Now, you have no choice!”

The ferry began to shake, as if it wanted to go onto the water, but was unable to breach the invisible line between land and sea. Gears turned beneath the deck. The boat began to tremble, cracks opening in polished wood walls and flooring. My son and I backed away from the railing. The ferry bounced off the asphalt. Our knees buckled, but we did not fall.

The thing screamed at the ocean. “Never again, never again. You will never have what you want again, you fools!”

####################################

“Dad?”

Nothing but sea, sand mixed with black moist earth, shells, cordgrass and light mist, orange scented mellow on the bright blue breeze emanating from somewhere behind the lazy setting sun, content to drown once more in the distant mirror’s past.

“Dad? The sun is setting over the water. That’s east. What is…?”

I tried to see the world around us just as my son. Were we seeing the same thing? I knelt next to him, scooping shells and soaked earth into my hand, letting the fine grains slip slowly between fingers, left with tiny winding worlds, happy in the muddy palm of my hand.

“Do you smell orange?”

My son nodded. “Where did the ferry…and that gross looking man go?”

No ferry. I slowly turned around, my knees sinking into cup-shaped, clammy impressions. No buildings. No streets. No signs. A vast tangle of cordgrass, dotted with open spaces like the one my son and I occupied. Beyond the sweet, clean smell of orange and…worms, dunes climbing inland, merging with and disappearing into thick trees worn by the land like a sweater against winter’s bitter waves.

I looked up into my son’s wide eyes, wonder and fear reflecting, penetrating the air around us. The muscles of my body tightening, tighter, and then letting go, loose, leaning forward, my forearms resting inches deep in the dark wet life. Without looking up again, “I don’t think the ferry was ever real. I don’t think this,” I lifted pounds of squirming earth aloft, bringing it close enough to taste “is real.”

He smiled. “Maybe it was ‘Murder to the Mind’ like Tash Sultana says. She’s my favorite.”
He began singing. I knew the song.

Tell me, do you feel?
I am real
Do you seem satisfied within yourself?
Still wish sometimes in my life when I ask you, you chase us
I don’t know what to do
I couldn’t see the beautiful world
That was in front of you
And I was begging for forgiveness, but I couldn’t forgive myself
And I was screaming out for help

It was murder to the mind
Blood on my hands
Fire in my soul


A fourteen-year-old singing the words of a twenty-year-old, and more truth than any fifty-year-old could ever hope to stumble upon. I looked up once more. My son was still humming, but he looked ancient, like the soil beneath his feet was seeping into his pores, breathing eons of being into his teen body, mind and soul. I wanted to weep. When would this fantasy end? Where would I be when it ended? In the concrete city? The mountains? Would my son be by my side?

Inside, I was begging for forgiveness, but I couldn’t forgive myself, for I was complicit in the deceit of being human. Silently, I screamed out for help.
##################################

The banker rolled an eight, while the plumber planted flowers in the garden outside Bugsy Siegel’s Flamingo Hotel. Two shining disks of gold peeked out from behind the rudderless rolling baby buggy. The strip was deserted, only the plumber and Marie Tussaud with their finger’s in the Jacks’ minds, the Jack’s hiding in supermarket parking lots, waiting for the wind to turn and blow from the west once more.

Above the empty glitter at the corner of Flamingo and Las Vegas Boulevard, I floated, islands in fairytale oceans forgotten. Where was my son?

Had I been in Vegas all along? Was I asleep in some weekly motel, a gap at the bottom of the door inviting ancient, atomic bomb resistant cockroaches to join my disturbed slumber? I had been spending more time in Vegas, a few weeks here and there had become a few months this year. Was my son in Vegas with me?

Marie Tussaud winked at the plumber. “Your flowers are beautiful.”

The plumber tipped his wide-brimmed hat with an exaggerated flourish, the brim touching the tops of the tulips he had just planted. “May I say, the heat has not affected your countenance one bit, you look ravishingly real today, Madame?”

Continuing her walk uninterrupted, Marie cackled with delight. “You always know just the thing to say. I will come visit your hotel soon, the moon is full and Gemini has brought us the disks of gold.” She grabbed hold of the baby buggy and turned east.

The plumber smiled before raising his voice. “Did you see the King floating above the corner? He seems quite confused.”

Marie’s voice filled the air up and down the deserted strip, as if she resided within each molecule roiling in the day’s heat. “I did indeed see him. He has every right to be confused. The Queen is dead. The Jacks smell blood in the air. He has been a fair King, but I fear he will not find a new Queen and Mandelbrot will slaughter his children.”

The Queen is dead? Is she talking about my recently deceased wife? And how the hell am I any sort of King? I am floating above this damn corner, but **** being a king. I can’t even win more than one hand of poker in a session, which has a direct bearing on the fact that I eat Mac n Cheese six days a week.

If they are talking about me, and there is some guy out there named Mandelbrot looking to kill my sons, Mandelbrot better look out, I’ll ****ing hunt the ****er down and stuff his balls in his ears.

The plumber and Marie laughed simultaneously. The plumber mumbled, as he started a new row of tulips and red roses. “That’s better. It’s time to wake up, you’ve been crying in your soup much too long. Anger will get you started. Now, go find Princes Buttercup, and hurry, I don’t want to be planting these flowers forever.”
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Old 12-14-2017, 05:30 PM   #11590
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

The dog ate a 10 oz bag of individually-wrapped chocolate that were set out for the 3rd grade Christmas party.

Which resulted in feeding the dog hydrogen peroxide, then driving 30 minutes to the vet.

The dog puked in the car. Foamy, brown and full of wrappers. Epic in size. The eight-year old seated next to the dog looked at the dog's vomit and said he could re-make it in Minecraft.

We made it to the vet and the dog proceeded to act normal and healthy.

Turns out, the vets have a "chocolate meter" and the dog hadn't ingested enough chocolate to be fatal. The dog did get his nails trimmed while at the vet.

Such a bad dog.
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Old 12-14-2017, 08:30 PM   #11591
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

No pic of dog, no pic of vomit, no pic of re-created Minecraft (w/e the heck that is) vomit. Am disappoint.

Also: NICE doggie, good doggie, just doing his thing.
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Old 12-14-2017, 09:25 PM   #11592
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

Ah the joys of family life. Treasure them now and forgive the dog and the mess only the grown ups get to handle. Years later laugh at the story with maybe a little tear on the side of the left eye for the childhood gone, turned into the next generation of chaotic adventure hunters. These are the days of our lives. May they be forever interesting moreover the mess.
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Old 12-14-2017, 10:19 PM   #11593
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

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No pic of dog, no pic of vomit, no pic of re-created Minecraft (w/e the heck that is) vomit. Am disappoint.



Also: NICE doggie, good doggie, just doing his thing.


Oh, yeah I was driving the car and trying not to puke myself. I totally had time for pictures.

Minecraft is a game where you can build the world with cubes. However, the eight year old informed me he already remade the puke in the Minecraft of his imagination, so no pics.

Of course, the only bad dogs are metaphoric. See he is good dog. His teeth chattered while he waited to get pet during this picture.

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Old 12-14-2017, 10:44 PM   #11594
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

I am such a sucker for dogs and he's a good looking one, too. Although eating the wrappers along w/ the chocolate is a disturbing behavior trait.
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Old 12-16-2017, 01:27 PM   #11595
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

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I am such a sucker for dogs and he's a good looking one, too. Although eating the wrappers along w/ the chocolate is a disturbing behavior trait.


Dogs rock! Wesley is a country dogs from a line of country dogs. He is great dog, and he eats almost anything but reptiles and frogs. He chomps on pecans in yard all day. He is the type of smart-ass dog that will behave consistently remorseful when reprimanded, then go get in the trash/cabinets/cat food/cat litter again as soon as you leave the house. Chomping glad.
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Old 12-16-2017, 06:38 PM   #11596
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

Right now I am under the influence of MDMA - the greatest compound scientist's have invented for human recreational activity, despite it wasn't the intention. Unlike Sam Harris, I recommend it without a single caveat. This type of bliss simply cannot be attained "naturally" is where we agree.

RIP Sasha Shulgin.
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Old 12-16-2017, 06:41 PM   #11597
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

Drugs are bad, generally speaking, including alcohol but not this drug. It's an exception.
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Old 12-16-2017, 07:10 PM   #11598
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

The very far in people are indeed very far out. As Watts put it.
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Old 12-16-2017, 07:18 PM   #11599
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

The LD50 for chocolate and dogs has being worked out obviously and thankfully, you got a big dog there.
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Old 12-17-2017, 12:38 AM   #11600
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Re: SMP Life is Being Drunk -Random Content thread

Yes, I'm coming down now. It sucks. But my belief that pain is not needed for pleasure to be pleasurable has only been reaffirmed, not that it needed to be.

Sam Harris got David Benatar on his podcast.

Waking Up with Sam Harris #107 - Is Life Actually Worth Living? (with David Benatar)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1s88Ze41pRU

It's a little difficult to discern whether Sam Harris was foolishly trying to debunk Benatar's asymmetry argument, or whether he was applying a kind of Socratic method to get some ideas out there. Firstly, the title is not the question. In any case, Sam lost on every point but was persuasive enough to appeal to my optimism bias.
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