Militant Wing

[lazariuk]

Ah, yes... so as to try to emulate the renowned, infamous, and tuxedoed Geoffrey aka Snow.
~ Lizzy

with the full moon approaching and so many women wanting a ceremony.

[lizzytysh]

Ah, yes... so as to try to emulate the renowned, infamous, and tuxedoed Geoffrey aka Snow.
~ Lizzy

with the full moon approaching and so many women wanting a ceremony.

... with one aka Tuxedo coming up ~ full moon rising.



~ Lizzy

[jimbo]

fu

[mickey_one]

full moon arising
blue ribbons tied in your hair
where is this party

The Militant Wing is not some place for haiku lovers who can't find enough f'ing threads for haiku already.Take a haik Buddy or I will personally shoot you personally dead. There will be no full moon arising where you are going, no sunshine and no blue-rinsed hair. This party is telling you the party's over for you and I will be eating your invitation for breakfast.

Lord Mickey of One

Living Legend and Commanding Officer of the Poetry Forum Let's Cut All the Bullshit Militant Wing

[jimbo]

ho ho ho comander chieffff
i aint afraid of no ghosts you woulnt let me ork under cover
so lets call this feckin s p oh naage

you see i didnt get a f....ing invi f,,,uc in tation
so i cant eat it''''...... nd further more mine furher
you cant shoot a dead man...

chief intelligence officer.
corporal russel sprout.
over and out

[Manna]

Let's Cut All the Bullshit Militant Wing

did I ever tell you about the worst job I ever had?

[Manna]

The worst job I ever had was working for the Santa Fe railroad company outside of Las Vegas, Nevada. The job was Gandy dancing...

Have I told this story elsewhere?

[Cate]

The worst job I ever had was working for the Santa Fe railroad company outside of Las Vegas, Nevada. The job was Gandy dancing...

Have I told this story elsewhere?

You mean it wasn't vodoo high priestess?

If you've told the story before I haven't heard it. Please tell it again - I'm very curious.



I just googled gandy - Gandy dancing suddenly doesn't sound as appealing.

[Manna]

The job was Gandy Dancing, so you might have to google that. Gandy Dancing is the job where you go out and find some rail that isn't quite level. Then you stick an Irish banjo under the rail, and go out on the handle and do a little dance. (You know, the first transcontinental railroad was built by Irish & Chinese laborers.) That raises up the rail, and another guy uses another Irish banjo, also called a Gandy shovel, to throw some gravel under there so the damn train doesn't fall off, which would just be a big drag for everybody.

To do the job, they take out three cars: a tool car, that has all the shovels and hammers and things to do the job; a bunk car, that's where you sleep; and a cook car. Only thing they don't hire's a cook. The rule is, that those on the job have to decide amongst themselves who's going to be the cook. And nobody wants to be the cook, so they wait and see who whines and pisses and moans the most about the cooking, and they say, "All right, wise guy, you think you can do better, you be the cook." Well, that was me, see. Old Alligator-Mouth. But, that was the worst food I'd ever had. Worse than eating Greg or Michael at McDonald's. They gave us otter-Water, which comes out of an otter, toenail clipping soup. One guy blew his nose on old cornbread and called it pumpkin pie for dessert. So they said, OK, you be the cook, and that was that. I was the cook.

Well, I didn't want to be the cook, and I knew that if anyone complained about my cooking, then he was going to have to be the cook. Armed with that knowledge, I sallied forth over hill and dale in search of the most disgusting, gruesome, vile thing I could find for dinner. There I was, walking along through a field one day, when I came upon


this giant






moose turd.

I mean it was big, a real steamer. And I said to myself, I am going to make the biggest moose turd pie you have ever seen. I tipped that pasture pastry up on end, and I started rolling it down to the cook car. Valump. Valump. Valump. I gathered it all up together and went up inside, and I made one helluva big pie shell. I crimped the edges with my thumb and my finger, and I got that meadow wafer, and laid it in, just as slick as silk. I even sprinkled some cinnamon and allspice on top. I baked it at 400 degrees F for 35 minutes, until the fork came out clean. It was an aromatic thing of beauty, and I served it for dessert.

Well, this giant dude came in, I mean he was about 5-foot-forty, and threw himself down - a fool on a stool. He saw that moose turd pie, and he started cutting the shit, helped himself to the biggest piece. Now, there were a bunch of guys around, and they were all talking and being loud, but I knew that meant witnesses, and I could hardly keep from rubbing my hands together. He used the edge of his fork to cut the tip off his slice, and he stuffed it into his mouth. Well, he banged his fist on the table, then he banged it again, and he stood up, gulped that shit down, and hollered, "By God... that's moose turd pie!!! It's good, though."

[William]

"Living Legend and Commanding Officer of the Poetry Forum Let's Cut All the Bullshit Militant Wing"

Michael,
surely the latter half of this sentence means you are herby excluded from posting again?

William.

[mickey_one]

"Living Legend and Commanding Officer of the Poetry Forum Let's Cut All the Bullshit Militant Wing"

Michael,
surely the latter half of this sentence means you are herby excluded from posting again?

William.

I see you in shiny white armour, William. I see you riding a Great White Steed. Your put-downs are fabulously Gentlemanly. I hope you post more often and ride to Jack's rescue as often as possible.


Lord Mickey of One

Sleepy Legend and Commanding Officer of the Poetry Forum Let's Go To Bed Soon Militant Wing

[Cate]

I mean it was big, a real steamer. And I said to myself, I am going to make the biggest moose turd pie you have ever seen. I tipped that pasture pastry up on end, and I started rolling it down to the cook car. Valump. Valump. Valump. I gathered it all up together and went up inside, and I made one helluva big pie shell. I crimped the edges with my thumb and my finger, and I got that meadow wafer, and laid it in, just as slick as silk. I even sprinkled some cinnamon and allspice on top. I baked it at 400 degrees F for 35 minutes, until the fork came out clean. It was an aromatic thing of beauty, and I served it for dessert.

Well, this giant dude came in, I mean he was about 5-foot-forty, and threw himself down - a fool on a stool. He saw that moose turd pie, and he started cutting the shit, helped himself to the biggest piece. Now, there were a bunch of guys around, and they were all talking and being loud, but I knew that meant witnesses, and I could hardly keep from rubbing my hands together. He used the edge of his fork to cut the tip off his slice, and he stuffed it into his mouth. Well, he banged his fist on the table, then he banged it again, and he stood up, gulped that shit down, and hollered, "By God... that's moose turd pie!!! It's good, though."

Manna that has got to be the nastiest chef story I've ever heard.

psss Mickey - you might want to re-consider your menu adviser.

[Manna]

I see you in shiny white armour, William. I see you riding a Great White Steed. Your put-downs are fabulously Gentlemanly. I hope you post more often and ride to Jack's rescue as often as possible.

hee hee hee