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Stuff and shit… from all over the web

Archive for the ‘Stuff and shit…’ Category

Test your IQ and make money

Posted by eGZact on November 23, 2009

IQ Test – click to see your IQ (real tests)

var gaJsHost = ((“https:” == document.location.protocol) ? “https://ssl.” : “http://www.”);
document.write(unescape(“%3Cscript src='” + gaJsHost + “’ type=’text/javascript’%3E%3C/script%3E”));
try {
var pageTracker = _gat._getTracker(“UA-15720686-3”);
} catch(err) {}

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Nice commercials

Posted by eGZact on June 27, 2008

Read the rest of this entry »

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Posted by eGZact on June 19, 2008

There are quite a few familiarity markers in English – words which take on an ending to make the word sound much more familiar, or everyday, or down to earth. Ammunition becomes ‘ammo’; a weird person becomes ‘weirdo’; aggravation becomes ‘aggro’. They like it in Australia a lot – “good afternoon”, they don’t say that so often, but ‘arvo’, ‘arvo’ is the abbreviation for afternoon in Australia. 

And in the 1990s you had this rather interesting word ‘saddo’ – that’s the adjective sad with this ‘o’ ending, spelt with two ds: s-a-d-d-o. It came in as a kind of a rude word really, a mocking word for somebody seen as socially inadequate, or somehow rather unfashionable, or contemptible in some way. You might hear somebody say, “oh, he’s a real saddo” or “she’s a real saddo” – it can be for male or for females. 

It’s from the word sad of course, from oh, way back in the 1930s, where ‘sad’ here doesn’t mean miserable, it means pathetic, and that was a use of sad that came in at that time. It’s a sense in other words that’s been developing for quite a long time. In actual fact, you can take that sense of sad and trace it all the way back to Shakespeare, although he never said ‘saddo’.


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The Babysitter

Posted by eGZact on June 19, 2008

A must see movie. 

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9 o’clock

Posted by eGZact on May 29, 2008

9 o\'clock

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The sister

Posted by eGZact on May 27, 2008

I was a very happy man. My wonderful girlfriend and I had been dating for over a year, and so we decided to get married. There was only one little thing bothering me. It was her beautiful younger sister.

My prospective sister-in-law was twenty-two, wore very tight miniskirts, and generally was bra-less. She would regularly bend down when she was near me, and I always got more than a nice view. It had to be deliberate. Because she never did it when she was near anyone else.

One day her ‘little’ sister called and asked me to come over to check the wedding invitations. She was alone when I arrived, and she whispered to me that she had feelings and desires for me that she couldn’t overcome. She told me that she wanted me just once before I got married and committed my life to her sister.  Well, I was in total shock, and couldn’t say a word. She said, ‘I’m going upstairs to my bedroom, and if you want one last wild fling, just come up and

get me.’ I was stunned and frozen in shock as I watched her go up the stairs. I stood there for a moment, then turned and made a beeline straight to the front door. I opened the door, and headed straight towards my car.  Lo and behold, my entire future family was standing outside, all clapping!

With tears in his eyes, my father-in-law hugged me and said, ‘We are very happy that you have passed our little test. We couldn’t ask for a better man for our daughter . Welcome to the family.’

And the moral of this story is:

Always keep your condoms in your car.

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How to get drunk without drinking

Posted by eGZact on May 22, 2008

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World History Database of events in day 21st May

Posted by eGZact on May 21, 2008


1912 ArmamentTheobald, Bethmann Hollweg von
Berlin   The new Naval Law is passed by the Reichstag in order to expand the German navy
1913 ArmamentChurchill, Winston Leonard Spencer
  The new Naval Law is passed by the Reichstag in order to expand the German navy
1968 ArrestJones, Lewis Brian Hopkin
  Jones is arrested a second time, for marijuana possession
  The Stones wanted to tour the United States in 1969 for the first time in three years, but Jones ‘ second arrest exacerbates problems with USAimmigration, Jones is unable to acquire a work visa
1471 AssassinationHenry VI
London   Murdered in the Tower of London, found dead in the oratory
1991 AssassinationGandhi, Rajiv
  Killed in a bomb attack during an election campaign by a Tamil suicide bomber
1940 Battle of ArrasRommel, Erwin Johannes Eugen
Arras   5 British Brigades stop the SS Totenkopf & manage to create a retreat to Dunkirk
Arras   Rommel engages the British with 88-mm anti-tank guns Read the rest of this entry »

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Posted by eGZact on May 12, 2008

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Drink without prejudice

Posted by eGZact on May 7, 2008

If you were  around in 1919 (just before prohibition started) you might have seen  the following poster.  


Drink without prejudice


Now honestly,  would you quit drinking?

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Bush Blair Endless Love

Posted by eGZact on May 5, 2008

Some people say that this is the best video ever with George W. Bush 😀

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Bubba J and Jeff Dunham

Posted by eGZact on May 5, 2008


AA is for quitters :))

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Smell me

Posted by eGZact on May 5, 2008

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Baby face… wtf?

Posted by eGZact on May 5, 2008

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Posted by eGZact on May 1, 2008

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Latest Gadget

Posted by eGZact on April 29, 2008

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Dirty Mind

Posted by eGZact on April 29, 2008

Your dirty mind

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Jewish Divorce

Posted by eGZact on April 25, 2008


A Jewish woman says to her mother: ” I’m divorcing Sheldon, all he wants is anal sex and my asshole is now the size of a 50 cent piece when it used to be the size of a 5 cent piece.”

Jewish Mother says: “You are married to a multi-millionaire businessman, you live in an 8 bedroom mansion, you drive a Ferrari, you get $2000 a week allowance, you take 6 vacations a year and you want to throw all that away for 45 cents?


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No comment

Posted by eGZact on April 25, 2008

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Where the Easter Eggs come from

Posted by eGZact on April 25, 2008

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Japanese Rice Art

Posted by eGZact on April 25, 2008


The residents of Inakadate have been drawing pictures with rice since 1993.  Each year farmers in the town of Inakadatein Aomori prefecture create works of crop art by growing a little purple and yellow-leafed kodaimai rice along with their local green-leafed tsugaru-roman variety.

Views of Mount Fuji

This year’s creation — a pair of grassy reproductions of famous woodblock prints from Hokusai’s 36 Views of Mount Fuji — has begun to appear and will be visible until the rice is harvested in September.

While Inakadate is Japan’s most famous rice paddy decorating town, there practice is spreading further ‘afield.’



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Giveaway of the day

Posted by eGZact on April 25, 2008

Giveaway of the Day project, the new initiative in the software distribution world! Every day they offer for FREE licensed software you’d have to buy otherwise!

For game giveaways check out Game Giveaway of the Day.

Giveaway of the Day

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Boycott Beijing 2008

Posted by eGZact on April 24, 2008

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Elections | Vote for NOBODY

Posted by eGZact on April 24, 2008

This is the best candidate ever for all kind of elections:

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Larry’s tattoo

Posted by eGZact on April 24, 2008

Larry gets home late one night and his wife, Linda, says, “Where in the hell have you been?”
Larry replies, “I was out getting a tattoo.”

“A tattoo?” she frowned. “What kind of tattoo did you get?”
“I got a hundred Euro note on my privates,” he said proudly.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she said, shaking her head in disdain. “Why on earth would an accountant get a hundred Euro note tattooed on his privates?”
“Well, for one…I like to watch my money grow. Two…once in a while I like to play with my money. Three…I like how money feels in my hand. And, lastly…instead of you going out wasting money on shopping, you can stay right here at home and blow 100 Euro anytime you want.”

Larry is recovering nicely in hospital

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Death to America | Positively Priceless!!!

Posted by eGZact on April 23, 2008

Read the following explanation before looking at the picture! 

Most Syrians struggle to even read Arabic, much less have a clue about English. So, how do a group of Syrian protest leaders create the most impact with their signs by having the standard “Death To Americans” (etc.) slogans printed in English?

Answer: They simply hire an English-speaking civilian to translate and write their statements into English.

Unfortunately, in this case, they were unaware that the “civilian” insurance company employee hired for the job was a retired US Army Sergeant! Obviously, pictures of this protest rally never made their way to Arab TV networks, but the results were PRICELESS! 



Death to America

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Wi-Fi tools

Posted by eGZact on April 23, 2008

I was browsing through Yahoo Widgets and I’ve found a nice wi-fi tool provided by Xirrus. It is called Wi-Fi Monitor Widget and provides access to information about all available Wi-Fi networks and your current Wi-Fi connections. You can download it from: 

I’ve seen that they also have a Vista Gadget pretty much the same with the Yahoo Widget called Wi-Fi Monitor Gadget available on Live Gallery

For more information you should check: 

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Because walking sucks

Posted by eGZact on March 10, 2008

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Japanese Pac Man

Posted by eGZact on March 10, 2008

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Devil’s Mark

Posted by eGZact on February 1, 2008

During the time of the Inquisition of the Middle Ages, it was believed that the Devil placed upon his human brides, the witches, a special mark that was insensitive to pain. Because it was supposed that such a mark might be well hidden somewhere on the witch’s body, one of the first of the many degrading and painful ordeals of the Inquisition began when the accused woman was turned over to the torturers to have her body shaved in search of the “Devil’s Mark.”

The Spanish Inquisition was ordered to rid Europe of heretics. By 1257, the Church officially sanctioned torture as a means of forcing witches, sorcerers, and shape shifters to confess their alliance with Satan.

Once the alleged spot—which could well have been a mole or a birthmark—was found, the torturers would insert long, sharp pins into the victim’s flesh or sear the mark with red-hot branding irons in order to test its resistance to pain. The fact that the suspected area gave no indication of being immune to pain did nothing to absolve the woman accused of witchcraft from later being burned at the stake.

In 1486, two devout priests, Jakob Sprenger and Heinrich Kramer, published Malleus Maleficarum (A Hammer for Witches), the book that became the handbook of the professional witch hunters. Charles Williams, writing in his Witchcraft, believes that Sprenger and Kramer proceeded with great care to examine the nature of witchcraft and to analyze the best methods of operating against its menace. They perceived the witches as making use of their unholy alliance with Satan to corrupt the generative powers of humankind. In addition, they believed that witches sought to depopulate Christendom by demanding the sacrifice of children and babies. Read the rest of this entry »

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Posted by eGZact on January 19, 2008

Undoubtedly the most violent modern cult was Aum Shinrikyo, or ‘supreme truth’, the ten thousand strong cult headquartered on the slopes of Mount Fuji, Japan, and headed by Shoko Asahara.
Determined to bring about Armageddon so that he could rule everyone, Aum Shinrikyo became a mixture of Buddhism, occultism and fascism.
Fat, bearded and partially sighted, Asahara was born poor and was a bully, building up a huge stockpile of weapons and chemicals for his war. His cult was rounded up by armed police following a series of major crimes, the most infamous being his Sarin gas attack on the Tokyo underground on 20 March 1995, killing twelve and injuring thousands.
The Japanese authorities later discovered that his cult was based on his committing sexual and physical atrocities on his own members.

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The Stigmata

Posted by eGZact on January 18, 2008

One of the most rare and disturbing religious paranormal phenomena is the stigmata, or the manifestation of the wounds of the passion of Christ on the body. These wounds can range from a seemingly psychosomatic feeling of the wounds and the associated pain, but with no corresponding visible damage to the skin, to full blown unexplainable wounds that bleed and cause great discomfort to the stigmatic. The 20th century saw one of the most famous stigmatics, Padre Pio of Italy, who bore the bleeding wounds for decades and has since been declared a saint by the Roman Catholic Church.

St. Pio had been surrounded by paranormal phenomena since childhood. As a youngster, he was believed to be able to see apparitions of Jesus and Mary, and even went so far as to assume that every person could see them.  These continued into adulthood, until eventually Pio became a capuchin friar. During his time as a novice waiting to become a capuchin, the paranormal phenomena seem to have become more dark and increasingly powerful. In once incidence, the devil appeared to him in his room in the form of a large black dog with glowing red eyes. As early as 1911, he first manifested the stigmata, which he described in a letter as red marks on his hands and feet that caused severe pain. The wounds eventually became visible, sometimes bleeding profusely and would continue the rest of his life. He often prayed for the wounds to dissappear, but not the pain, as he found the marks to be an embarrassment. They would never completely dissappear, so he was known to hide them.  The visions of the devil continued as well, appearing to Pio as everything from a dancing naked girl, Pope Pius X, St. Francis and most disturbingly, the virgin Mary. One wonders how difficult of a time he had in distinguishing between visions from heaven, and apparitions from hell. Pio died in 1968, still afflicted with the stigmata.

 About 300 or so stigmatics have been reported over the last two millennium. The first was St. Paul, who claimed to have them in a letter to the Galatians. St. Francis of Assisi also exhibited them in the 13th century, and cases continue to this day. A number of explanations have been given for the stigmata, ranging from fraud to the wounds somehow being created by the sufferer’s own mind. The phenomena is usually restricted to catholics, however, in the case of the hindu holy man Chaitanya Mahaprabu (1486-1534) he was said to spontaneously bleed from multiple areas of his body.

 Often, stigmatics also exhibit a separate phenomena called inedia, which is the act of going without food or water, other than the daily Eucharist host, for extended and impossible periods of time. This was seen with Padre Pio, who abstained from eating or drinking for long periods, and even stopped sleeping for a time. The phenomena was most pronounced with the sigmatic Therese Neumann, who is said to have eaten nothing but a single communion host each day from 1922 until she died in 1962. Its also said that she did not drink water during this period either, and suffered no ill health affects. Oddly, the stigmata is known to vary significantly in the location of the wounds. Sometimes they appear at the wrists, or directly in the hands, and the damage from the lance varies between stigmatics on which side of the body it appears.

The bizarre phenomena of the stigmata is something that one might expect from a medieval text, but not in modern times. Yet it almost seems that it is increasing. Never the less, it is likely to remain unexplainable any time soon, as those who suffer from it are still few and far between. The stigmata remains one of the strangest and most frightening phenomena noted in the annals of the paranormal.


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The Importance of Good Grammar

Posted by eGZact on November 1, 2007

Al is getting along in years and finds that he is unable to perform sexually. He finally goes to his doctor, who tries a few things but nothing seems to work. So the doctor refers him to an American Indian medicine man.

The medicine man says, “I can cure this.” That said, he throws a white powder in a flame, and there is a flash with billowing blue smoke.

Then he says, “This is powerful medicine. You can only use it once a year. All you have to do is say ‘123’ and it shall rise for as long as you wish!”

Al asks, “What happens when it’s over, and I don’t want to continue?”

The medicine man replies: “All you or your partner has to say is 1234, and it will go down. But be warned — it will not work again for another year!”

Al rushes home, eager to try out his new powers and prowess. That night he is ready to surprise Donna. He showers, shaves, and puts on his most exotic shaving lotion. He gets into bed, and lying next to her says, “123.”

He suddenly becomes more aroused than any time in his life … just as the medicine man had promised.

Donna, who had been facing away, turns over and asks, “What did you say 123 for?”

And that, my friends, is why you shouldn’t end a sentence with a preposition.

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Positive thinking

Posted by eGZact on October 31, 2007

Positive thinking

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5.6 earthquake strikes California

Posted by eGZact on October 31, 2007

According to the United States Geological Survey (USGS) a magnitude 5.6 earthquake, lasting about 90 seconds, struck at 20:04:54 (PDT), with the epicenter being 5 miles north, northeast of Alum Rock California and 9 miles northeast of the center of San Jose. The actual coordinates given by USGS put it along the border of San Jose and Milpitas in the hills near neighborhoods in both cities. The quake was felt as far away as the California communities of Sacramento, Sonoma, and Los Banos. It was the most powerful quake in the San Francisco Bay Area and Silicon Valley since 1989.

At least ten aftershocks have been reported by 8:35 p.m with magnitudes ranging from 1.3 to 1.8.

Phone service, including cellular phone service, is reported to be down in some areas around the epicenter. Residents and business owners also report their homes shaking.

According to the USGS, damage could be “moderate to heavy” and Rafael Abreu of the USGS said that the earthquake is considered “moderate,” but so far there are “no injuries.” The quake was reported at a depth of 9.2 km (5.7 miles).

USGS predicts a 30% chance of strong (magnitude >5) aftershocks in the next 7 days, with a 5-10% probability of aftershocks stronger than the main quake. Additionally, USGS predicts approximately 15-40 small (magnitude 3-5) aftershocks.

The USGS reports that the quake was centered on the Calaveras Fault, and was the most powerful earthquake on that fault since the 1984 Morgan Hill earthquake.

 Did you feel it?

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Dogs really hates Holloween

Posted by eGZact on October 31, 2007

I hate Holloween

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Free Link from EzineBlog – Increase your Google Page Rank and Technorati Authority

Posted by eGZact on October 31, 2007

EzineBlog.ORG is a fun site that talks about everything from science to sports. If you review their blog, they’ll link to it and help increase your page rank!

Ohh, and while you’re at it you can browse through the 100% ad-free postings about current events, commentary from posters, and more.

It’s Entertainment time!

Full details on

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How to get Vista for free?

Posted by eGZact on October 30, 2007

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Hands up, mother fuckers!

Posted by eGZact on October 30, 2007

Hands up mother fuckers!

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Pepsi XXX

Posted by eGZact on October 30, 2007

Pepsi XXX

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Body signs

Posted by eGZact on October 30, 2007

A construction worker on the 3rd floor of a building needs a handsaw, and spots another man on the 1st floor. He yells down to him, but the noise makes it impossible to hear anything, so he tries sign language. He points at his eye meaning “I”, points at his knee meaning, “need”, and moves his hand back and forth in a handsaw motion.

The man on the 1st floor nods his head, pulls down his pants, and starts masturbating.

The man on the 3rd floor gets so angry he runs down to the 1st floor and shouts: “What the fuck is wrong with you, idiot? I said I needed a handsaw!”

The other guy says: “I knew that, I was just trying to tell you I’m coming”

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Girl vs. Boy Diary

Posted by eGZact on October 30, 2007

Girl’s diary

Saw John in the evening and he was acting really strangely I went shopping in the afternoon with the girls and I did turn up a bit late so I thought it might be that.

The bar was really crowded and loud so I suggested we go somewhere quieter to talk. He was still very subdued and distracted so I suggested we go somewhere nice to eat. All through dinner he just didn’t seem himself; he hardly laughed, and didn’t seem to be paying any attention to me or to what I was saying. I just knew that something was wrong.

He dropped me back home. I wondered if he was going to come in; he hesitated, but followed. I asked him again if there was something the matter but he just half shook his head and turned the television on.

After about 10 minutes of silence, I said I was going upstairs to bed. I put my arms around him and told him that I loved him deeply. He just gave a sigh, and a sad sort of smile. He didn’t follow me up, but later he did, and I was surprised when we made love. He still seemed distant and a bit cold, and I started to think that he was going to leave me, and that he had found someone else.

I cried myself to sleep….


Boy’s diary


Wallabies lost to New Zealand.

Had sex though.


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Tip of the day

Posted by eGZact on October 30, 2007

Bad sex is better than a good day at work .

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What’s the difference between erotic and kinky?

Posted by eGZact on October 29, 2007

Erotic = using a feather
Kinky = using the whole chicken

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Posted by eGZact on October 29, 2007

A businessman got on an elevator in a building. When he entered the elevator, there was a blonde already inside and she greeted him by reciting the letters, “T-G-I-F.”

He smiled at her and replied, “S-H-I-T.” She looked at him, puzzled, and said “T-G-I-F” again.

He acknowledged her remark again by answering, “S-H-I-T.”

The blonde was trying to be friendly, so she smiled her biggest smile and said, as sweetly as possible, “T-G-I-F” another time.

The man smiled back to her and once again replied with a quizzical expression, “S-H-I-T.”

The blonde finally decided to explain things, and this time she said, “T-G-I-F, Thank Goodness It’s Friday, get it?”

The man answered, “S-H-I-T: Sorry Honey, It’s Thursday.”


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Voodoo Dick

Posted by eGZact on October 29, 2007

There was a businessman who was getting ready to go on a long business trip. He knew his wife was a flirtatious sort, so he thought he’d try to get her something to keep her occupied while he was gone, because he didn’t much like the idea of her screwing someone else.

So he went to a store that sold sex toys and started looking around. He thought about a life-sized sex doll, but that was too close to another man for him. He was browsing through the dildos, looking for something special to please his wife, and started talking to the old man behind the counter. He explained his situation, to the old man.

“Well, I don’t really know of anything that will do the trick. We have vibrating dildos, special attachments, and so on, but I don’t know of anything that will keep her occupied for weeks, except …” said the old man, and then he stopped.

“Except what?” asked the businessman.

“Nothing, nothing,” said the old man.

“C’mon, tell me! I need something!” protested the businessman.

“Well, sir, I don’t usually mention this, but there is the ‘voodoo dick,'” the old man said.

“So what’s up with this voodoo dick?” the businessman asked. Read the rest of this entry »

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Sex in the dark

Posted by eGZact on October 29, 2007

A man and a woman started to have sex in the middle of a dark forest.

After 15 minutes of this, the man finally gets up and says, “Damn, I wish I had a flashlight.”

The woman says, “So do I. You’ve been eating grass for the past ten minutes!”

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A matter of choice

Posted by eGZact on October 29, 2007

A Mormon was seated next to an Irishman on a flight from London.  After the plane was airborne, drink orders were taken. The Irishman asked for a whiskey, which was promptly brought and placed before him.

The flight attendant then asked the Mormon if he would like a drink.  He replied in disgust, “I’d rather be savagely raped by a dozen whores than let liquor touch my lips.”

The Irishman then handed his drink back to the attendant and said, “Me too, I didn’t know that we had a choice.”


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Pussy willow

Posted by eGZact on October 29, 2007

An old man was sitting on his rocking chair when little Billy walked by carrying a roll of chicken wire. The old man asked, “Where are you going, Billy?” Little Billy replied, “To catch some chickens!” The old man told him you can’t catch chickens with chicken wire, but a little while later Billy returned with some chickens.

The next day, the old man saw Billy walk by again, this time with some duct tape. The old man asked, “Where are you going, Billy?” Little Billy replied, “To catch some ducks!” The old man told him you can’t catch ducks with duct tape, but a little while later Billy returned with some ducks.

The next day, the old man saw Billy walk by again, this time with some pussy willow.

“Hold on, son, I’m coming with you!”

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The Nun Regret

Posted by eGZact on October 29, 2007

A nun walks into a bus and sits behind the driver and says, “I have just one regret before I die,”

The bus driver asks “What might that be?”, she says “I have never had sex, but I can’t have sex with a married man or that would be a sin.”

The bus driver says, “I’m not married”

The nun says, “I have to die a virgin so I will have to take it in my ass”.

Being the only two in the bus they went to the back and took care of business.

When they were done the bus driver says to the nun, “I have a confession to make, I am married.”

The nun says “I also have a confession to make, My name is Tom and I’m going to a costume party!”

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Good Girls vs. Bad Girls

Posted by eGZact on October 28, 2007

Good girls loosen a few buttons when it’s hot. Bad girls make it hot by loosening a few buttons.

Good girls only own one credit card and rarely use it. Bad girls only own one bra and rarely use it.

Good girls wax their floors. Bad girls wax their bikini lines.

Good girls blush during love scenes in a movie. Bad girls know they could do it better.

Good girls think they’re not fully dressed without a strand of pearls. Bad girls think they’re fully dressed with just a strand of pearls.

Good girls wear high heels to work. Bad girls wear high heels to bed.

Good girls say, “Don’t… Stop…” Bad girls say, “Don’t Stop…”

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The creation of a Pussy

Posted by eGZact on October 28, 2007

Seven wise men with knowledge so fine,
created a pussy to their design.
First was a butcher,
with smart wit,
using a knife,
he gave it a slit,
Second was a carpenter,
strong and bold,
with a hammer and chisel,
he gave it a hole,
Third was a tailor,
tall and thin,
by using red velvet,
he lined it within,
Fourth was a hunter,
short and stout,
with a piece of fox fur,
he lined it without,
Fifth was a fisherman,
nasty as hell,
threw in a fish and gave it a smell,
Sixth was a preacher,
whose name was McGee,
he touched it and blessed it,
and said it could pee,
Last was a sailor,
dirty little runt,
he sucked it and fucked it,
and called it a cunt.

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The boy who can see without eyes

Posted by eGZact on October 27, 2007

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Huuuge Pussy

Posted by eGZact on October 27, 2007

A huuuge pussy…

Read the rest of this entry »

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How to make a woman happy

Posted by eGZact on October 27, 2007

It’s not difficult to make a woman happy.

A man only needs to be:

1. a friend
2. a companion
3. a lover
4. a brother
5. a father
6. a master
7. a chef
8. an electrician
9. a carpenter
10. a plumber
11. a mechanic
12. a decorator
13. a stylist
14. a sexologist
15. a gynecologist
16. a psychologist
17. a pest exterminator
18. a psychiatrist Read the rest of this entry »

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This we need to speak out

Posted by eGZact on October 27, 2007

In every Revolution, there are heroic moments when brave men stand up to tyranny and speak the truth despite an oppressive tyranny that seeks to banish the truth. The following speech by a very brave high school principal looks like one of those milestone events which mark a turning point where ordinary people begin to wake up. -Charles Coughlin

Principal Jody McLeod’s Speech Follows:

“It has always been the custom at Roane County High School football games, to say a prayer and play the National Anthem, to honor God and Country.

Due to a recent ruling by the Supreme Court, I am told that saying a Prayer is a violation of Federal Case Law. As I understand the law at this time, I can use this public facility to approve of sexual perversion and call it “an alternate lifestyle,” and if someone is offended, that’s OK.

I can use it to condone sexual promiscuity, by dispensing condoms and calling it, “safe sex.” If someone is offended, that’s OK.

I can even use this public facility to present the merits of killing an unborn baby as a “viable means of birth control.” If someone is offended, no problem…

I can designate a school day as “Earth Day” and involve students in activities to worship religiously and praise the goddess “Mother Earth” and call it “ecology.” Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “Z”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

ZANY, n. A popular character in old Italian plays, who imitated with

ludicrous incompetence the _buffone_, or clown, and was therefore the

ape of an ape; for the clown himself imitated the serious characters

of the play. The zany was progenitor to the specialist in humor, as

we to-day have the unhappiness to know him. In the zany we see an

example of creation; in the humorist, of transmission. Another

excellent specimen of the modern zany is the curate, who apes the

rector, who apes the bishop, who apes the archbishop, who apes the


ZANZIBARI, n. An inhabitant of the Sultanate of Zanzibar, off the Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “Y”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

YANKEE, n. In Europe, an American. In the Northern States of our

Union, a New Englander. In the Southern States the word is unknown.


YEAR, n. A period of three hundred and sixty-five disappointments.

YESTERDAY, n. The infancy of youth, the youth of manhood, the entire

past of age.

But yesterday I should have thought me blest

To stand high-pinnacled upon the peak

Of middle life and look adown the bleak

And unfamiliar foreslope to the West,

Where solemn shadows all the land invest Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “X”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

X in our alphabet being a needless letter has an added invincibility

to the attacks of the spelling reformers, and like them, will

doubtless last as long as the language. X is the sacred symbol of ten

dollars, and in such words as Xmas, Xn, etc., stands for Christ, not,

as is popular supposed, because it represents a cross, but because the

corresponding letter in the Greek alphabet is the initial of his name

— _Xristos_. If it represented a cross it would stand for St.

Andrew, who “testified” upon one of that shape. In the algebra of

psychology x stands for Woman’s mind. Words beginning with X are

Grecian and will not be defined in this standard English dictionary.

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “W”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

W (double U) has, of all the letters in our alphabet, the only

cumbrous name, the names of the others being monosyllabic. This

advantage of the Roman alphabet over the Grecian is the more valued

after audibly spelling out some simple Greek word, like

_epixoriambikos_. Still, it is now thought by the learned that other

agencies than the difference of the two alphabets may have been

concerned in the decline of “the glory that was Greece” and the rise

of “the grandeur that was Rome.” There can be no doubt, however, that

by simplifying the name of W (calling it “wow,” for example) our

civilization could be, if not promoted, at least better endured.

WALL STREET, n. A symbol for sin for every devil to rebuke. That

Wall Street is a den of thieves is a belief that serves every

unsuccessful thief in place of a hope in Heaven. Even the great and

good Andrew Carnegie has made his profession of faith in the matter.

Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “V”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

VALOR, n. A soldierly compound of vanity, duty and the gambler’s


“Why have you halted?” roared the commander of a division and

Chickamauga, who had ordered a charge; “move forward, sir, at once.”

“General,” said the commander of the delinquent brigade, “I am

persuaded that any further display of valor by my troops will bring

them into collision with the enemy.”

VANITY, n. The tribute of a fool to the worth of the nearest ass.

Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “U”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

UBIQUITY, n. The gift or power of being in all places at one time,

but not in all places at all times, which is omnipresence, an

attribute of God and the luminiferous ether only. This important

distinction between ubiquity and omnipresence was not clear to the

mediaeval Church and there was much bloodshed about it. Certain

Lutherans, who affirmed the presence everywhere of Christ’s body were

known as Ubiquitarians. For this error they were doubtless damned,

for Christ’s body is present only in the eucharist, though that

sacrament may be performed in more than one place simultaneously. In

recent times ubiquity has not always been understood — not even by

Sir Boyle Roche, for example, who held that a man cannot be in two

places at once unless he is a bird.

UGLINESS, n. A gift of the gods to certain women, entailing virtue

without humility.

Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “T”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

T, the twentieth letter of the English alphabet, was by the Greeks

absurdly called _tau_. In the alphabet whence ours comes it had the

form of the rude corkscrew of the period, and when it stood alone

(which was more than the Phoenicians could always do) signified

_Tallegal_, translated by the learned Dr. Brownrigg, “tanglefoot.”

TABLE D’HOTE, n. A caterer’s thrifty concession to the universal

passion for irresponsibility.

Old Paunchinello, freshly wed, Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “S”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

SABBATH, n. A weekly festival having its origin in the fact that God

made the world in six days and was arrested on the seventh. Among the

Jews observance of the day was enforced by a Commandment of which this

is the Christian version: “Remember the seventh day to make thy

neighbor keep it wholly.” To the Creator it seemed fit and expedient

that the Sabbath should be the last day of the week, but the Early

Fathers of the Church held other views. So great is the sanctity of

the day that even where the Lord holds a doubtful and precarious

jurisdiction over those who go down to (and down into) the sea it is

reverently recognized, as is manifest in the following deep-water

version of the Fourth Commandment:

Six days shalt thou labor and do all thou art able,

And on the seventh holystone the deck and scrape the cable.

Decks are no longer holystoned, but the cable still supplies the

captain with opportunity to attest a pious respect for the divine


SACERDOTALIST, n. One who holds the belief that a clergyman is a

priest. Denial of this momentous doctrine is the hardest challenge Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “R”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

RABBLE, n. In a republic, those who exercise a supreme authority

tempered by fraudulent elections. The rabble is like the sacred

Simurgh, of Arabian fable — omnipotent on condition that it do

nothing. (The word is Aristocratese, and has no exact equivalent in

our tongue, but means, as nearly as may be, “soaring swine.”)

RACK, n. An argumentative implement formerly much used in persuading

devotees of a false faith to embrace the living truth. As a call to

the unconverted the rack never had any particular efficacy, and is now

held in light popular esteem.

RANK, n. Relative elevation in the scale of human worth.

He held at court a rank so high

That other noblemen asked why. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “Q”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

QUEEN, n. A woman by whom the realm is ruled when there is a king,

and through whom it is ruled when there is not.

QUILL, n. An implement of torture yielded by a goose and commonly

wielded by an ass. This use of the quill is now obsolete, but its

modern equivalent, the steel pen, is wielded by the same everlasting


QUIVER, n. A portable sheath in which the ancient statesman and the Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “P”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

PAIN, n. An uncomfortable frame of mind that may have a physical

basis in something that is being done to the body, or may be purely

mental, caused by the good fortune of another.

PAINTING, n. The art of protecting flat surfaces from the weather and

exposing them to the critic.

Formerly, painting and sculpture were combined in the same work:

the ancients painted their statues. The only present alliance between

the two arts is that the modern painter chisels his patrons.

PALACE, n. A fine and costly residence, particularly that of a great

official. The residence of a high dignitary of the Christian Church

is called a palace; that of the Founder of his religion was known as a

field, or wayside. There is progress.

PALM, n. A species of tree having several varieties, of which the

familiar “itching palm” (_Palma hominis_) is most widely distributed

and sedulously cultivated. This noble vegetable exudes a kind of

invisible gum, which may be detected by applying to the bark a piece

of gold or silver. The metal will adhere with remarkable tenacity.

The fruit of the itching palm is so bitter and unsatisfying that a

considerable percentage of it is sometimes given away in what are known

as “benefactions.”

PALMISTRY, n. The 947th method (according to Mimbleshaw’s

classification) of obtaining money by false pretences. It consists in

“reading character” in the wrinkles made by closing the hand. The

pretence is not altogether false; character can really be read very

accurately in this way, for the wrinkles in every hand submitted

plainly spell the word “dupe.” The imposture consists in not reading

it aloud.

PANDEMONIUM, n. Literally, the Place of All the Demons. Most of them

have escaped into politics and finance, and the place is now used as a

lecture hall by the Audible Reformer. When disturbed by his voice the

ancient echoes clamor appropriate responses most gratifying to his

pride of distinction.

PANTALOONS, n. A nether habiliment of the adult civilized male. The

garment is tubular and unprovided with hinges at the points of

flexion. Supposed to have been invented by a humorist. Called

“trousers” by the enlightened and “pants” by the unworthy.

PANTHEISM, n. The doctrine that everything is God, in

contradistinction to the doctrine that God is everything.

Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “O”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

OATH, n. In law, a solemn appeal to the Deity, made binding upon the

conscience by a penalty for perjury.

OBLIVION, n. The state or condition in which the wicked cease from

struggling and the dreary are at rest. Fame’s eternal dumping ground.

Cold storage for high hopes. A place where ambitious authors meet

their works without pride and their betters without envy. A dormitory

without an alarm clock.

OBSERVATORY, n. A place where astronomers conjecture away the guesses

of their predecessors. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “N”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

NECTAR, n. A drink served at banquets of the Olympian deities. The

secret of its preparation is lost, but the modern Kentuckians believe

that they come pretty near to a knowledge of its chief ingredient.

Juno drank a cup of nectar,

But the draught did not affect her.

Juno drank a cup of rye —

Then she bad herself good-bye.


NEGRO, n. The _piece de resistance_ in the American political

problem. Representing him by the letter n, the Republicans begin to

build their equation thus: “Let n = the white man.” Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “M”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

MACE, n. A staff of office signifying authority. Its form, that of a

heavy club, indicates its original purpose and use in dissuading from


MACHINATION, n. The method employed by one’s opponents in baffling

one’s open and honorable efforts to do the right thing.

So plain the advantages of machination

It constitutes a moral obligation,

And honest wolves who think upon’t with loathing

Feel bound to don the sheep’s deceptive clothing. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “L”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

LABOR, n. One of the processes by which A acquires property for B.

LAND, n. A part of the earth’s surface, considered as property. The

theory that land is property subject to private ownership and control

is the foundation of modern society, and is eminently worthy of the

superstructure. Carried to its logical conclusion, it means that some

have the right to prevent others from living; for the right to own

implies the right exclusively to occupy; and in fact laws of trespass

are enacted wherever property in land is recognized. It follows that

if the whole area of _terra firma_ is owned by A, B and C, there will

be no place for D, E, F and G to be born, or, born as trespassers, to


A life on the ocean wave,

A home on the rolling deep,

For the spark the nature gave

I have there the right to keep.

Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “J”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

J is a consonant in English, but some nations use it as a vowel —

than which nothing could be more absurd. Its original form, which has

been but slightly modified, was that of the tail of a subdued dog, and

it was not a letter but a character, standing for a Latin verb,

_jacere_, “to throw,” because when a stone is thrown at a dog the

dog’s tail assumes that shape. This is the origin of the letter, as

expounded by the renowned Dr. Jocolpus Bumer, of the University of

Belgrade, who established his conclusions on the subject in a work of

three quarto volumes and committed suicide on being reminded that the

j in the Roman alphabet had originally no curl.

JEALOUS, adj. Unduly concerned about the preservation of that which

can be lost only if not worth keeping.

JESTER, n. An officer formerly attached to a king’s household, whose

business it was to amuse the court by ludicrous actions and

utterances, the absurdity being attested by his motley costume. The

king himself being attired with dignity, it took the world some

centuries to discover that his own conduct and decrees were

sufficiently ridiculous for the amusement not only of his court but of

all mankind. The jester was commonly called a fool, but the poets and

romancers have ever delighted to represent him as a singularly wise

and witty person. In the circus of to-day the melancholy ghost of the

court fool effects the dejection of humbler audiences with the same

jests wherewith in life he gloomed the marble hall, panged the

patrician sense of humor and tapped the tank of royal tears.

The widow-queen of Portugal

Had an audacious jester

Who entered the confessional

Disguised, and there confessed her.

“Father,” she said, “thine ear bend down —

My sins are more than scarlet:

I love my fool — blaspheming clown,

And common, base-born varlet.”

“Daughter,” the mimic priest replied,

“That sin, indeed, is awful:

The church’s pardon is denied

To love that is unlawful.

“But since thy stubborn heart will be

For him forever pleading,

Thou’dst better make him, by decree,

A man of birth and breeding.”

Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “H”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

HABEAS CORPUS. A writ by which a man may be taken out of jail when

confined for the wrong crime.

HABIT, n. A shackle for the free.

HADES, n. The lower world; the residence of departed spirits; the

place where the dead live.

Among the ancients the idea of Hades was not synonymous with our

Hell, many of the most respectable men of antiquity residing there in

a very comfortable kind of way. Indeed, the Elysian Fields themselves

were a part of Hades, though they have since been removed to Paris.

When the Jacobean version of the New Testament was in process of

evolution the pious and learned men engaged in the work insisted by a

majority vote on translating the Greek word “Aides” as “Hell”; Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “G”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

GALLOWS, n. A stage for the performance of miracle plays, in which

the leading actor is translated to heaven. In this country the

gallows is chiefly remarkable for the number of persons who escape it.

Whether on the gallows high

Or where blood flows the reddest,

The noblest place for man to die —

Is where he died the deadest.

Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “F”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

FAIRY, n. A creature, variously fashioned and endowed, that formerly

inhabited the meadows and forests. It was nocturnal in its habits,

and somewhat addicted to dancing and the theft of children. The

fairies are now believed by naturalist to be extinct, though a

clergyman of the Church of England saw three near Colchester as lately

as 1855, while passing through a park after dining with the lord of

the manor. The sight greatly staggered him, and he was so affected

that his account of it was incoherent. In the year 1807 a troop of

fairies visited a wood near Aix and carried off the daughter of a

peasant, who had been seen to enter it with a bundle of clothing. The

son of a wealthy _bourgeois_ disappeared about the same time, but

afterward returned. He had seen the abduction been in pursuit of the

fairies. Justinian Gaux, a writer of the fourteenth century, avers

that so great is the fairies’ power of transformation that he saw one

change itself into two opposing armies and fight a battle with great

slaughter, and that the next day, after it had resumed its original

shape and gone away, there were seven hundred bodies of the slain

which the villagers had to bury. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “E”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

EAT, v.i. To perform successively (and successfully) the functions of

mastication, humectation, and deglutition.

“I was in the drawing-room, enjoying my dinner,” said Brillat-

Savarin, beginning an anecdote. “What!” interrupted Rochebriant;

“eating dinner in a drawing-room?” “I must beg you to observe,

monsieur,” explained the great gastronome, “that I did not say I was

eating my dinner, but enjoying it. I had dined an hour before.”

EAVESDROP, v.i. Secretly to overhear a catalogue of the crimes and

vices of another or yourself. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “I”

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

I is the first letter of the alphabet, the first word of the language,

the first thought of the mind, the first object of affection. In

grammar it is a pronoun of the first person and singular number. Its

plural is said to be _We_, but how there can be more than one myself

is doubtless clearer the grammarians than it is to the author of this

incomparable dictionary. Conception of two myselfs is difficult, but

fine. The frank yet graceful use of “I” distinguishes a good writer

from a bad; the latter carries it with the manner of a thief trying to

cloak his loot.

ICHOR, n. A fluid that serves the gods and goddesses in place of


Fair Venus, speared by Diomed,

Restrained the raging chief and said: Read the rest of this entry »

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Close-to-complete Ideology and Religion Shit List

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

  • Taoism: Shit happens.
  • Confucianism: Confucius say, “Shit happens.”
  • Buddhism: If shit happens, it isn’t really shit.
  • Zen Buddhism: Shit is, and is not.
  • Zen Buddhism #2: What is the sound of shit happening?
  • Hinduism: This shit has happened before.
  • Islam: If shit happens, it is the will of Allah.
  • Islam #2: If shit happens, kill the person responsible.
  • Islam #3: If shit happens, blame Israel.
  • Catholicism: If shit happens, you deserve it.
  • Protestantism: Let shit happen to someone else.
  • Presbyterian: This shit was bound to happen.
  • Episcopalian: It’s not so bad if shit happens, as long as you serve the right wine with it.
  • Methodist: It’s not so bad if shit happens, as long as you serve grape juice with it. Read the rest of this entry »

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Beer vs. Pussy

Posted by eGZact on October 26, 2007

Pussy vs. Beer

A beer is always wet. A pussy needs encouragement.
— Advantage: Beer

A beer tastes horrible served hot. A pussy tastes better served hot.
— Advantage: Pussy

Having an ice cold beer makes you satisfied. Having an ice cold pussy makes you Hillary Clinton.
— Advantage: Beer

Beers have commercials making fun of skunky ones. Pussy does not.
— Advantage: Draw

If you get a hair in your teeth consuming pussy, you are not disgusted.
— Advantage: Pussy

24 beers come in a box. A pussy is a box you can come in.
— Advantage: Pussy

Too much head makes you mad at the person giving you a beer.
— Advantage: Pussy

If a beer is brewed with yeast, it is still edible.
— Advantage: Beer

If you come home smelling like beer, Read the rest of this entry »

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Handy woman, blonde joke

Posted by eGZact on October 25, 2007

A blonde, wanting to earn some extra money, decided to hire herself out as a “handy woman” and started canvassing a nearby well-to-do neighborhood.

She went to the front door of the first house, and asked the owner if he had any odd jobs for her to do.
“Well, I guess I could use somebody to paint my porch (veranda)”, he said. “How much will you charge me?”
The blonde quickly responded: “How about $50?”
The man agreed and told her that the paint and everything she would need was in the garage.
The man’s wife, hearing the conversation, said to her husband: “Does she realize that our porch goes all the way around the house?”

He responded: “Thats a bit cynical, isn’t it?”
The wife replied: “You’re right. I guess I’m starting to believe all those ‘dumb blonde’ jokes we’ve been getting by e-mail lately.”

A short time later, the blonde came to the door to collect her money.
“You’re finished already?” the husband asked.
“Yes”, the blonde replied, “and I had paint leftover, so I gave it two coats”.
Impressed, the man reached into his pocket for the $50 and handed it to her……

“And by the way”, the blonde added, “it’s not a Porch, it’s a Lexus”.


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The Devil’s Dictionary – “K”

Posted by eGZact on October 25, 2007

K is a consonant that we get from the Greeks, but it can be traced

away back beyond them to the Cerathians, a small commercial nation

inhabiting the peninsula of Smero. In their tongue it was called

_Klatch_, which means “destroyed.” The form of the letter was

originally precisely that of our H, but the erudite Dr. Snedeker

explains that it was altered to its present shape to commemorate the

destruction of the great temple of Jarute by an earthquake, _circa_

730 B.C. This building was famous for the two lofty columns of its

portico, one of which was broken in half by the catastrophe, the other

remaining intact. As the earlier form of the letter is supposed to

have been suggested by these pillars, so, it is thought by the great

antiquary, its later was adopted as a simple and natural — not to say

touching — means of keeping the calamity ever in the national memory.

It is not known if the name of the letter was altered as an additional

mnemonic, or if the name was always _Klatch_ and the destruction one

of nature’s puns. As each theory seems probable enough, I see no

objection to believing both — and Dr. Snedeker arrayed himself on

that side of the question. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “D”

Posted by eGZact on October 25, 2007

DAMN, v. A word formerly much used by the Paphlagonians, the meaning

of which is lost. By the learned Dr. Dolabelly Gak it is believed to

have been a term of satisfaction, implying the highest possible degree

of mental tranquillity. Professor Groke, on the contrary, thinks it

expressed an emotion of tumultuous delight, because it so frequently

occurs in combination with the word _jod_ or _god_, meaning “joy.” It

would be with great diffidence that I should advance an opinion

conflicting with that of either of these formidable authorities.

DANCE, v.i. To leap about to the sound of tittering music, preferably

with arms about your neighbor’s wife or daughter. There are many

kinds of dances, but all those requiring the participation of the two

sexes have two characteristics in common: they are conspicuously

innocent, and warmly loved by the vicious.


A savage beast which, when it sleeps,

Man girds at and despises, Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “C”

Posted by eGZact on October 24, 2007

CAABA, n. A large stone presented by the archangel Gabriel to the

patriarch Abraham, and preserved at Mecca. The patriarch had perhaps

asked the archangel for bread.

CABBAGE, n. A familiar kitchen-garden vegetable about as large and

wise as a man’s head.

The cabbage is so called from Cabagius, a prince who on ascending

the throne issued a decree appointing a High Council of Empire

consisting of the members of his predecessor’s Ministry and the

cabbages in the royal garden. When any of his Majesty’s measures of

state policy miscarried conspicuously it was gravely announced that

several members of the High Council had been beheaded, and his

murmuring subjects were appeased.

CALAMITY, n. A more than commonly plain and unmistakable reminder

that the affairs of this life are not of our own ordering. Calamities

are of two kinds: misfortune to ourselves, and good fortune to

others. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “B”

Posted by eGZact on October 24, 2007

BAAL, n. An old deity formerly much worshiped under various names.

As Baal he was popular with the Phoenicians; as Belus or Bel he had

the honor to be served by the priest Berosus, who wrote the famous

account of the Deluge; as Babel he had a tower partly erected to his

glory on the Plain of Shinar. From Babel comes our English word

“babble.” Under whatever name worshiped, Baal is the Sun-god. As

Beelzebub he is the god of flies, which are begotten of the sun’s rays

on the stagnant water. In Physicia Baal is still worshiped as Bolus,

and as Belly he is adored and served with abundant sacrifice by the

priests of Guttledom.

BABE or BABY, n. A misshapen creature of no particular age, sex, or

condition, chiefly remarkable for the violence of the sympathies and

antipathies it excites in others, itself without sentiment or emotion.

There have been famous babes; for example, little Moses, from whose

adventure in the bulrushes the Egyptian hierophants of seven centuries

before doubtless derived their idle tale of the child Osiris being

preserved on a floating lotus leaf. Read the rest of this entry »

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Kakadu Dancing

Posted by eGZact on October 22, 2007

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Posted by eGZact on October 22, 2007

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Gagging Stupid Morons Society (GSMS) Commercial

Posted by eGZact on October 22, 2007

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The Devil’s Dictionary – “A”

Posted by eGZact on October 21, 2007

ABASEMENT, n.  A decent and customary mental attitude in the presence of wealth of power.  Peculiarly appropriate in an employee when addressing an employer.

ABATIS, n.  Rubbish in front of a fort, to prevent the rubbish outside from molesting the rubbish inside.

ABDICATION, n.  An act whereby a sovereign attests his sense of the high temperature of the throne.

Poor Isabella’s Dead, whose abdication

Set all tongues wagging in the Spanish nation.

For that performance ’twere unfair to scold her:

She wisely left a throne too hot to hold her.

To History she’ll be no royal riddle —

Merely a plain parched pea that jumped the griddle.


ABDOMEN, n.  The temple of the god Stomach, in whose worship, with sacrificial rights, all true men engage.  From women this ancient faith commands but a stammering assent.  They sometimes minister at the altar in a half-hearted and ineffective way, but true reverence for the one deity Read the rest of this entry »

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South African Tourism Website – Damn Good Answers

Posted by eGZact on October 11, 2007

These questions about South Africa were posted on a South African Tourism Website and were answered by the website owner.

Q: Does it ever get windy in South Africa? I have never seen it rain on TV, so how do the plants grow? (UK)

A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.

Q: Will I be able to see elephants in the street? (USA)

A: Depends how much you’ve been drinking.

Read the rest of this entry »

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Fucking weird name

Posted by eGZact on October 10, 2007

Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateapokaiwhenuakitanatahu is the Maori name for an otherwise unremarkable hill, 305 meters high, close to Porangahu south of Waipukurau in southern Hawke’s Bay, New Zealand. The name is often shortened to Taumata by the locals for ease of conversation.

The name on the sign that marks this hill is ‘Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateaturipukakapikimaungahoronukupokaiwhenuakitan atahu’, which translates roughly as The summit where Tamatea, the man with the big knees, the climber of mountains, the land-swallower who travelled about, played his flute to his loved one. At 85 letters, it is one of the longest place names in the world. Another even longer form has 92 letters, and has been entered into the Guinness Book of Records as such. It is apparently more recent, or perhaps more formal. There are claims that the second version of the name, which is now shown on the sign, has been in use all along by local Maori. The Welsh argue that this version has been contrived to be longer than Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, which some others argue was contrived to be the longest British place name in the first place.



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Brown or Pink?

Posted by eGZact on October 10, 2007

Brown or pink… STOP and THINK!


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They’ve found Popeye’s Mom

Posted by eGZact on October 10, 2007

Yeap, they finally found her.

Isn’t she gorgeous?

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Posted by eGZact on October 10, 2007

My name is Carmen,” she told him.
“That’s a beautiful name, he said. “Did your mother give it to you?”
“No,” she replied. “I gave it to myself. It reflects the things I like most in my life – cars and men.”

They continued to talk and finally she asked “What’s your name?”

“Beerfuck,” he replied.

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Labia minora

Posted by eGZact on October 10, 2007

The labia minora (singular: labium minus) are two small longitudinal cutaneous folds, situated between the labia majora, and extending from the clitoris obliquely downward, lateralward, and backward for about 4 cm on either side of the vulval vestibule, between which and the labia majora they end; in the virgin the posterior ends of the labia minora are usually joined across the middle line by a fold of skin, named the frenulum labiorum pudendi or fourchette.

Anteriorly, each labium minus (nympha) divides into two portions: the upper division passes above the clitoris to meet its fellow of the opposite side, although not necessarily its equal in size, forming a fold which overhangs the glans clitoridis, and is named the preputium clitoridis; the lower division passes beneath the glans clitoridis and becomes united to its under surface, forming, with its fellow of the opposite side, although not necessarily its equal in size, the frenulum clitoridis.On the opposed surfaces of the labia minora are numerous sebaceous follicles.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

For a more detailed information, check this sexy labia


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Hanzi Smatter

Posted by eGZact on September 1, 2007

A site dedicated to the misuse of Chinese characters in western culture:

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Nobel Lecture | Orhan Pamuk – My Father’s Suitcase

Posted by eGZact on August 27, 2007

December 7, 2006 | © THE NOBEL FOUNDATION 2006


Two years before his death, my father gave me a small suitcase filled with his writings, manuscripts and notebooks. Assuming his usual joking, mocking air, he told me he wanted me to read them after he was gone, by which he meant after he died.‘Just take a look,’ he said, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘See if there’s anything inside that you can use. Maybe after I’m gone you can make a selection and publish it.’We were in my study, surrounded by books. My father was searching for a place to set down the suitcase, wandering back and forth like a man who wished to rid himself of a painful burden.

In the end, he deposited it quietly in an unobtrusive corner. It was a shaming moment that neither of us ever forgot, but once it had passed and we had gone back into our usual roles, taking life lightly, our joking, mocking personas took over and we relaxed. We talked as we always did, about the trivial things of everyday life, and Turkey’s neverending political troubles, and my father’s mostly failed business ventures, without feeling too much sorrow.I remember that after my father left, I spent several days walking back and forth past the suitcase without once touching it. I was already familiar with this small, black, leather suitcase, and its lock, and its rounded corners. My father would take it with him on short trips and sometimes use it to carry documents to work. I remembered that when I was a child, and my father came home from a trip, I would open this little suitcase and rummage through his things, savouring the scent of cologne and foreign countries. This suitcase was a familiar friend, a powerful reminder of my childhood, my past, but now I couldn’t even touch it. Why? No doubt it was because of the mysterious weight of its contents. I am now going to speak of this weight’s meaning. It is what a person creates when he shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and retires to a corner to express his thoughts – that is, the meaning of literature.When I did touch my father’s suitcase, I still could not bring myself to open it, but I did know what was inside some of those notebooks. I had seen my father writing things in a few of them. This was not the first time I had heard of the heavy load inside the suitcase. My father had a large library; in his youth, in the late 1940s, he had wanted to be an Istanbul poet, and had translated Valéry into Turkish, but he had not wanted to live the sort of life that came with writing poetry in a poor country with few readers. My father’s father – my grandfather – had been a wealthy business man; my father had led a comfortable life as a child and a young man, and he had no wish to endure hardship for the sake of literature, for writing. He loved life with all its beauties – this I understood.The first thing that kept me distant from the contents of my father’s suitcase was, of course, the fear that I might not like what I read. Because my father knew this, he had taken the precaution of acting as if he did not take its contents seriously. After working as a writer for 25 years, it pained me to see this. But I did not even want to be angry at my father for failing to take literature seriously enough… My real fear, the crucial thing that I did not wish to know or discover, was the possibility that my father might be a good writer. I couldn’t open my father’s suitcase because I feared this. Even worse, I couldn’t even admit this myself openly. If true and great literature emerged from my father’s suitcase, I would have to acknowledge that inside my father there existed an entirely different man. This was a frightening possibility. Because even at my advanced age I wanted my father to be only my father – not a writer.

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is: when I speak of writing, what comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or literary tradition, it is a person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and alone, turns inward; amid its shadows, he builds a new world with words. This man – or this woman – may use a typewriter, profit from the ease of a computer, or write with a pen on paper, as I have done for 30 years. As he writes, he can drink tea or coffee, or smoke cigarettes. From time to time he may rise from his table to look out through the window at the children playing in the street, and, if he is lucky, at trees and a view, or he can gaze out at a black wall. He can write poems, plays, or novels, as I do. All these differences come after the crucial task of sitting down at the table and patiently turning inwards. To write is to turn this inward gaze into words, to study the world into which that person passes when he retires into himself, and to do so with patience, obstinacy, and joy. As I sit at my table, for days, months, years, slowly adding new words to the empty page, I feel as if I am creating a new world, as if I am bringing into being that other person inside me, in the same way someone might build a bridge or a dome, stone by stone. The stones we writers use are words. As we hold them in our hands, sensing the ways in which each of them is connected to the others, looking at them sometimes from afar, sometimes almost caressing them with our fingers and the tips of our pens, weighing them, moving them around, year in and year out, patiently and hopefully, we create new worlds.

The writer’s secret is not inspiration – for it is never clear where it comes from – it is his stubbornness, his patience. That lovely Turkish saying – to dig a well with a needle – seems to me to have been said with writers in mind. In the old stories, I love the patience of Ferhat, who digs through mountains for his love – and I understand it, too. In my novel, My Name is Red, when I wrote about the old Persian miniaturists who had drawn the same horse with the same passion for so many years, memorising each stroke, that they could recreate that beautiful horse even with their eyes closed, I knew I was talking about the writing profession, and my own life. If a writer is to tell his own story – tell it slowly, and as if it were a story about other people – if he is to feel the power of the story rise up inside him, if he is to sit down at a table and patiently give himself over to this art – this craft – he must first have been given some hope. The angel of inspiration (who pays regular visits to some and rarely calls on others) favours the hopeful and the confident, and it is when a writer feels most lonely, when he feels most doubtful about his efforts, his dreams, and the value of his writing – when he thinks his story is only his story – it is at such moments that the angel chooses to reveal to him stories, images and dreams that will draw out the world he wishes to build. If I think back on the books to which I have devoted my entire life, I am most surprised by those moments when I have felt as if the sentences, dreams, and pages that have made me so ecstatically happy have not come from my own imagination – that another power has found them and generously presented them to me.

I was afraid of opening my father’s suitcase and reading his notebooks because I knew that he would not tolerate the difficulties I had endured, that it was not solitude he loved but mixing with friends, crowds, salons, jokes, company. But later my thoughts took a different turn. These thoughts, these dreams of renunciation and patience, were prejudices I had derived from my own life and my own experience as a writer. There were plenty of brilliant writers who wrote surrounded by crowds and family life, in the glow of company and happy chatter. In addition, my father had, when we were young, tired of the monotony of family life, and left us to go to Paris, where – like so many writers – he’d sat in his hotel room filling notebooks. I knew, too, that some of those very notebooks were in this suitcase, because during the years before he brought it to me, my father had finally begun to talk to me about that period in his life. He spoke about those years even when I was a child, but he would not mention his vulnerabilities, his dreams of becoming a writer, or the questions of identity that had plagued him in his hotel room. He would tell me instead about all the times he’d seen Sartre on the pavements of Paris, about the books he’d read and the films he’d seen, all with the elated sincerity of someone imparting very important news. When I became a writer, I never forgot that it was partly thanks to the fact that I had a father who would talk of world writers so much more than he spoke of pashas or great religious leaders. So perhaps I had to read my father’s notebooks with this in mind, and remembering how indebted I was to his large library. I had to bear in mind that when he was living with us, my father, like me, enjoyed being alone with his books and his thoughts – and not pay too much attention to the literary quality of his writing.

But as I gazed so anxiously at the suitcase my father had bequeathed me, I also felt that this was the very thing I would not be able to do. My father would sometimes stretch out on the divan in front of his books, abandon the book in his hand, or the magazine and drift off into a dream, lose himself for the longest time in his thoughts. When I saw on his face an expression so very different from the one he wore amid the joking, teasing, and bickering of family life – when I saw the first signs of an inward gaze – I would, especially during my childhood and my early youth, understand, with trepidation, that he was discontent. Now, so many years later, I know that this discontent is the basic trait that turns a person into a writer. To become a writer, patience and toil are not enough: we must first feel compelled to escape crowds, company, the stuff of ordinary, everyday life, and shut ourselves up in a room. We wish for patience and hope so that we can create a deep world in our writing. But the desire to shut oneself up in a room is what pushes us into action. The precursor of this sort of independent writer – who reads his books to his heart’s content, and who, by listening only to the voice of his own conscience, disputes with other’s words, who, by entering into conversation with his books develops his own thoughts, and his own world – was most certainly Montaigne, in the earliest days of modern literature. Montaigne was a writer to whom my father returned often, a writer he recommended to me. I would like to see myself as belonging to the tradition of writers who – wherever they are in the world, in the East or in the West – cut themselves off from society, and shut themselves up with their books in their room. The starting point of true literature is the man who shuts himself up in his room with his books.

But once we shut ourselves away, we soon discover that we are not as alone as we thought. We are in the company of the words of those who came before us, of other people’s stories, other people’s books, other people’s words, the thing we call tradition. I believe literature to be the most valuable hoard that humanity has gathered in its quest to understand itself. Societies, tribes, and peoples grow more intelligent, richer, and more advanced as they pay attention to the troubled words of their authors, and, as we all know, the burning of books and the denigration of writers are both signals that dark and improvident times are upon us. But literature is never just a national concern. The writer who shuts himself up in a room and first goes on a journey inside himself will, over the years, discover literature’s eternal rule: he must have the artistry to tell his own stories as if they were other people’s stories, and to tell other people’s stories as if they were his own, for this is what literature is. But we must first travel through other people’s stories and books.

My father had a good library – 1 500 volumes in all – more than enough for a writer. By the age of 22, I had perhaps not read them all, but I was familiar with each book – I knew which were important, which were light but easy to read, which were classics, which an essential part of any education, which were forgettable but amusing accounts of local history, and which French authors my father rated very highly. Sometimes I would look at this library from a distance and imagine that one day, in a different house, I would build my own library, an even better library – build myself a world. When I looked at my father’s library from afar, it seemed to me to be a small picture of the real world. But this was a world seen from our own corner, from Istanbul. The library was evidence of this. My father had built his library from his trips abroad, mostly with books from Paris and America, but also with books bought from the shops that sold books in foreign languages in the 40s and 50s and Istanbul’s old and new booksellers, whom I also knew. My world is a mixture of the local – the national – and the West. In the 70s, I, too, began, somewhat ambitiously, to build my own library. I had not quite decided to become a writer – as I related in Istanbul, I had come to feel that I would not, after all, become a painter, but I was not sure what path my life would take. There was inside me a relentless curiosity, a hope-driven desire to read and learn, but at the same time I felt that my life was in some way lacking, that I would not be able to live like others. Part of this feeling was connected to what I felt when I gazed at my father’s library – to be living far from the centre of things, as all of us who lived in Istanbul in those days were made to feel, that feeling of living in the provinces. There was another reason for feeling anxious and somehow lacking, for I knew only too well that I lived in a country that showed little interest in its artists – be they painters or writers – and that gave them no hope. In the 70s, when I would take the money my father gave me and greedily buy faded, dusty, dog-eared books from Istanbul’s old booksellers, I would be as affected by the pitiable state of these second-hand bookstores – and by the despairing dishevelment of the poor, bedraggled booksellers who laid out their wares on roadsides, in mosque courtyards, and in the niches of crumbling walls – as I was by their books.

As for my place in the world – in life, as in literature, my basic feeling was that I was ‘not in the centre’. In the centre of the world, there was a life richer and more exciting than our own, and with all of Istanbul, all of Turkey, I was outside it. Today I think that I share this feeling with most people in the world. In the same way, there was a world literature, and its centre, too, was very far away from me. Actually what I had in mind was Western, not world, literature, and we Turks were outside it. My father’s library was evidence of this. At one end, there were Istanbul’s books – our literature, our local world, in all its beloved detail – and at the other end were the books from this other, Western, world, to which our own bore no resemblance, to which our lack of resemblance gave us both pain and hope. To write, to read, was like leaving one world to find consolation in the other world’s otherness, the strange and the wondrous. I felt that my father had read novels to escape his life and flee to the West – just as I would do later. Or it seemed to me that books in those days were things we picked up to escape our own culture, which we found so lacking. It wasn’t just by reading that we left our Istanbul lives to travel West – it was by writing, too. To fill those notebooks of his, my father had gone to Paris, shut himself up in his room, and then brought his writings back to Turkey. As I gazed at my father’s suitcase, it seemed to me that this was what was causing me disquiet. After working in a room for 25 years to survive as a writer in Turkey, it galled me to see my father hide his deep thoughts inside this suitcase, to act as if writing was work that had to be done in secret, far from the eyes of society, the state, the people. Perhaps this was the main reason why I felt angry at my father for not taking literature as seriously as I did.

Actually I was angry at my father because he had not led a life like mine, because he had never quarrelled with his life, and had spent his life happily laughing with his friends and his loved ones. But part of me knew that I could also say that I was not so much ‘angry’ as ‘jealous’, that the second word was more accurate, and this, too, made me uneasy. That would be when I would ask myself in my usual scornful, angry voice: ‘What is happiness?’ Was happiness thinking that I lived a deep life in that lonely room? Or was happiness leading a comfortable life in society, believing in the same things as everyone else, or acting as if you did? Was it happiness, or unhappiness, to go through life writing in secret, while seeming to be in harmony with all around one? But these were overly ill-tempered questions. Wherever had I got this idea that the measure of a good life was happiness? People, papers, everyone acted as if the most important measure of a life was happiness. Did this alone not suggest that it might be worth trying to find out if the exact opposite was true? After all, my father had run away from his family so many times – how well did I know him, and how well could I say I understood his disquiet?

So this was what was driving me when I first opened my father’s suitcase. Did my father have a secret, an unhappiness in his life about which I knew nothing, something he could only endure by pouring it into his writing? As soon as I opened the suitcase, I recalled its scent of travel, recognised several notebooks, and noted that my father had shown them to me years earlier, but without dwelling on them very long. Most of the notebooks I now took into my hands he had filled when he had left us and gone to Paris as a young man. Whereas I, like so many writers I admired – writers whose biographies I had read – wished to know what my father had written, and what he had thought, when he was the age I was now. It did not take me long to realise that I would find nothing like that here. What caused me most disquiet was when, here and there in my father’s notebooks, I came upon a writerly voice. This was not my father’s voice, I told myself; it wasn’t authentic, or at least it did not belong to the man I’d known as my father. Underneath my fear that my father might not have been my father when he wrote, was a deeper fear: the fear that deep inside I was not authentic, that I would find nothing good in my father’s writing, this increased my fear of finding my father to have been overly influenced by other writers and plunged me into a despair that had afflicted me so badly when I was young, casting my life, my very being, my desire to write, and my work into question. During my first ten years as a writer, I felt these anxieties more deeply, and even as I fought them off, I would sometimes fear that one day, I would have to admit to defeat – just as I had done with painting – and succumbing to disquiet, give up novel writing, too.

I have already mentioned the two essential feelings that rose up in me as I closed my father’s suitcase and put it away: the sense of being marooned in the provinces, and the fear that I lacked authenticity. This was certainly not the first time they had made themselves felt. For years I had, in my reading and my writing, been studying, discovering, deepening these emotions, in all their variety and unintended consequences, their nerve endings, their triggers, and their many colours. Certainly my spirits had been jarred by the confusions, the sensitivities and the fleeting pains that life and books had sprung on me, most often as a young man. But it was only by writing books that I came to a fuller understanding of the problems of authenticity (as in My Name is Red and The Black Book) and the problems of life on the periphery (as in Snow and Istanbul). For me, to be a writer is to acknowledge the secret wounds that we carry inside us, the wounds so secret that we ourselves are barely aware of them, and to patiently explore them, know them, illuminate them, to own these pains and wounds, and to make them a conscious part of our spirits and our writing.

A writer talks of things that everyone knows but does not know they know. To explore this knowledge, and to watch it grow, is a pleasurable thing; the reader is visiting a world at once familiar and miraculous. When a writer shuts himself up in a room for years on end to hone his craft – to create a world – if he uses his secret wounds as his starting point, he is, whether he knows it or not, putting a great faith in humanity. My confidence comes from the belief that all human beings resemble each other, that others carry wounds like mine – that they will therefore understand. All true literature rises from this childish, hopeful certainty that all people resemble each other. When a writer shuts himself up in a room for years on end, with this gesture he suggests a single humanity, a world without a centre.

But as can be seen from my father’s suitcase and the pale colours of our lives in Istanbul, the world did have a centre, and it was far away from us. In my books I have described in some detail how this basic fact evoked a Checkovian sense of provinciality, and how, by another route, it led to my questioning my authenticity. I know from experience that the great majority of people on this earth live with these same feelings, and that many suffer from an even deeper sense of insufficiency, lack of security and sense of degradation, than I do. Yes, the greatest dilemmas facing humanity are still landlessness, homelessness, and hunger… But today our televisions and newspapers tell us about these fundamental problems more quickly and more simply than literature can ever do. What literature needs most to tell and investigate today are humanity’s basic fears : the fear of being left outside, and the fear of counting for nothing, and the feelings of worthlessness that come with such fears; the collective humiliations, vulnerabilities, slights, grievances, sensitivities, and imagined insults, and the nationalist boasts and inflations that are their next of kind… Whenever I am confronted by such sentiments, and by the irrational, overstated language in which they are usually expressed, I know they touch on a darkness inside me. We have often witnessed peoples, societies and nations outside the Western world – and I can identify with them easily – succumbing to fears that sometimes lead them to commit stupidities, all because of their fears of humiliation and their sensitivities. I also know that in the West – a world with which I can identify with the same ease – nations and peoples taking an excessive pride in their wealth, and in their having brought us the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, and Modernism, have, from time to time, succumbed to a self-satisfaction that is almost as stupid.

This means that my father was not the only one, that we all give too much importance to the idea of a world with a centre. Whereas the thing that compels us to shut ourselves up to write in our rooms for years on end is a faith in the opposite; the belief that one day our writings will be read and understood, because people all the world over resemble each other. But this, as I know from my own and my father’s writing, is a troubled optimism, scarred by the anger of being consigned to the margins, of being left outside. The love and hate that Dostoyevsky felt towards the West all his life – I have felt this too, on many occasions. But if I have grasped an essential truth, if I have cause for optimism, it is because I have travelled with this great writer through his love-hate relationship with the West, to behold the other world he has built on the other side.

All writers who have devoted their lives to this task know this reality: whatever our original purpose, the world that we create after years and years of hopeful writing, will, in the end, move to other very different places. It will take us far away from the table at which we have worked with sadness or anger, take us to the other side of that sadness and anger, into another world. Could my father have not reached such a world himself? Like the land that slowly begins to take shape, slowly rising from the mist in all its colours like an island after a long sea journey, this other world enchants us. We are as beguiled as the western travellers who voyaged from the south to behold Istanbul rising from the mist. At the end of a journey begun in hope and curiosity, there lies before them a city of mosques and minarets, a medley of houses, streets, hills, bridges, and slopes, an entire world. Seeing it, we wish to enter into this world and lose ourselves inside it, just as we might a book. After sitting down at a table because we felt provincial, excluded, on the margins, angry, or deeply melancholic, we have found an entire world beyond these sentiments. What I feel now is the opposite of what I felt as a child and a young man: for me the centre of the world is Istanbul. This is not just because I have lived there all my life, but because, for the last 33 years, I have been narrating its streets, its bridges, its people, its dogs, its houses, its mosques, its fountains, its strange heroes, its shops, its famous characters, its dark spots, its days and its nights, making them part of me, embracing them all. A point arrived when this world I had made with my own hands, this world that existed only in my head, was more real to me than the city in which I actually lived. That was when all these people and streets, objects and buildings would seem to begin to talk amongst themselves, and begin to interact in ways I had not anticipated, as if they lived not just in my imagination or my books, but for themselves. This world that I had created like a man digging a well with a needle would then seem truer than all else.

My father might also have discovered this kind of happiness during the years he spent writing, I thought as I gazed at my father’s suitcase: I should not prejudge him. I was so grateful to him, after all: he’d never been a commanding, forbidding, overpowering, punishing, ordinary father, but a father who always left me free, always showed me the utmost respect. I had often thought that if I had, from time to time, been able to draw from my imagination, be it in freedom or childishness, it was because, unlike so many of my friends from childhood and youth, I had no fear of my father, and I had sometimes believed very deeply that I had been able to become a writer because my father had, in his youth, wished to be one, too. I had to read him with tolerance – seek to understand what he had written in those hotel rooms.

It was with these hopeful thoughts that I walked over to the suitcase, which was still sitting where my father had left it; using all my willpower, I read through a few manuscripts and notebooks. What had my father written about? I recall a few views from the windows of Parisian hotels, a few poems, paradoxes, analyses… As I write I feel like someone who has just been in a traffic accident and is struggling to remember how it happened, while at the same time dreading the prospect of remembering too much. When I was a child, and my father and mother were on the brink of a quarrel – when they fell into one of those deadly silences – my father would at once turn on the radio, to change the mood, and the music would help us forget it all faster.

Let me change the mood with a few sweet words that will, I hope, serve as well as that music. As you know, the question we writers are asked most often, the favourite question, is; why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write! I write because I can’t do normal work like other people. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at all of you, angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can only partake in real life by changing it. I write because I want others, all of us, the whole world, to know what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, in Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at all of you, so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page, I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all of life’s beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story, but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but – just as in a dream – I can’t quite get there. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy.

A week after he came to my office and left me his suitcase, my father came to pay me another visit; as always, he brought me a bar of chocolate (he had forgotten I was 48 years old). As always, we chatted and laughed about life, politics and family gossip. A moment arrived when my father’s eyes went to the corner where he had left his suitcase and saw that I had moved it. We looked each other in the eye. There followed a pressing silence. I did not tell him that I had opened the suitcase and tried to read its contents; instead I looked away. But he understood. Just as I understood that he had understood. Just as he understood that I had understood that he had understood. But all this understanding only went so far as it can go in a few seconds. Because my father was a happy, easygoing man who had faith in himself: he smiled at me the way he always did. And as he left the house, he repeated all the lovely and encouraging things that he always said to me, like a father.

As always, I watched him leave, envying his happiness, his carefree and unflappable temperament. But I remember that on that day there was also a flash of joy inside me that made me ashamed. It was prompted by the thought that maybe I wasn’t as comfortable in life as he was, maybe I had not led as happy or footloose a life as he had, but that I had devoted it to writing – you’ve understood… I was ashamed to be thinking such things at my father’s expense. Of all people, my father, who had never been the source of my pain – who had left me free. All this should remind us that writing and literature are intimately linked to a lack at the centre of our lives, and to our feelings of happiness and guilt.

But my story has a symmetry that immediately reminded me of something else that day, and that brought me an even deeper sense of guilt. Twenty-three years before my father left me his suitcase, and four years after I had decided, aged 22, to become a novelist, and, abandoning all else, shut myself up in a room, I finished my first novel, Cevdet Bey and Sons; with trembling hands I had given my father a typescript of the still unpublished novel, so that he could read it and tell me what he thought. This was not simply because I had confidence in his taste and his intellect: his opinion was very important to me because he, unlike my mother, had not opposed my wish to become a writer. At that point, my father was not with us, but far away. I waited impatiently for his return. When he arrived two weeks later, I ran to open the door. My father said nothing, but he at once threw his arms around me in a way that told me he had liked it very much. For a while, we were plunged into the sort of awkward silence that so often accompanies moments of great emotion. Then, when we had calmed down and begun to talk, my father resorted to highly charged and exaggerated language to express his confidence in me or my first novel: he told me that one day I would win the prize that I am here to receive with such great happiness.

He said this not because he was trying to convince me of his good opinion, or to set this prize as a goal; he said it like a Turkish father, giving support to his son, encouraging him by saying, ‘One day you’ll become a pasha!’ For years, whenever he saw me, he would encourage me with the same words.

My father died in December 2002.

Today, as I stand before the Swedish Academy and the distinguished members who have awarded me this great prize – this great honour – and their distinguished guests, I dearly wish he could be amongst us.

Translation from Turkish by Maureen Freely


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