British prats , let's chew the fat
Excuse me. I am simply bored at this moment. After spending a week trying to deal with a British Professor, I can't help but think about his alterior motives in starting Universities in SE Asia, and how he's actually being lead along like a cow on a teather by his own monetary greed, desire for something to do in an area where he parades around in a backwards drawn monk's robe, and some thinly-educated political party tries to reestablish their exported services, but then at a distance.
So, instead of focusing on that prat who surprisingly spouted off some age-old british bigotted statement, which was intended to have some demeaning effect on my will-power ... as I stand on the bipolar end of his current project... I start thinking about.. how long were the British relying on propaganda, or giving the benefit of the doubt, leaning on proverbs as spiritual guidance? I know they named the Yankees from Jan Kees, as they tried to drive the Dutch influence out of New York City. Can't blame them too much, they did buy it afterall, and it really was not theirs due to Dutch influence... but they ended up with a marter... you don't hear the British bring up that mistake... Yankee...
Peter Peter Pumpkin-eater, had a wife and could not keep her ...
Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean ...
Ring Around the Rosey, pocket full of posey ...
Is it just me, or do these children's songs make you wonder why the British couldn't find something more cheerful to sing to their children? Ok, likely these songs are actually written by rebellious children... right?
If Peter had been eating Apple pie instead of focusing on his own name, his wife wouldn't have found the fish butcher more attractive... obviously children down the street trying to thwart the song of a Pumpkin-eater.
The children of old Mr. Sprat obviously were just being disrespectful to their parents, singing, "Mom, you're a fat cow, and you can't hide behind the excuse that you had so many children pass through your hips as the reason. Put down the bacon, the lard milk-shake, the tub of low-fat yogurt, chocolate laced ice cream, and get off the couch and join our skinny, wimpy daddy for some other PHYSICAL activity. Go on mom, that shroud of guilt is not fooling anyone anyway, we know you had sex before. It is simply far too hyprocritical to be yelling from that proned position on the couch that you want Grandchildren, when you're not getting enough exercise yourself.
Ring around the rosey... the Black plague is coming, and it looks like you got it too. That's ok, because we can all die together. Hmm, actually, for the time, that might have been a pretty happy song.
So, instead of focusing on that prat who surprisingly spouted off some age-old british bigotted statement, which was intended to have some demeaning effect on my will-power ... as I stand on the bipolar end of his current project... I start thinking about.. how long were the British relying on propaganda, or giving the benefit of the doubt, leaning on proverbs as spiritual guidance? I know they named the Yankees from Jan Kees, as they tried to drive the Dutch influence out of New York City. Can't blame them too much, they did buy it afterall, and it really was not theirs due to Dutch influence... but they ended up with a marter... you don't hear the British bring up that mistake... Yankee...
Peter Peter Pumpkin-eater, had a wife and could not keep her ...
Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean ...
Ring Around the Rosey, pocket full of posey ...
Is it just me, or do these children's songs make you wonder why the British couldn't find something more cheerful to sing to their children? Ok, likely these songs are actually written by rebellious children... right?
If Peter had been eating Apple pie instead of focusing on his own name, his wife wouldn't have found the fish butcher more attractive... obviously children down the street trying to thwart the song of a Pumpkin-eater.
The children of old Mr. Sprat obviously were just being disrespectful to their parents, singing, "Mom, you're a fat cow, and you can't hide behind the excuse that you had so many children pass through your hips as the reason. Put down the bacon, the lard milk-shake, the tub of low-fat yogurt, chocolate laced ice cream, and get off the couch and join our skinny, wimpy daddy for some other PHYSICAL activity. Go on mom, that shroud of guilt is not fooling anyone anyway, we know you had sex before. It is simply far too hyprocritical to be yelling from that proned position on the couch that you want Grandchildren, when you're not getting enough exercise yourself.
Ring around the rosey... the Black plague is coming, and it looks like you got it too. That's ok, because we can all die together. Hmm, actually, for the time, that might have been a pretty happy song.
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