I'm a coffee achiever !

I've been authorized by the jurisdiction of whatever city this is to punish you in whatever way I can think of!

This means you!

We're Buccaneers! We used to have mundane office jobs, working in cubicles with water coolers and coffee cups with clever slogans and those wacky calendars with photos of diseased-looking chimps wearing neckties.

But you've got hooks and peg legs.

Funny about that.

Arr, Matey. Cap'n Emer will set a course for adventure... and looooove. Life's sweetest reward. It's an open smile... on a friendly shore!

The Love Boat.. soon we'll be making another run.. the Looove boat... promises something for

EV- Ry- one!

Gah... Need more Coffee...

Sweet mother of all things good and sturdy!

crack out the tang and the little cereal boxes with the preferated backs. i love that stuff!

MmmmM crated rice crispies off the roach coach. :) food of the gods... not high-ranking gods, but... we make do. eating a banana with it is a great start... (wish I had some Cap'n Crunch... still in a piratey mood).

Today, please be a good day? Thanks.

no time to make a link...

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A46307-2000Dec8.html

hello kitty murders. oh dear. ( Read more... )

ooohhh!

mauracelt and destroll sent me the sweetest thing... a sigmund and the sea monsters video! watching it right now... fits into the aquatic theme nicely... thank you sooooo much! :) *does a happy dance* It's very cool, and is just as I remember it, watching TV as a little Scotto... I actually remember the episode...

The Village Blacksmith - Longfellow Forgive me, Des... I dig the poetry.)

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
the village smithy stands.
The smith, a mighty man is he,
with large and sinewy hands,
and the muscles of his brawny arms
are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
his face is like the tan.
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can
and looks the whole world in the face
for he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
you can hear his bellows blow.
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
with measured beat and slow.
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
when the evening sun is low.

And the children coming home from school
look in at the open door.
They love to see the flaming forge
and hear the bellows roar.
and catch the burning sparks that fly
like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
and sits among his boys.
He hears the parson pray and preach,
he hears his daughter's voice,
singing in the village choir,
and it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
singing in Paradise.
He needs must think of her once more,
how in the grave she lies,
and with his hard, rough hand
he wipes a tear out of his eyes.

Toiling---rejoicing---sorrowing
onward through life he goes
each morning sees some task begin
each evening sees it close.
Something attemped, something done,
has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
for the lesson thou hast taught.
Thus at the flaming forge of life,
our fortunes must be wrought.
Thus on it's sounding anvil shaped
each burning deed and thought.