I believe one should make fun of all the idols found to have feet of clay.
All buggaboos shall be bugged and booed.
Let the stories be told, let them say what they want.
I found it needed to reintroduce "banned" words to my general snarkiness.
It's fun. Serious? Nah.
Somebody cares if you're a racist? Hurl some invective be gramatical grenadiers! If words are banned, ideas are banned.
A person can hold any opinion they wish, if only for the time it takes to lampoon some Holy Cow.
If it is forbidden to take multiple views I guess that would eleminate a few hundred of my best friends. Believe it or not, some people are a lot of
All the worlds a stage!
Bespoke the burdened Caliban:
All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make him
By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me
And yet I needs must curse. But they'll nor pinch,
Fright me with urchin--shows, pitch me i' the mire,
Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark
Out of my way, unless he bid 'em; but
For every trifle are they set upon me;
Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me
And after bite me, then like hedgehogs which
Lie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount
Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I
All wound with adders who with cloven tongues
Do hiss me into madness.
Harken spoke Prospero, a speaking of the auldish friends, by way of an oath under Jove:
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.
And Luminaught bringeth no light beyond that which we may make towards the sacred and the damned. So be of glad face even if played black as a
minstrel, this, this, bother of do and don't of shall and ifs is in the end naught but a bumble of a summer's mad bee.
A harried hum lofted on a laughing breeze, or the slow awakening to the flute of Pan?
And you say people question the performance art of the day?
May Dianna's shaft pierce thine proud posterior!
Artful liar, though thou be,
they'll never silence we.
Calls me the tune!
The Devil's Trill.
And make it lively that we may eat and drink, and twirl yon fair maiden, for tomorrow we die.
The stage, the play, the greasepaint.
Wow Dude, it's ICP!
Nothin but net.
Hit it and quit it and pass it to you'r Homies Ya'll.