croc tastes like chicken

then again so do most things

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Do you think Paul Van Dyk really believes in Angels? I hope so, he’ll need their help to answer for all that bad music he’s made. - Sean Cusick

quote:

Originally posted by webmeister I guess none of you guys watch the news .. apparently they have found 14th Portuguese cannons on the coast of Western Australia... so I guess the portuguese got here first... who left the cannons there and why isn't known, there doesn't seem to be any record of it.. so u can all quit arguing, you're all wrong

Don't you watch the news webmeister? About a week after they had 'changed Australia's history' they got the tests back from wherever and it was proven it was not from the 14th century, it was actually from the early 19th century.
Sorry to tell ya, History is stil the same

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quote:

Originally posted by Trancey Ash Don't you watch the news webmeister? About a week after they had 'changed Australia's history' they got the tests back from wherever and it was proven it was not from the 14th century, it was actually from the early 19th century. Sorry to tell ya, History is stil the same

really? because the cannons i was talking about were found several years ago (like 5-10 years)..

and i guess we all know why the internationals are here .. they know this is the best patch in the world and can't stand to be away from it for too long

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I'm with webbie, those cannons exist, check with the West Australian Maritime Museum...

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Do you think Paul Van Dyk really believes in Angels? I hope so, he’ll need their help to answer for all that bad music he’s made. - Sean Cusick

to paste the irc log i have on my clipboard atm or not....

hmmmm

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6 days on the run... looking for a place to have some fun... Albrey Level 70 shaman - dark iron ftw!

Bedrock been dissing me behind my back again eh nick?

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Sorry guys I've been lazy in my forum checking...I haven't met my post whoring duties passed down to me by Philby...

I've had Kangaroo and it's the leanest meat I've ever had, tasted absolutely fucking awesome....emu is quite nice too.
Frog's legs are quite nice with some garlic butter rice....
Escargot/snails are just pointless as they have no flavour and rely on whatever you garnish them with...

And as far as the foreigners go...I have something to admit...

I was born in the famous Hammersmith Hospital...
Hammersmith, London...

moved to Hong Kong when I was 9 months old, lived there till I was 4 then moved to Sydney where I lived until I was 8 and have been in Melbourne for 10 years...
and quite frankly...living in what has been voted by people who have lived here and scored by experts doing surveys based on crime, economics, health, education, leisure and overall contentment, as "The most liveable city in the world" is half decent...
Melbourne, the city which almost scored a near perfect...is actually...pretty damn nice

Although switzerland was pretty cool.....

Wouldn't mind going to canada sometime either, pour pratiquer mon francais, nom de dieu j'ai un examen dans deux semaines!!! putain!! merde!! m'aidez!!!!

Anyway the only thing I have to say about the Uk.Ta's is taken from a book by Craig Charles (Dave Lister from Red Dwarf) who lives in London and has...a few...things.....to say about it:

The London Inferno

Three unconnected events recently prompted me to reassess the way I look at London. One was the fact that I was returning from the relative peace of the countryside, two was that I had been reading Dante's Inferno, and three was a sudden spell of hot weather. I suddenly realised that London IS hell.

There are seven distinct levels to the purgatory that is London. The outer level is in the form of a massive, black ring that circles the boiling core. Some call this ring Acheron, but most refer to it as the M25. Around this ring, the souls of the damned hurtle in a chaos of speeding, crashing metal in a desperate attempt to reach the inner levels, driven by the erroneus belief that things will be better there. They are not.

The air throughout the London inferno is perpetually tainted with noxious fumes and choking vapours that scarify the lungs and tear the eyes. Filthy, black, flapping shapes fill the air, diving amongst the throng to scavenge for scraps or to die messily beneath the crushing wheels of speeding cars as they swerve to avoid the black killer cabs that plough relentlessly throught the streets, slaying all in their path.

A black-hearted river runs through the centre of perdition. A stinking, swirling torrent crossed at intervals by crumbling bridges beneath which God's bankers swing on creaking ropes.

There is a stark, bony figure on one side of this river, dressed all in black. He approaches lost souls who are encouraged to press a silver coin into his skeletal hand, whereupon he will furnish them with a copy of the Big Issue.

The next level is a maze of soot-grimed tunnels buried deep in the earth. Here, tormented shades are crushed and jostled. Forced into metal cylinders and left stewing in dark, rat-infested tunnels as all hope drains from their wretched spirits and darkness seeps into their very souls.

The third level is a scattered domain. here and there throughout the inferno you will find the piteous huddles of those whose sin was the sin of penury. Those wrethces skulk in filthy corners in pools of excrement muttering forlorn supplications to any that will listen. No one ever does. There is no compassion in Hell.

Then there is the dread level of the hedonists. This is a vast warehouse into which thousands upon thousands of souls are herded and crushed. They are fed a demonic potion that dooms them to dance until they drop into the rhythmic pounding of Hell's generators under the coruscating flashes of the chthonic welders who are forever busy, building the hurtling metal boxes in which the mad, teeming souls of the outer levels are to be imprisoned.
nb. I don't think he's talking about gatecrasher..it's ok
The next tier is but a room. This is the level of the malcontents. Those who are dissatisfied with their state of mind. These wretches are fated to sit around a table and listen to the interminable babble of nonsense they generate as demons feed them an endless stream of tainted drugs through their noses. The room resounds with the vapid details of grand schemes that will come to nought and impassioned entreaties for some of the good stuff that made them feel OK for twenty seconds all those years ago.

Yet another level is known as Oxford Street where diverse souls are damned to search endlessly for something worth having at a reasonable price. If they succeed, they will attain salvation. No one yet has.

The cheap-thrill seekers have a level all to themselves, for their title is in itself a paradox. In certain red-hued back streets, sad individuals scurry from shadow to shadow, regaled from dark doorways by the strident entreaties of painted succubi, seeking a glimpse of beautiful female flesh and a decent drink. They will find neither, but are eternally doomed to pay dearly for weak cider and cellulite under the watchful gaze of a massive demon called Vinnie, who carries a credit-card swiper and a lead pipe.

The bearers of false witness, the uncaring and the power-hungry are banished to a large hall. Here they are dressed in ill-fitting grey suits, seperated into opposing factions and ranged opposite each other in staggered tiers. Ordered thusly, they are doomed for ever to argue across the dividing floor with no side giving an inch or ever agreeing on anything. This is one of the saddest levels of the inferno.

There are subsidary torments for those who finally manage to escape the confines of the endless ring around purgatory. Once inside, they are doomed to drive around endless narrow streets patrolled by sour-faced demons in uniform whose only purpose is to preven these exhausted, tormented souls from ever stopping.

Those desperate enough to attempt a halt are cruelly hobbled with heavy iron boots and left there, immobilised for eternity.

There is a freezing hell for those guilty of the sin of growing old. They are banished to concrete towers of ice with nothing but a constant stream of final reminders to burn for fuel. However, they have no matches and can only ignite the bills when young demons slip fire bombs through their letter boxes. These sad souls are dying from the cost of living.

Throughout the London inferno you will find the thief dens. Here, anything left unattended for more than five seconds will disappear forever. And in the streets, watches and jewellery are torn from the bodies of any foolish enough to be so adorned, by drug-crazed imps.

Those that escape the clawed snatchers are stopped by the roving officers of perdition in their stark black uniforms, who will rummage roughly through your soul for any sign of guilt. They rarely fail to perceive some evidence of culpability and regularly drag screaming soulds off to their noisome dungeons where a peculiar kind of gravity causes their prisoners to fall endlessly down stairs and walk into doors.

Another stratum awaits the wannabes and poseurs who will find the gates to their imagined heaven barred by a large devil in a tuxedo who will repeat, endless catechism about a mythical list upon which their names do not now, and never will, appear. Their pathetic pleas involving "obvious mistakes" and "don't you know who I am?"s forever fall on deaf and dispassionate ears.

There is also a two-dimensional level to the inferno as thin as cheap paper. Here, everything is black and white and souls are ritually torn apart in print as punishment for the sin of being interesting. It is here that every bad photograph anyone has ever had taken will appear. The demons that run this level of purgatory smell of smoke and whisky and suffix everyone's names with their incorrect age and marital status. Minos, minus the charm.

This is the London Inferno. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

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Needing a reason for being stuck in this seemingly demeaning whirlwind of ride with you

Um... I believe the Aborigines found Australia First. And then the Asian's use to fish down here before any white settlers came. There is also plenty of documented evidence to say Cook wasn't the first whitey here. Besides, everyone knows that Burt Newton has been here before all European Settlers doing Good Morning Australia

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1 out of every 4 people in this country are mentally disturbed. Look at your 3 closest friends. If they seem okay, then you're the one.

Actually I welcome all the foreigners, I really love foreigners (so long as they're 16-22, blonde/brunette, hot, nice rack, trance lovin party animals )

here's something about scotland by Craig Charles as well (I'm half scottish btw, qtr norwegian and qtr swedish, .. and all aussie)

Scotland

Scotland worries me for a number of reasons. Firstly, it's the only country in the wolrd whose national dress includes a concealed knife in the sock. There's a clue there surely. And the kilt. Contrary to what some people might say, the kilt is THE most masculine item of clothing in the entire universe. Scotsmen wear kilts with nothing underneath so that they can shag anything that moves as rapidly as possible without having to mess about with zips and buttons. And when I say anything that moves, I mean anything.

And the sporran, where did that come from? I'll tell you: the sporran represents a mad badger clamped to the genitals. Apparentl, in acient times, when a Highlander was feeling a bit peckish and fancied frying up a quick badger, he would locate a set and dangle his genitals outside the entrance as bait while regaling the badger with tunats such as "Oh, what a crappy badger you are and no mistake". This would incense the badger, who would come flying out of the set, teeth first, and clamp itself on to the Highlander's genitals. The clansman would give a triumphant whoop, wipe the tears from his eyes and run, groin first into the nearest tree to stun the badger who would then be prised off with a concealed knife and end up roasting over a cow-pat fire. Guys, next time you see a sporran, I guarantee you'll go 'EEESH'.

The Kilt is also used as a method of challenging an opponent. That's why it looks like a girl's skirt. It's to put the opposition at ease until you've bitten their lungs out. You can just see a Scotsman, kilt flapping in the breeze, in the middle of New York. Strolling through the rougher district of Spanish Harlem, just waiting for a Hispanic street gang to notice him, whereupon he'll stop, indicate his kilt with a nonchalant wave of his hand and say "Oh, aye ... and what are ye gonna' do about it then?"

I've seen a lot of street fights in my time, but when the ambulance arrives, the guy they pick up is always a sporran-free zone.

NEVER, EVER, mess with anyone wearing a kilt.

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Needing a reason for being stuck in this seemingly demeaning whirlwind of ride with you

quote:

Originally posted by jploveparade

heheheheeheheheheheheehehe
no comment lol

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Oh, life is bigger ,It's bigger than you,And you are not me,The lengths that I will go to, The distance in your eyes ,Oh no, I've said too much, I set it up

That's me in the corner, That's me in the spotlight, I'm Losing my religion, Trying to keep up with you ,And I don't know if I can do it, Oh no, I've said too much,I haven't said enough, I thought that I heard you laughing, I thought that I heard you sing, I think I thought I saw you try.

But that was just a dream, That was just a dream, But that was just a dream, Try, cry, why try? That was just a dream ,Just a dream, just a dream, Dream