The other one <nobody@nobody.here.net>, the senile-down-and-out and
immoral smockface who likes disgusting self-pleasure with sperm whales,
and whose partner is a burlap sister with a frightful pink canoe, wrote
in <eg6erd$iad$1@reader01.news.esat.net>:
> "Kadaitcha Man" <****-you.ya.****@kiss-my-big-black-ass.com> wrote in
> message news:eg57he$smg$1@blackhelicopter.databasix.com...
>>
> http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/entrez/q...indexed=google
>>
>> Shove a finger up your arse.
>>
>>
> I wonder how it occurred to somebody to try this......

You dumb ****er.



--
For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down
in words with even more distinctness than that with which I conceived
it. There is, however, a class of fancies of exquisite delicacy which
are not thoughts, and to which as yet I have found it absolutely
impossible to adapt to language. These fancies arise in the soul, alas
how rarely. Only at epochs of most intense tranquillity, when the
bodily and mental health are in perfection. And at those weird points
of time, where the confines of the waking world blend with the world of
dreams. And so I captured this fancy, where all that we see, or seem,
is but a dream within a dream.