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Topics - _noXiouS_
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162
« on: March 20, 2011, 10:10:53 PM »
Why is shokeen-munda demoted from the Chat Mod position? /:)
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« on: March 20, 2011, 06:11:15 PM »
So, on the wee hours of Saturday night, discussion on Mirza & Sahiba, somehow, spurred. (at least we weren't watching Telletubbies)
Someone voiced that Mirza rishte vich Sahiba da real "mama" lagda si.
Now, is that true?
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« on: March 18, 2011, 11:52:55 AM »
Happy Birthday Sweetie Pie Rab teriya sariya khawashiya purriya kare :hug: :hug: :hug:
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« on: March 18, 2011, 11:15:42 AM »
There is a disorder, called Scrupulosity, that isn't spiritual at all; it's neuro-biological. A rare, often-misdiagnosed subtype of obsessive compulsive disorder, affecting maybe 180,000 (or 6 percent) of the approximately 3 million Americans suffering from OCD.  Meet Tom, a guy a lot like you. He works hard, makes a good wage, has a girlfriend who loves him. He's a God-fearing man as well. Sound familiar? Here's the difference: His belief in God almost killed him. The condition Tom describes as "high tide" has a long, if shrouded, history. In the 15th century, San Antonio (Archbishop of Florence) wrote of a malady specific to the faithful, describing "a doubt accompanied by a groundless fear, which afflicts the spirit, and makes it apprehend sin where none exists." Saint Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Jesuit Order, was nearly suicidal with thoughts of spiritual impurity, and attended confession compulsively, fearful he'd not properly repented. Martin Luther was plagued by blasphemous thoughts. As long as there have been devout men, there have been men whose devoutness offered no peace, but only an agony of dread, and obsession, and ritual—a flesh-eating bacteria of the spirit. But the disorder, called Scrupulosity, isn't spiritual at all; it's neuro-biological. A rare, often-misdiagnosed subtype of obsessive compulsive disorder, affecting maybe 180,000 (or 6 percent) of the approximately 3 million Americans suffering from OCD, according to the Westwood Institute for Anxiety Disorders. But unlike cleaners, who can't wash enough, and checkers, who can't be too careful, scrupulous people can't get good enough. The desire to be properly God-fearing, or morally upright, turns traitor, like a diseased immune system attacking its host. In an obsessive compulsive's world, obsessions are intrusive thoughts that provoke intense anxieties. Compulsions are rituals performed to release or negate those anxieties. Except they don't. They only reinforce the obsessions. "If you go into a situation and you're anxious, and you do something to protect yourself—a compulsion—what you don't find out is whether in fact the situation is dangerous," says Dr. Jeff Szymanski, Ph.D., president of the International OCD Foundation. "You've told your brain, yeah, I think we might have been in danger." Sufferers recognize their behavior is irrational. They are prisoners to it. And for the scrupulous, those prison walls are fashioned by their own moral impulses, their very belief systems, religious or otherwise. In fact, a growing body of scientific evidence indicates a neurological overlap between the areas of the brain that underlie OCD obsession and the seat of human morality itself. It's no surprise: Moral emotions (such as guilt and empathy) have evolved with us since our knuckle-dragging days. Absent them, we're a planet of Patrick Batemans from American Psycho. It's a balance we take for granted. But too much of them and we cripple ourselves with judgment. Too much of them and we might find ourselves undeserving of a sip of beer. Tom's problems started when he first went to elementary school (childhood-onset OCD is predominantly male). Catholic school, which his Methodist parents preferred to the shabby public schools in his small southern hometown. He was diagnosed with separation anxiety in the second grade, but he couldn't tell anyone the reason for his distress: He thought that while he was at school, his parents would die. He couldn't tell anyone, because if he did, they would also die—a classic example of what OCD specialists call "magical thinking." The burden was his. He obsessed about death, couldn't see it dramatized on television. "Man, that would just send me off," he recalls. "Now I know they were panic attacks. I would start sweating right here." He points to the peak of his hairline. His heart would race. His hearing would fade, like someone turning the volume down on the world. "My thought was, It's not going to be OK. It's not going to be OK. Somebody's going to die. I'm going to die." He found relief from his anxiety in chapel confirmation classes. "It was a safe place," he says. "Also, it was made very clear what I was to do. You are to stand here. You are to put your hand on this bead, say a Hail Mary, and move it. And so, for the rest of my life..." Tom leaves the thought hanging, but I get it. For the rest of his life, he'd be looking for rituals to soothe those anxieties, to make it okay again. Tit for tat. Obsession compulsion. And when he was old enough to understand that God had some providence over death, he linked, in his little boy's mind, his fear of death to a fear of God. Or rather, a fear of God's judgment. "To some people," he tells me quietly, plucking at his beard, "God is the ultimate love. For me, God became the ultimate displeasure." There's a fine line between someone who is devout, and someone suffering from Scrupulosity. Szymanski defines the difference like this: "People who enjoy their religious practice find fulfillment and purpose. Scrupulous people are driven by fear. The thinking is, I've committed a sin. I've done something blasphemous. I've done some sort of unforgivable thing toward God and he is now angry with me." Scrupulous compulsions usually involve repetitive prayers, mental pacts with God, or punitive shows of piety. Often, patients can't see the theological forest for the trees: stuck for hours perfecting the Rosary, rather than taking solace from their convictions. Scrupulosity also manifests as a secular, hyper-morality: the man who is incapable of lying (think: Jim Carey in Liar Liar) on even the smallest scale, or the teenager so terrified of harming another creature that he can't wash his car, for fear of drowning a passing spider. But the more severe cases tend to be the religious ones, where repetitive rituals and institutionalized guilt play into the hands of the disorder. And where intrusive thoughts are blasphemies. "There's a ton of shame with Scrupulosity," says Szymanski. "Because they're thinking these horrible things about God, and if they're thinking them, they must mean them in some horrible way, when in fact it's just a random spitting out from a part of the brain." Thought Action Fusion, psychologists call it: If I think it, it's as though I did it. This is especially devastating for people of faith, who are often taught that thoughts are equitable to actions. I spoke to one patient who became convinced that he was posessed, after curses against Jesus and pledges to Satan swarmed his mind like wasps. His life collapsed. It's the old pink elephant experiment: Tell yourself not to think about something, soon it's the only thing in your head. Scrupulous people demand an unattainable level of perfection from themselves. There is no middle ground between righteousness and depravity. And no room for doubt—which of course, fuels tons of it. Szymanski remembers treating an atheist who fell prey to scrupulous obsessions just in case. "In any instance," Dr. Szymanski says, "it isn't about religion. It's about the brain malfunctioning." The malfunction in Tom's brain, through childhood, resulted in garden variety OCD symptoms: Certain notes on the piano had to be played when he entered or left the house, sinks had to be completely free from water. Then came junior prom, when he found himself in a crowded hotel room, stoned and drunk. Around him, boys in rented tuxedos and girls with teased bangs drank Jack Daniels and smoked weed. A few were huffing paint. Fumes blanketed the air. He'd spent his whole childhood rebelling from school (his GPA wasn't a full number), but he was suddenly disgusted. He thought to himself: I can do better than this. "I attributed that to God speaking to me," he says. "It was a calling." Researchers note a spike in OCD symptoms in late adolescence or early adulthood. Tom was right on target. After that, he had to read a certain number of Bible verses every morning, sitting in a particular spot, one leg propped on a shelf. The verses became a chapter, and the chapter became a book, which could take over an hour to finish. His legs would fall asleep while he read, cramped in that unnatural position. He developed a prayer he had to recite before bed, which got longer and longer, until he needed hours to complete it. If he fell asleep during the prayer, he had to finish it the next morning, before his reading. If he made a mistake, he had to start over. "I had to give the day to God," he tells me. I ask him what he thought would happen back then if he didn't complete those rituals. "God would be pissed off," he says, without hesitation. "He'd be after me. He would definitely hate me. All the blessings in my life would fall away." The frightening God from Tom's boyhood—his first scrupulous invention—was back. Penance was required. Not long ago, treatment for a guy like Tom would have consisted of talk therapy, only worsening his obsessions. In fact, there remains so much ignorance about Scrupulosity—and OCD in general—that lots of people endure years of unhelpful treatment. Not to mention bad advice. (Researching for this story, I stumbled on a Web health forum, where a Christian woman wrote complaining of intrusive thoughts like I hate God. And every response encouraged her to pray, to redouble her commitment to the church, to rebuke the devil.) Right now, Scrupulosity isn't even listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Therapists familiar with OCD might not recognize it when they see it. Leslie Shapiro, a petite, bird-like woman, is a behavioral therapist specializing in Scrupulosity at the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Institute at McLean Hospital, one of only three residential treatment centers for OCD in the country. The institute's 30 beds are filled with severe, treatment-resistant patients. They come here, to Belmont, Massachusetts, from all over the world. There is a 4-month waiting list. Leslie runs the Scrupulosity Group (composed of three patients when we spoke). And she believes there's another reason scrupulous patients slip between the cracks. "Many therapists are biased against religion," she says, sitting in her office at the institute's top floor. Behind her is a bookshelf packed with tomes on psychology, OCD, and religion. "There's a lot of judgment. It's counter-transference—that's psycho-babble for bringing your own baggage into the room." Dismissed as over-zealous nuts outside their religious communities, and primed with ritual inside them, these people often have nowhere to turn. Shapiro considers treating religious Scrupulosity an obligation. "It's a neurobiological disorder," she says. "It's nobody's fault. Nobody made it happen." For all subtypes of OCD, treatment is the same: an SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, the same class of drugs prescribed for depression) combined with exposure and response therapy. When patients ritualize to combat anxiety, they only prove to themselves that their obsessions are real, that rituals protect them, reinforcing the OCD feedback loop. During exposure therapy, a patient endures an obsession without performing compulsions, anxiety skyrocketing, until the brain realizes that there is no real danger. "The goal is habituation," Shapiro says. "When you face your obsessive fear and let the anxiety run its course, you habituate to that situation." It's a painful process—especially so for scrupulous patients, since the treatment forces them to repeat their private blasphemies aloud, piling imaginary sin on sin. Therapists use religious counsel to reassure patients (though, I'm told, many wind up doubting their religious counsel, too). Shapiro introduces me to Ann, a middle-aged Catholic woman, suicidal before she arrived at the Institute just four weeks before, wracked with feelings of sin and unworthiness. Her hairless forearms are red and scraped, from years of compulsive washing and praying. Ann shows me her current exposure treatment, the reverse of a compulsive prayer that has dominated her life for years. She holds up three pages of yellow notebook paper, covered front to back with the following sentence: Oh God, please don't help me. At first, just writing those words caused anxiety attacks. Slowly, she's starting to realize that her Scrupulosity is not interchangeable with her piety. But while a person obsessed with germs can be taught, definitively, that a doorknob is safe, a person convinced he's damned will never know for sure. Not in this life. The awful doubt remains. Tom's doubts chased him to college. And while other college kids were doing what college kids do—partying, meeting girls—Tom suppresed all sexual impulses. He remained a virgin until he was 28, and for a three-year period, the only orgasms he had were in his sleep. He did find a girlfriend, another Christian, whose own private demons kept her physically shut down. They enabled each other's anxieties. Meanwhile, Tom deteriorated. "I was losing the ability to do things in my life," he says. "The obvious stuff, like sex, alcohol, stuff like that. Any pleasure. And pretty soon, I couldn't eat. At all. I couldn't even drink." By May 1999, Tom, 6-foot tall, had withered to 90 pounds. Skin shrink-wrapped to bones. He didn't deserve to eat while others starved. It was wrong. The only thing that felt right was to take up less space. To diminish. "You were dying," I tell him. "At that point," he says flatly, "I didn't care." He was overcome with nervous tics: gulping, clicking his throat, rolling his head around on his neck. It was wrong to work, to move. And wrong to explain. These were God's prescriptions. Asking for help was tantamount to betraying God. When his parents—alerted to his condition by his desperate girlfriend—brought him back to their house, he hadn't showered in weeks. He smelled like an animal. They took his filthy clothes to wash, and Tom collapsed on a pastel couch in their living room, where he lay for days, in his boxers, staring out of empty eyes. He listened to hushed voices discussing his condition. His mother's movements in the kitchen filled him with dread: mealtimes meant food. She brought him saltines, and Tom might take two hours to chew and swallow a cracker. At one point, she tried to force one through his closed lips. He kept his teeth clenched. His first psychiatric evaluation, Tom was tested to assess the severity of his obsessions. "Congratulations," said the doctor. "You got a perfect score." Moral crises like the one Tom describes have traditionally been the provenence of clergy and philosophers. That's changing. Neurologists have discovered that morals, and moral emotions, are not just abstract concepts, but coded in specific regions of the brain. Harvard psychology professor Joshua Greene, with help from a fMRI scanner, collected data from brains considering an old two-part philosophical quandary. First, would you pull a lever to reroute an unstoppable train from a track with five workers standing on it to a track with only one? Overwhelmingly, people say they would. Second, would you push a man into the tracks of the oncoming train to save the five workers? Overwhelming, people would not, even though the math—kill one guy, save five—is the same. Greene found that the two questions trigger different regions in the brain. The first activates the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex, behind the brow, partly responsible for reasoning and problem solving. The second activates areas known to regulate empathy and social cognition. Researchers like Greene suggest that these two regions duke it out in any moral situation. If you've ever felt like you were wrestling with yourself over the "right" thing to do, you probably were. And a powerful emotional response drowns out logic when confronted with primal notions of right and wrong (don't push people into trains). This idea is further supported by evidence that people with damage to the medial prefrontral cortex—emotion's advocate—have no problem pushing the guy, suffocating the crying baby to save hiding villagers, sacrificing one hostage for the rest (pick your hypothetical). The numbers add up, but the acts are repulsive to most of us. We need both subsystems talking to each other for our moral compasses to find true north. To extrapolate a bit, hyperactivity in either might be as debilitating as no activity at all.
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« on: March 15, 2011, 05:41:53 PM »
Oil Change instructions for Women:
1) Pull up to Jiffy Lube when the mileage reaches 3000 miles since the last oil change. 2) Drink a cup of coffee. 3) 15 minutes later, write a check and leave with a properly maintained vehicle. Money spent: Oil Change $20.00 Coffee $1.00 Total $21.00 ==========================================­================ Oil Change instructions for Men:
1) Wait until Saturday, drive to auto parts store and buy a case of oil, filter, kitty litter, hand cleaner and a scented tree, write a check for $50.00. 2) Stop by 7-11 and buy a case of beer, write a check for $20, drive home. 3) Open a beer and drink it. 4) Jack car up. Spend 30 minutes looking for jack stands. 5) Find jack stands under kid's pedal car. 6) In frustration, open another beer and drink it. 7) Place drain pan under engine.  Look for 9/16 box end wrench. 9) Give up and use crescent wrench. 10) Unscrew drain plug. 11) Drop drain plug in pan of hot oil: splash hot oil on you in process. Cuss. 12) Crawl out from under car to wipe hot oil off of face and arms. Throw kitty litter on spilled oil. 13) Have another beer while watching oil drain. 14) Spend 30 minutes looking for oil filter wrench. 15) Give up; crawl under car and hammer a screwdriver through oil filter and twist off. 16) Crawl out from under car with dripping oil filter splashing oil everywhere from holes. Cleverly hide old oil filter among trash in trash can to avoid environmental penalties. Drink a beer. 17) Buddy shows up; finish case of beer with him. Decide to finish oil change tomorrow so you can go see his new garage door opener. 1 Sunday: Skip the holy place because "I gotta finish the oil change." Drag pan full of old oil out from underneath car. Cleverly dump oil in hole in back yard instead of taking it back recycling. 19) Throw kitty litter on oil spilled during step 18. 20) Beer? No, drank it all yesterday. 21) Walk to 7-11; buy beer. 22) Install new oil filter making sure to apply a thin coat of oil to gasket surface. 23) Dump first quart of fresh oil into engine. 24) Remember drain plug from step 11. 25) Hurry to find drain plug in drain pan. 26) Remember that the used oil is buried in a hole in the back yard, along with drain plug. 27) Drink beer. 2 Shovel out hole and sift oily mud for drain plug. Re-shovel oily dirt into hole. Steal sand from kid's sandbox to cleverly cover oily patch of ground and avoid environmental penalties. Wash drain plug in lawnmower gas. 29) Discover that first quart of fresh oil is now on the floor.Throw kitty litter on oil spill. 30) Drink beer. 31) Crawl under car getting kitty litter into eyes. Wipe eyes with oily rag used to clean drain plug. Slip with stupid crescent wrench tightening drain plug and bang knuckles on frame. 32) Bang head on floorboards in reaction to step 31. 33) Begin a cussing fit. 34) Throw stupid crescent wrench. 35) Cuss for additional 10 minutes because wrench hit and broke favorite bowling trophy. 36) Beer. 37) Clean up hands and forehead and bandage as required to stop blood flow. 3 Beer. 39) Beer. 40) Dump in five fresh quarts of oil. 41) Beer. 42) Lower car from jack stands. 43) Accidentally crush remaining case of new motor oil. 44) Move car back to apply more kitty litter to fresh oil spilled during steps 23 - 43. 45) Beer. 46) Test drive car. 47) Get pulled over: arrested for driving under the influence. 4 Car gets impounded. 49) Call loving wife, make bail. 50) 12 hours later, get car from impound yard. Money spent: Parts $50.00 DUI $2500.00 Impound fee $75.00 Bail $1500.00 Beer $40.00 Total - - $4,165.00 But you know the job was done right!
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« on: March 15, 2011, 05:15:07 PM »
If I Ever Become an Evil Queen:
My legions of terror will have helmets with clear Plexiglas visors, not face-concealing ones, so I can tell if there is an impostor.
My ventilation ducts will be too small to crawl through.
My noble half-brother whose throne I usurped will be killed, not kept anonymously imprisoned in a forgotten cell of my dungeon.
The artifact which is the source of my power will not be kept on the Mountain of Despair beyond the River of Fire guarded by the Dragons of Eternity. It will be in my safe-deposit box.
I will not gloat over my enemies' predicament before killing them.
When the rebel leader challenges me to fight one-on-one and asks, "Or are you afraid without your armies to back you up?" My reply will be, "No, just sensible."
When I've captured my adversary and he says, "Look, before you kill me, will you at least tell me what this is all about?" I'll shoot him, and then say "No".
I will not include a self-destruct mechanism unless absolutely necessary. If it is necessary, it will not be a large red button labelled "Danger: Do Not Push".
I will not order my trusted lieutenant to kill the infant who is destined to overthrow me -- I'll do it myself.
I will not interrogate my enemies in the inner sanctum -- a small hotel well outside my borders will work just as well.
I will be secure in my superiority. Therefore, I will feel no need to prove it by leaving clues in the form of riddles or leaving my weaker enemies alive to show they pose no threat.
I will not waste time making my enemy's death look like an accident: I'm not accountable to anyone and my other enemies wouldn't believe it.
I will make it clear that I do know the meaning of the word "mercy"; I simply choose not show them any.
One of my advisors will be an average five-year-old child. Any flaws in my plan that he is able to spot will be corrected before implementation.
All slain enemies will be cremated, not left for dead at the bottom of the cliff. The announcement of their deaths, as well as any accompanying celebration, will be deferred until after the aforementioned disposal.
My undercover agents will not have tattoos identifying them as members of my organization, nor will they be required to wear military boots or adhere to any other dress codes.
The hero is not entitled to a last kiss, a last cigarette, or any other form of last request.
I will never employ any device with a digital countdown. If I find that such a device is absolutely unavoidable, I will set it to activate when the counter reaches 117 and the hero is just putting his plan into operation.
I will design all doomsday machines myself. If I must hire a mad scientist to assist me, I will make sure that he is sufficiently twisted to never regret his evil ways and seek to undo the damage he's caused.
I will never utter the sentence "But before I kill you, there's just one thing I want to know."
When I employ people as advisors, I will occasionally listen to their advice BUHUAHUAHUHAUHAUHAUHAUHAU :happy:
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« on: March 15, 2011, 04:39:27 PM »
Mosquito repellents don't repel. They hide you. The spray blocks the mosquito's sensors so they don't know you're there.
No piece of paper can be folded in half more than 7 times.
Donkeys kill more people annually than plane crashes.
You burn more calories sleeping than you do watching television.
Oak trees do not produce acorns until they are fifty years of age or older.
The first product to have a bar code was Wrigley's gum.
The king of hearts is the only king without a mustache.
A Boeing 747s wingspan is longer than the Wright brother's first flight.
American Airlines saved $40,000 in 1987 by eliminating 1 olive from each salad served in first-class.
Venus is the only planet that rotates clockwise.
Apples, not caffeine, are more efficient at waking you up in the morning.
The plastic things on the end of shoelaces are called aglets.
Most dust particles in your house are made from dead skin.
The first owner of the Marlboro Company died of lung cancer.
Michael Jordan makes more money from Nike annually than all of the Nike factory workers in Malaysia combined.
Walt Disney was afraid of mice.
Pearls melt in vinegar.
Thirty-five percent of the people who use personal ads for dating are already married.
It is possible to lead a cow upstairs...but not downstairs.
Richard Millhouse Nixon was the first US president whose name contains all the letters from the word "criminal." The second was William Jefferson Clinton.
Turtles can breathe through their butts
Butterflies taste with their feet.
In 10 minutes, a hurricane releases more energy than all of the world's nuclear weapons combined.
On average, 100 people choke to death on ball-point pens every year.
On average people fear spiders more than they do death.
Ninety percent of New York City cabbies are recently arrived immigrants.
Elephants are the only animals that can't jump.
Only one person in two billion will live to be 116 or older.
The Main Library at Indiana University sinks over an inch every year because when it was built, engineers failed to take into account the weight of all the books that would occupy the building.
A snail can sleep for three years.
No word in the English language rhymes with "MONTH."
The electric chair was invented by a dentist.
All polar bears are left handed.
In ancient Egypt, priests plucked EVERY hair from their bodies, including their eyebrows and eyelashes.
An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain.
TYPEWRITER is the longest word that can be made using the letters only on one row of the keyboard.
"Go," is the shortest complete sentence in the English language.
A crocodile cannot stick its tongue out.
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« on: March 15, 2011, 03:53:31 PM »
I've seen a lot of ids on PJ with "yankee" this yankee that (the spelling varies) , i.e. yanky, yanki ...oh, you get it  : So, curious to know, your definition of "yankee" My understanding: In USA, during the Civil War, yankees were considered the Union Soldiers (north side)
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« on: March 15, 2011, 03:36:27 PM »
COLUMBUS, OH—A ravenous caterpillar escaped from captivity today, wreaking havoc as it devoured everything in its sight and carved a half-centimeter path of destruction across the city, horrified sources reported.
Confined to a glass viewing chamber since late May, the savage creature reportedly broke free from its bedside enclosure before slithering out of an open window and charging wildly toward the city's unsuspecting commercial district.
 Residents Advised To Wear Socks As Precaution
"I came back home and it was gone," said 8-year-old resident Daniel Bogen, whose hubris and reckless abandon has unleashed a terror of immeasurable proportions onto the community. "I thought I twisted the lid on the jar real tight. Where did it go?"
Stretching out to a monstrous 75 millimeters, the beast's segmented body left behind a swath of devastation as it uprooted entire blades of grass, snapped whole clover stems in half with a single bite from its jaws, and marauded past residential structures helpless against its larval fury.
At press time, authorities remained no closer to locating the caterpillar.
While many Columbus residents avoided peril by staying indoors, the multi-legged creature continued to quench its insatiable hunger for the flesh of foliage. In fact, the rapacious insect was said to only momentarily pause its mindless pursuit of nutrients when it climbed atop a branch and coldly surveyed the city with its unfeeling eyelets. One terrified onlooker said he watched the creature use its razor-sharp mandibles to tear through the leaf of a 100-foot-tall oak tree as though it were paper.
 The unstoppable beast devoured more than a dozen leaves.
"That thing is a menace," said resident Derek Kriesel, who noted that his 25-foot chain-link fence provided little defense against the caterpillar's feeding frenzy. "It ripped through an entire stem of my basil and consumed almost two whole buds from that one tomato plant. There's nothing left. Nothing."
With little regard for life or private property in the crowded urban area, the raging caterpillar instantly rendered dozens homeless when it knocked over an anthill, its three pairs of legs crushing everything beneath them into the dirt. Although the full extent of the damage caused by the .250-foot creature is not known, many estimate it will take more than 10,000 ant-hours to rebuild.
Though the caterpillar left a chewed-up trail of leaf remnants in its wake, numerous Columbus residents admitted they had not personally witnessed the voracious pest's reign of horror.
"Was it one of those fat-furry ones or the green ones?" Columbus native Andrea Barlow said. "Those furry ones give me the willies. They're so creepy."
How long the creature's destructive rampage will continue, or what—if anything—can stop it, remains to be seen. A unit of plastic army men and tanks, stationed on the edge of a local sandbox, proved no match for the insectoid, as it lumbered through the group with terrifying speed, knocking a half-dozen infantrymen onto the ground below.
Shortly before press time, the caterpillar began to exude a translucent and stringy discharge, which it wrapped around itself until it had completely disappeared inside the alien casing. While few know what is occurring inside the hanging structure, some speculate that the creature has entered a horrifying state of mutation, one that may transform the ungodly caterpillar into an even more deadly and revolting organism.
"Whatever is happening inside of that thing, it's far from human," said Columbus police chief Keith Morgan, who predicted that if the creature gains the power of flight, nothing will be capable of standing in its way. "Once again the folly and ignorance of man has unleashed nature's fury. May God help us all." :hehe:
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« on: March 15, 2011, 03:17:20 PM »
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« on: March 15, 2011, 03:00:44 PM »
:D:
To the people who work in my office… I hate you
Girl with the bright blonde weave who works in reception- I don’t know how you got your job, you are so uneducated it makes me sick. Did you graduate grammar school? I think I would respect you more if the answer to that is no. I want to throw a rock at your face every time I walk by when you are answering the phone and you say something like ‘who you callin’ for?’ or ‘he in a meetin’ right now’ or my personal favorite, ‘who this is?’ I bet the people on the other end of the phone want to throw a rock at your face too. I also can’t stand when I get message notes from you that are written like so: Mr. Smith called hes wanting to kno wen he shuld ecspect the letter of aprovle. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? It amazes me that the only two things in your job description are answering phones and taking phone messages and you can’t do either of those things!
Tall girl in design with the short brown hair- You have horrendous body odor! I’m not talking a little stench here and there I am talking everyday when you walk into the building people drop dead. I don’t know how you don’t notice it. I’m going to buy you deodorant for Christmas.
Fat woman who works in suite 19- I don’t know exactly what you do for this company, but I know far too much about your personal life. When you talk to your boyfriend on company time, please refrain from telling him it felt so good when [*censored :happy: ] Yea I heard that, and so does everyone else that walks by your suite when you are on the phone. It’s disgusting, and we don’t want to hear about it, so keep your voice down.
Blonde woman who works for accounting- I know that you are 30, not 25 and I also know that at the Christmas party last year you got frisky with the bosses son in the broom closet and that he got you pregnant. Please don’t insult me in front of our coworkers again or I will tell everyone.
Boss’ old receptionist- My name is not, John, Jason, Jack, Jim or Jared’ it’s Evan.
Middle age woman who works in reception- Your job is not that hard. You answer phones, put people on hold, and take messages. I don’t care that you were up late cleaning the house or that you sat up all night waiting for you delinquent son to get home, that does not give you a reason to get rude with a customer or walk around grunting about how your job is so stressful. Half of us come in still drunk from the night before, but we never yell at clients, grunt about our family members or say our jobs are soooo hard.
Pregnant woman- There is only one of you, so no need for further description but let it be known that you are not the first person to ever get knocked up! You are not the first person to get heart burn, you are not the first person to get morning sickness. You are not the first person to pee their pants because the baby put too much pressure on your bladder and you certainly are not the first person who has had strange cravings for cheese and anchovies. Stop complaining about it!
Little intern girl- You are so cute with your stringy brown hair, acne and braces but your coffee skills are lacking. All I ever want is a large black coffee but you seem to thing that I would rather a low-fat latte, or a caramel machiato, or even a Chai Tea. Nope I don’t want those, I just want a damn black coffee! Also, you obviously don’t know your alphabet because my filing cabinet is a mess. F does not come after R, sweetie. Do you want to flunk the class you are doing this internship for? No? You better shape your ass up and get me the right coffee then!
Hispanic girl who works in design- You wear way too much makeup, I hate that you draw your eyebrows on, and I’m pretty sure you have an adams apple and are a man.
35 year old secretary- You have a 20 year old son, and a 15 year old son… yet you dress like you are 16. I would be embarrassed to be your children. Oh and you look really stupid when you wear that plaid school-girl skirt with the white tights and hooker boots. This is an office… not a brothel.
173
« on: March 13, 2011, 04:59:38 PM »
Can someone upload Debi's latest album? =/
174
« on: March 06, 2011, 03:57:54 PM »
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
Pablo Neruda
175
« on: March 06, 2011, 03:46:02 PM »
Still I Rise
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise. 
176
« on: March 06, 2011, 12:31:23 AM »
So, as you all know for regular users, there is a limit of 10 PMs per hour. What is the restricion to making this unlimited?
If the concern is of abuse through PMs, users should have an option where only users in their buddy list can PM them. Nontheless, If one wants to abuse they can do it through comments as well and there is no limit on them.
The whole restriction on PMs doesn't make sense to me. Look into it.
177
« on: March 05, 2011, 06:47:56 PM »
Happy Be-Lated Birthday to PJ Hitler :pagel:
Gift ch tenu ik thella bhukki da (dekh ke khaayi vich milawat aa) :pagel:
Happy Birthday to you...
Happy Birthday to you... 
178
« on: March 01, 2011, 11:52:52 AM »
1. Please update your sections regularly.
2. Move any inappropriate topics from your section to the appropriate section. (Jehda topic tuade section vich belong nahi karda, onhu appropriate section vich move karo).
Thank you for your cooperation.
Keep up the good work.
179
« on: February 24, 2011, 12:36:48 PM »
Insatiable
this silent heart has skipped a beat
to tempting words dark and sweet
is this merely vain deceit
or can I shelter in your heat
broken halves of a single soul
separate cannot be consoled
nor hope the darkness to control
save me - I would be made whole
sweet the salty tears I weep
as through my thorns you bravely leap
seeking me in shadows deep
our timeless promise intent you keep
I see you through the briary brush
I long for you in desperate rush
but whispered fear bids me hush
lest this fragile heart be crushed
let us lose our safe disguise
drop pretense and living lies
let stars reflected in your eyes
witness no more sad goodbyes
have I the courage now to speak
silence breaks though voice is weak
hope can't die while you still seek
to see imprisoned tears released
turn to sound of rustling leaf
though shattered I will still believe
always I've belonged to thee
don't make me beg on bended knee
already I have paid the price
allowed you past the brittle ice
let my brokenness suffice
I cannot beg the question twice
let your words break down the door
and reach the aching, longing core
in love we need not track the score
you'll always leave me wanting more
wanting, needing, burning, bleeding
hoping you are not misleading
give me more my soul is pleading
an addict to the words I'm reading
free me from this empty ache
forgive me Love, all my mistakes
this seems a dream though I'm awake
give me more, that you may take
we are both....insatiable
(unknown) 
180
« on: February 20, 2011, 01:19:40 AM »
Jiwe ki tusi sab jande ho Shokeen-Munda has been with PJ for a while now. He has shown interest in PJ as a whole and immensely participated in the chat. To keep the PJ chat clean, I could not think of a better memeber to promote at this time. So, please welcome shokeen-munda to the PJ Team. Hope, he keeps the PJ chat clean and makes decisions free of bias.
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