


| Have a most blessed and awesome day! |
| (answer below) |
| Friday ~ February 19, 2010 |
| As the eagle was killed by the arrow winged with his own feather, so the hand of the world is wounded by its own skill. ~Helen Keller |
| The story you are about to read is true. The name(s) may have been changed to protect the stupid... Bozo criminal for today comes from Skokie, Illinois. Bozo Sam Wallace hailed a cab and asked him to take him home. When the cab arrived at the bozo's house, Sam said he didn't have the money for the fare on him, but if the cabbie would wait, he would go in the house and get the money. Cabbie said that was fine, it happened all the time. When the bozo reappeared a few moments later, he was brandishing a gun. He walked up to the cab and said, "I couldn't find any money, but I found my gun, so you're going to give me your money." There wasn't much the cabbie could do, so he gave the bozo the money and the bozo went back inside his house. The cabbie picked up his cellular phone and called 911. The police arrived in a couple of minutes and told the cabbie all they would need to arrest the guy would be a positive ID. So, the police and the cabbie walked up to the bozo's door and rang the bell. When the bozo answered, he was given a free ride to jail. |
| " irascible " PRONUNCIATION: ( i-RAS-uh-buhl ) MEANING: adjective: 1. Quick-tempered. 2. Showing anger or resulting from anger. ETYMOLOGY: From Latin irascibilis (quick to anger), from irasci (to grow angry), from ira (anger). Ultimately from the Indo-European root eis- (passion), which is also the source of irate, ire, hierarchy, hieroglyphic, and estrogen. USAGE: "Mr. Weir concludes from his large experience that the erection of the feathers is caused much more by anger than by fear. He gives as an instance a hybrid goldfinch of a most irascible disposition, which when approached too closely by a servant, instantly assumes the appearance of a ball of ruffled feathers."Charles Darwin; The Expression of Emotions in Man and Animals; 1872. |
| Piano by D. H. Lawrence Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past. |
| There will always be a reason for us to give up... just as there will always be a reason for us to keep going. The question is... which reason will we choose to focus our attention upon? Our troubles soon get the best of us.... if we feed them with all our attention and time.... It's important to remember... we always have another choice. We can give our attention to the many positive possibilities in our lives... we can choose to focus on everything that is right with our life. There is always something we can do to create positive in our world. Although it may not seem like much at the time... just one small positive action ... can have an enormous impact. One small action on our part creates positive ripples in our life... much like the pebble dropping into the pond. Even the smallest step ... has a clear and unmistakable direction. When we choose to take action... we choose to take control. Life is too short... we cannot allow our life to be solely defined ... by all the problems and difficulties that seem to come our way. We must remember that beyond all those negative situations.... we have something unique... something beautiful ....to give to every day. Choices... Choices... Choices |
| Unscramble The Word |
| SSINODUII |
INSIDIOUS |
| As the pain that can be told is but half a pain, so the pity that questions has little healing in its touch. ~ Edith Wharton, novelist (1862-1937) |
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