Rexer73: Widow Killed By Husband's Coffin

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Widow Killed By Husband's Coffin

Weird freak accident. Brazilian Marciana Silva Barcelos, 67, was on her way to the cemetery when the hearse she was travelling in was hit by another car. The coffin was thrown forward by the impact and slammed into her head, killing her instantly.

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" Dear Diary, Today I was pompous and my sister was crazy. Today we were kidnapped by hill folk never to be seen again. It was the best day ever "
- Jayne Cobb

" We could go back to Dallas in November 1963, stand on the grassy knoll, and shout Duck!"
- Kryten

" No look, I'm you from the future. I've come to warn you that in 3 million years you'll be dead! "
- Rimmer

" Well, the thing about a black hole - it's main distinguishing feature - is it's black. And the thing about space, your basic space colour is black. So how are you supposed to see them? "
- Holly

Rimmer: Some kind of writing on the floor. P-S-I-R-E-N-S. "Psirens."
Kryten: The poor sucker must've scrawled his death throes by using a combination of his own blood and his own intestines.
Rimmer: Who would do that?
Lister: Someone who badly needed a pen.
The Cat: What I don't understand is why he went through the trouble of having to use his kidney as a full-stop.
Rimmer: I don't think he meant to do that. Maybe it just plopped out.

Admiral Benson: I slipped on a crab. Who put that crab there?
Lt. Commander Block: I don't see any crab, sir.
Admiral Benson: Don't tell me. There were two crabs. They work in pairs. I went to Annapolis for chrissakes!

Captain Koons: The way your dad looked at it, this watch was your birthright. He'd be damned if any slopes gonna put their greasy yellow hands on his boy's birthright, so he hid it, in the one place he knew he could hide something: his ass. Five long years, he wore this watch up his ass. Then when he died of dysentery, he gave me the watch. I hid this uncomfortable piece of metal up my ass for two years. Then, after seven years, I was sent home to my family. And now, little man, I give the watch to you.

Jeff: When God made the arse, he didn't say, 'Hey, it's just your basic hinge, let's knock off early.' He said, 'Behold ye angels, I have created the arse. Throughout the ages to come, men and women shall grab hold of these, and shout my name!

Steve: [slams hand down] We are men! Throughout history, we have always needed, in times of difficulty, to retreat to our caves. It so happens that in this modern age, our caves are fully plumbed. The toilet is, for us, the last bastion, the final refuge, the last few square feet of man-space left to us! Somewhere to sit, something to read, something to do, and who gives a damn about the smell? Because that, for us, is happiness. Because we are men. We are different. We have only one word for soap. We do not own candles. We have never seen anything of any value in a craft shop. We do not own magazines fill of pictures of celebrities with all their clothes on. When we have conversations, we actually take it in turns to talk! But we have not yet reached that level of earth-shattering boredom and inhuman despair that we would have a haircut recreationally. We don't know how to get excited about... really, really boring things, like ornaments, bath oil, the countryside, vases, small churches. I mean, we do not even know what, what in the name of God's ass is the purpose of pot-pourri! Looks like breakfast, smells like your auntie! Why do we need that? So please, in this strange and frightening world, allow us one last place to call our own. This toilet, this blessed pot, this... fortress of solitude. You girls, you may go to the bathroom in groups of two or more. Yet we do not pass comment. We do not make judgment. That is your choice. But we men will always walk the toilet mile... alone.

Steve: What are they [cushions] for?
Store Manager: You sit on them.
Steve: Aha! I see that's where you're wrong! Nobody sits on them. Ok, watch this! Here's the cushion. I'm putting it on the sofa. Now, watch me! I'm sitting down, and what do I do on my final approach? I...[he moves the cushion from the seat] oop! Move the cushion! You see? It's not involved! It's not part of the whole sitting process! It just lies there, it's fat litter! It's a sofa parasite!
Jane: It's...you know, padding!
Steve: Oh, padding! Oh now that's interesting. See, I like padding. You know, if I was, say, an American football player with all those big bastards running at me, I would say, you know, "Give me some of that padding and be quick about it!" You know, if my job involved bouncing down jagged rocks, I would say, "In view of those jagged rocks down there, I'll have some of that padding, thank you very much!" But Susan, Sally, Jane, this...is a sofa. It is designed by clever scientists in such a way so is to shield the unprotected user from the way of skin abrasions, serious head trauma, and of course - [he collapses behind the sofa - Daleks! You lot, trust me girls, trust me on this one, you do not need padding to tackle upholstery! So please, once and for all, tell me, why on Earth you would want me to sit on one of THESE!
Susan: Because, if you pressed it firmly against your bottom it might stop you talking!

Rexer73

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Widow Killed By Husband's Coffin

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