Posts Tagged ‘Beating’

Obama Hope Beating Clinton Help

November 4th, 2015

Hope mongering has been working superior to experience mongering. Now, other tale….

As befits US culture, politics is about slick attempting to sell toward masses. Hillary Clinton is selling Day-1 help to victims and sufferers. Barack Obama is attempting to sell effervescent desire to yes-we-can dreamers. This media hyped horse race is much like a fight between diet Coke and diet Pepsi, artificially sweetened prospects without genuine nourishment.

Minimal educated, minimum advanced and least wealthy and Hispanics are sipping Clinton’s fizzled-out drink. Probably the most educated, many privileged, & most economically effective along with African-Americans are gulping down Obama’s charismatic pick-me-up.

As to that is purchasing just what, evaluate these information: Clinton won the non-college-educated voters by 22 points in California, 32 points in Massachusetts, 54 points in Arkansas, and 11 points in nj-new jersey. In a Pew analysis nationwide survey, Obama led among people with university levels by 22 points. In Connecticut, Obama overcome Clinton among college graduates by 17 points plus in nj by 11 points. And note this: 39 percent of Virginia and 41 per cent of Maryland Democratic primary voters reported incomes of $ 100,000 or more – obviously well educated individuals who would favor Obama.

A simplistic conclusion is the fact that dumber you’re the much more likely you prefer the initial woman president as you believe this experience-selling status quo, business prospect. And the smarter you are the much more likely you prefer the initial black colored president because you accept the change-promises and platitudes from more authentic, inspirational prospect with all the brief resume. Clinton supporters appreciate the 10-point-plan-for-every-problem governmental pragmatist. Obamatons swoon throughout the big-picture, unity-promising political messiah.

Working-class Clinton supporters are love weary shoppers seeking decent meals at low prices at Safeway and good coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts. Obama yes-we-can-happy-facers happily pay excessive charges for your whole Foods experience and Starbucks shtick.

Here are a few realities that neither team desires to face:

Both candidates are establishment insiders.

Both are corporate-state politicians. Keep in mind that Robert Wolf, the CEO of UBS Americas, a significant banking business, has raised more than $ 1 million the Obama campaign. Large sourced elements of Obama money are law firms, investment homes, and real-estate organizations, and 80 per cent of his donors are associated with business, in comparison to 85 percent for Clinton.

Neither are real progressives or populists, like Kucinich and Edwards.

Both Clinton the fighter and Obama the talker will sell away when they confront presidential realities. Why? Because plutocracies understand how to retain power UPON elections. After 2 yrs it’s going to be clear your brand new president will have failed to extract the united states from Iraq, could have neglected to deliver universal health care, may have didn’t deal with unlawful immigration, may have done nothing to get a fresh and serious 9/11 research, will have done absolutely nothing to stop middle-class-killing globalisation, and certainly will have utterly disappointed most Us citizens. The president’s most pressing priorities will soon be reducing objectives and getting reelected, despite raising taxes. The only real people really astonished at all this will be those lacking just what the Greeks idea is a virtue: cynicism.

Finally, for anyone searching for serious governmental system reforms, its troubling that neither Clinton nor, especially, Obama have the courage to advocate needed constitutional amendments, such as replacing the Electoral university aided by the popular vote for president, getting all personal cash from politics, making universal health care the right, and preventing presidential signing statements that undermine regulations.

Realizing that Congress is not likely to propose such amendments, these candidates could advocate using, for the first time, exactly what the Founders provided united states in Article V: a convention of state delegates which could propose amendments, as described at http://www.foavc.org. If Abraham Lincoln and Dwight D. Eisenhower could support utilizing the convention choice, definitely Day-1-Clinton and new-direction-Obama should.

Washington | Posted by admin

How to Go About Beating Fallout 3?

August 23rd, 2013

Question by Ryan: How to Go About Beating Fallout 3?
Okay is it just me or is Fallout 3 a hard game to beat? Any tips. Just got finished talking with Three Dog (The radio DJ) and he said if I find the museum of technology he’ll give me information on my dad. Where do I go to find the museum of technology?

Best answer:

Answer by Michael B
South of there. You will find the washington monument along with 2 BOS and A LOT of super mutants, but from the washington monument it is southeast. Then you find the virgo ll satellite, pick it up, then go back to the washington monument. Then you go up the elevator in it and fix the radio on the top floor. Hope this helps!

Give your answer to this question below!

Radio | Posted by admin

Beating Boredom: A Comedy Story

April 26th, 2012

Beating Boredom: A Comedy Story

I just returned from a three-day trip to a town, more accurately described as a “hole,” in middle America whose name seemingly slipped right down into it.  In any case, it certainly slipped my memory.  A shame the town did not follow. 

I will forever ask myself why I had stayed there so long, considering the fact that the tourist brochure received in the mail had featured a picture of the books lining its library shelves below the heading of “Things to do.”  The title of one of them, “Beating Boredom,” caught my eye.  The “Nightly Entertainment” listing had advised, “Open Thursday evenings”—the library, that is.  The town had been closed on all others.

I had spent my first evening there (regrettably not a Thursday) checking the expiration date of my library card (from where did the idea come?) and picking the lint out of my belly button.  I feared that it would only get worse.

The sheer thought of the place induced me to release a boredom fart, which at first annoyed me, but ultimately allowed me to delight in the fact that it gave me something to do.  I had only wished for more.  In fact, I had wished that I could have farted myself into oblivion.

When it came to gas remedies, I had tried them all: Gaseous Gurgles, Fart Frenzies, Rectal Releases, and Burp Booms. 

And when it came to farts, I had made them all: the silent seep; the barely audible air puff; the ooze; the muffled melange; the silently-slinking; the constipated creep; the grim reeker; the gurgle in the girdle; the dainty dud; the “Can’t you hold back, butt crack;” the stomach rumbles before the farts tumble; the “Close your mouth—there’s another way out;” the wrong-end sneeze; the anus can’t retainus; the wheeze; the all-morning rectal retention; the little bugger of a fart which neither comes nor goes; the “Baby, give it up, give it up;” the nose knows what your ear can’t hear; the “I think I can, I think I can;” the trickle down sulfur; the stinky slinky; the reluctant rivet; the pip-squeak of a pop; the posh panache; the fog horn; the plentiful pellets; the balloon burst; the atmospheric escape; the deflating derriere; the aim-and-fire; the turbo-tuba; the honking hunk of a rump; the incredibly unforgettable; the dreaded puff-and-stuff; the oompah band; the wretchedly reeking; the return-to-sender; the flameout; the airing of my views—and pews; the ignited fuse; the indoor pollutant; the distant rumble; the thunder before the lightning; the origin of the earthquake in the office; the muscle strain preceding the fart drain; the skunk is in my rump; the bomb-bowling butt; the fart-sputtering airplane propeller; the never-ending; the buttocks rocks; the real reason the gas mask was invented; the sigh released by the non-talking hole; the reason I vibrate up and down in my chair; the reason behind the thick fog in the room; the “You could also burp, you twerp;” the syrupy seep; the all-day creep–down to the exit point; the dripping drool; the torpedoes shot by the human cannon; the submachine gun fire; the boom box; the rocket flare; the blown fuse; the rectal reaction; the back-firing car; the bombs away; the implosion or explosion; the Mount Vesuvius eruption; the atom bomb; the thunder mountain; the bubbling booms; the pop goes the anus; the gaseous gluttony; the reeking revenge; the “Something I ate last Tuesday is finally surfacing;” the rectum-running lubricating liquid; the number three, fart-and-shit, combo; the “It’s runny, honey;” the “Propel me into the next room;” the “Prepare for blast off;” the “I need to get into the bathroom right this minute;” the “The fart was so huge that I thought that I was giving birth through the wrong end; the “I can evacuate an entire building with the smell alone;” the “I wouldn’t want to be the chair I’m sitting in right now for all the money in the world;” the sound fades, but the smell is forever; the “I want to share last night’s dinner with everyone–take a deep whiff and you can just make out the broccoli; the “With gas like this, I’m glad I sat next to my worst enemy today;” the “You’ll remember this moment for a long time to come–just sniff your clothes; the “Don’t light that match anywhere near me today;” the alternative energy source; the “It’s gas, you ass;” the fart-code of exam answers; the undecided; the inescapable; the dual-direction; and the try-again-later.  And all this was on a good day.  I would not want to describe a bad one.

One of the trip’s most important lessons had already been taught: gas passes time, as well as air—and usually an odor detectable up to three blocks away.

Morning arrived.  Instead of bringing the usual emotions of hope and happiness, it only brought sadness and depression: the one activity even this town was not without had already passed—sleep.  Now what would I do?  I could always look forward to the clock reading 12 hours from now.

The thought of a pending shower put a sliver of a smile on my lips, but, then again, how long could that take?  Surely there must be a Guinness Book of World Records for the longest one.  I seriously contemplated breaking it.

I inquired at the hotel’s front desk about daytime activities.  (I was surprised it even had a front desk and dare not have asked for the Activities Director.)

The clerk advised me about the museum and its involvement with history.  Finally, something to do, I thought with great relief.  I had no idea that there had been a history museum there, but the clerk quickly corrected, “It’s not a history museum,” he had stated.  “The museum is history.”  The thought of returning to my room and putting my pajamas back on already flashed through my mind.

“Well, what is there to do?” I inquired with determination.

But the clerk only starred at me in stark silence until he glanced down at his watch some three hours later.  “Well, look at that!” he exclaimed.

 ”It’s time for lunch already.”

The last time I had noticed a wave of relief on someone’s face as pronounced as his had been when my coworker had released a submachine gun fire of farts after consuming a spicy Mexican medley called a “meal.”

The rest of the town seemed to share the clerk’s enthusiasm for lunch: the little restaurant (the only restaurant) across from the hotel was packed—translated as “something to do”—and I was wedged between a nondescript man and a weathered woman who snorted with every swallow.  Since the area had been predominantly rural, I could only wonder if its people had, with time, begun to sound like their farmyard animals.

Sensing a post-meal depression with little to look forward to other than dinner, I left the restaurant and strolled down the town’s streets.  (There was only one, but I used the plural to dignify it a little.)

Amidst the frigid temperatures, I walked for a considerable time until the soft, purple light indicated dusk.  (All right, it was a small town and the walk was hardly any round-the-world journey.)

A crowd of people in the distance indicated that some type of event was going on.  Perhaps there was a winter concert or something, I enthusiastically thought, as I eagerly approached.  Finally there was something to look forward to.

But, as I closed the gap, I realized that the gathering had not been for pleasant reasons, and several uniformed police officers had taken charge of the scene.

“Wow, what happen?” I inquired of the man next to me.

“Well,” he hesitatingly spoke, “there was an apparent suicide attempt.”

“A suicide!” I exclaimed.  “Who, what, why?”

“Well,” he continued, “one of the town’s folk, a 14-year-old girl, tried to take her life.”

“Take her life!” I retorted.  “Why would someone so young, with her whole life ahead of her, try something like that?”

Thinking it over, he responded, “The reports are still inconclusive, but it’s rumored that the reason was boredom.”

Boredom mortem, I thought.  Why was I not surprised?  Could any other town stake such a claim?

“Was-was she successful,” I hesitatingly queried?

“No,” he responded.  “She couldn’t be.”

Puzzled, I asked, “Why couldn’t she be?”

Pointing to the distance with his finger, the leather-faced man whose straw-like nasal hairs blew in the wind beneath his cowboy hat explained, “Because the river was frozen.”

Frozen, I thought.  “She could’ve always tried another river,” I suggested.

Shaking his head, he corrected, “Ain’t got but one river.  Town ain’t got but one of everything!”

Again, I found no surprise.

“I know this girl through a mutual friend,” he shared.  “This is the story of her life: generally whatever she tries, she fails.”

What a shame, I thought.  This could have been just what she needed to renew her confidence.  She probably views this as just one more of her life’s failures.

“So-so where’s the girl now?” I had wondered.

“Home,” he retorted.  “When she found out that the river was frozen and it was getting late, she knew she was in much greater danger than suicide.”

“Much greater danger than suicide?” I had wondered.  “Of what?”

“Because it was getting so late, you know what could’ve happened?”

“No, I don’t,” I confessed.  “I’m not from around here.”

“Well,” he began, as if it should have been self-explanatory.  “It was late and she ran the risk of missing dinner.  Why,” he laughed with irony, “her mother would have killed her!”

I raised an eyebrow.

And with that, it was time to begin the long, return-walk down the town’s single street and visit its top tourist attraction—the library.  After all, it was Thursday evening!

Up the steps I went and through the door, where, somewhat disoriented, I met the head—and only—librarian standing behind the circulation desk, a woman of about seventy with a hook-like nose on which I could have easily hung my coat.

“I would be interested in taking out one of your books,” I prefaced.

“Well, do you have a library card?” she inquired.

“Why, no,” I hesitatingly answered.  “I’m not from this town.”

“Well, then,” she responded, “that wouldn’t be possible.  You have to have a library card to take out a book.”

“No,” I shook my head, “not according to your tourist brochure” which I promptly removed from my pocket and unfolded to show her the picture of the book-lined shelves printed below the “Things to Do” heading.

“Oh, that,” she mulled.  “That’s only to entice tourists to visit the town.”

“Does it work?” I wondered.

“Well, you’re here,” she spat.  I suddenly felt anything but honored.  The way she twitched and extended that nose, I swear I could have hung two coats on it.

The reason I felt disoriented was that there had indeed been shelves, but no books on them.  “Where are all the books, anyway?” I inquired.

“They’re all taken out,” she responded.

“All taken out!” I exclaimed with disbelief.  “No,” I shook my head.  “Look at this picture,” I urged.  “There must be thousands of them.”

“Twelve,” she retorted.

“Twelve what?” I wondered with a furrowing brow.

“Twelve books—exactly twelve in the collection.”

“But the brochure…” I urged.

“That picture was taken in a studio—a set.  We have exactly a dozen, if you include the two magazines and Aunt Erma’s recipe stack.”

The town has a studio to simulate a library of books, but no books in its library, I thought. 

“Twelve titles,” I repeated.  “They can’t cover many subjects.”

“Actually, they do,” she corrected.

“Well, what can the most popular one be?”

She lowered her voice to a whisper and closed the gap between us to the point where I feared that her nasal hook would get caught in my ear.  She appeared poised to share nothing short of a military secret with me.  “It’s called ‘Beating Boredom,’ by Dr. Penelope Mills,” she revealed.  “A very recent acquisition—this decade.  Someone just took it out a day or two ago—a 14-year-old girl.”

I shot her a glance, which had little distance to travel, since her facial nozzle now virtually penetrated my inner ear in a new-found expression of  “passion for books.”

Exactly what did that title recommend, I had wondered?

“And you’re telling me that you can’t take books out without a library card, anyway,” I pressed, diverting attention from what was now truly on my mind.

“That’s right,” she replied, after she had finally removed her nose, which somehow seemed a little limp with a droopy hook.

“Well, what if I had a library card?” I had wanted to know.

“We have no books to take out,” she reasoned.

“Well, if this is the town’s top tourist activity and you can’t take out the books,” I pleaded with waning patience, “then what is the top thing to do here?”

She thought it over for a few seconds and responded, “The library.  Do you see this picture?” she asked as she unfolded the very brochure I had just given her.  “This is a beautiful collection of books.  And we’re even open Thursday evenings.”

This circular argument was obviously going no where and the librarian exhibited the same alter-level of reasoning which everyone else in the town seemed to have.  Abruptly turning round, I headed for the door.

“Wait!” she yelled.  “Don’t forget your brochure.  And don’t forget to show it to your friends.  This is a mighty fine book collection.  Who wouldn’t want to come to town for a collection like this?”

Descending the steps in a state of discombobulation, I could only think of one thing: was I the only sane one in this entire town?  If I were, I was rapidly losing that quality.

The only things awaiting me that evening were gas and belly button lint picking, and I actually looked forward to both of them. 

Morning arrived once again—and my ticket out, preceded by my check-out—of the hotel, that is.  As I picked up my suitcase in the lobby, I heard a man checking in inquire, “Exactly what is there to do around here?”

Fishing through some papers on the desk, the hotel clerk produced the now-famous brochure and opened it to the picture of the book-lined shelves.  “The library,” he responded.  “Do you see this picture?  This is a beautiful collection of books.  And it’s even open Thursday evenings.”

Shooting him a glance, I quickly exited the hotel’s front door, suppressing the urge to release an overwhelming scream for fear of being restrained in a straight jacket and taken away to a town just like this.  But I was already here.  Releasing a fart instead, I sensed it signaled the beginning of one of those “bad days.”


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