[quote=my nation states]The Jingoistic States of Draconious Anima is a huge, socially progressive nation, notable for its devotion to social welfare. Its hard-nosed, hard-working, intelligent population of 307 million enjoy extensive civil freedoms, particularly in social issues, while business tends to be more regulated.

It is difficult to tell where the omnipresent government stops and the rest of society begins, but it devotes most of its attentions to Education, with areas such as Religion & Spirituality and Commerce receiving almost no funds by comparison. The average income tax rate is 66%, and even higher for the wealthy. A substantial private sector is led by the Uranium Mining industry, followed by Automobile Manufacturing and Gambling.

[b]Elevator music has been replaced by thrash metal played at maximum volume, children have taken to using semaphore in light of the recent mobile phone ban, nude art is becoming wildly popular, and truth is often impossible to tell from fiction on the evening news. [/b]Crime -- especially youth-related -- is a serious problem, and the police force struggles against a lack of funding and a high mortality rate. Draconious Anima's national animal is the dragon, which frolics freely in the nation's many lush forests, and its currency is the draco.[/quote]
refl

Sell all of your maple syrup, or maybe just sell the Northwest Territory, I bet nobody would notice. Then, [i]maybe[/i], a sports team that not hockey would come your way.

EDIT: My old nationstates thing was a very peaceful nation, it was great.

Canada likes it's size though. Selling the Northwest Territory would make out land mass a lot smaller. <_< I say we sell PEI (it's worthless, (but not really, they grow our potatoes) and Stew lives there).

Just sacrifice stew (tell him its for the greater good, I hear he always wanted to be a martyr).

Stew would probably think it's great that Canada was getting another sports team, and he wouldn't even realize he wouldn't be part of Canada.

Hi..

He would just do it for the motherland.

Well I'm out for the night guys. Go play some gamecube, and go to bed. I get to sleep in like an extra hour, so I might as well go to bed at normal time and take advantage of the extra hour.

Take care now.

cobert is an effiminate southern woman

Eliminator is a masculine southern man.

[url]http://www.r-vision.cz/images/usa/20%20Cesta%20domu/002%20Singing%20Naked%20Cowboy%20-%20Nothing%20Is%20Impossible%20in%20New%20York.jpg[/url]

I was thinking more along the lines of Patrick Swayze.

Does he have a package like [I]that[/I]?

You have a valid point.

Nekkid cowboy ftw.

Anyone here like poetry?

Who are some good people that are particularly difficult? Prefferably not well known, but published and all that.

I have to do a big project about poetry, and I can't use musicians/lyricsists. I generally hate most poetry, so I'm taking recommendations to quicken the process of selecting.

Steven Jesse Bernstein, 2pac and Jello Biafra.

So my friend's band is supporting Cute Is What We Aim For in London, which is pretty far away from where we live. I suppose I should feel happy for him, since the band is getting good exposure from this. But then again, I'd hate for anyone to have to endure a night's worth of watered down "we are so scene because we have a keyboardist and sound exactly like every other band on Pete Wentz' label" turd.

In other news, I'm tired. I might go to bed.

[QUOTE=Excursions;13331618]Steven Jesse Bernstein, 2pac and Jello Biafra.[/QUOTE]

Morning In The Sub-Basement Of Hell
by Steven Jesse Bernstein

The black rubber tires of four a.m. pulling their heavy truck over my skull and bones. I remember the bottle as I lay awake but I'm too scared to touch it. A green cloud hovers in the air above the bed. Kiss the radio and smoke, wondering where all the sweat comes from. Ate two cans of soup, one after the other, and feel healthy. Now the crumbling artifice of the black sky cracks into orange lines, the traffic is a conveyor belt of brown candy bars. I put my mouth to the road and suck. Can you cry? I cannot cry. I do not cry. Instead I thank my lucky stars for the load of blankets. A glass of milk and shave in bed. The old gangster in me comes out and my hands are two pistols, aimed at the miserable ceiling. I unload all my fingernails into the chipped cream paint. Also with a pair of buzzing clippers I give myself a haircut, short like a vicious terrier or a Nazi, and stroke my mustache lovingly. Put that one on the table and let's see what's inside her stomach! My tongue itches and a fire burns in every tooth. Torture is my love and I carry it to bed, a frantic maiden struggling with no arms or legs, a pink worm with clocks on her nipples, breasts ticking metallicly. Her voice says, "You, fool, are the one who squirms. I am merely crippled." And so, holding the instruments of pain, I conduct the orchestra of the sun. Daylight flutters into existence every day like the first time. I torment it with hot wires and heaves into the deep slate, yellow and green, a lightning vomit who's mouth refuses to end. "Are there hummingbirds?," it thinks, and I press a dead hummingbird to its face. This is the formula for happiness. The dry bottle twitches in the dizzy light of morning. A sort of drunkenness comes over me and places its hands, trembling, on my forehead and abdomen. "Would you like pie and coffee?," it seems to say. No, no thank you, I'm not hungry yet. But I sneak a cream of wheat sandwich and stale sweet roll, wash it down with juice squeezed from a leather belt. You who gave your life for me, what was the point? Yes, I am satisfied here with my iron teeth and my roof made of stained hats, my many roofs, and so many layers of windows the world looks like a gray mouse with its squeaking head pinned under a black shoe. Man smoking a cigar, looking up at a dying streetlight. I shut out the traffic with a personal noise in my ears.

I'm sure there's some big, deep meaning there, but I don't see it.

I kinda liked it, though. I'll look into him more.

Robert Frost is pretty much the only poet I can name.

Maybe Jim Morrison? He was a singer/lyricist, but he did also write a lot of poetry.

[QUOTE=BridgeToSolace;13331750]Morning In The Sub-Basement Of Hell
by Steven Jesse Bernstein

The black rubber tires of four a.m. pulling their heavy truck over my skull and bones. I remember the bottle as I lay awake but I'm too scared to touch it. A green cloud hovers in the air above the bed. Kiss the radio and smoke, wondering where all the sweat comes from. Ate two cans of soup, one after the other, and feel healthy. Now the crumbling artifice of the black sky cracks into orange lines, the traffic is a conveyor belt of brown candy bars. I put my mouth to the road and suck. Can you cry? I cannot cry. I do not cry. Instead I thank my lucky stars for the load of blankets. A glass of milk and shave in bed. The old gangster in me comes out and my hands are two pistols, aimed at the miserable ceiling. I unload all my fingernails into the chipped cream paint. Also with a pair of buzzing clippers I give myself a haircut, short like a vicious terrier or a Nazi, and stroke my mustache lovingly. Put that one on the table and let's see what's inside her stomach! My tongue itches and a fire burns in every tooth. Torture is my love and I carry it to bed, a frantic maiden struggling with no arms or legs, a pink worm with clocks on her nipples, breasts ticking metallicly. Her voice says, "You, fool, are the one who squirms. I am merely crippled." And so, holding the instruments of pain, I conduct the orchestra of the sun. Daylight flutters into existence every day like the first time. I torment it with hot wires and heaves into the deep slate, yellow and green, a lightning vomit who's mouth refuses to end. "Are there hummingbirds?," it thinks, and I press a dead hummingbird to its face. This is the formula for happiness. The dry bottle twitches in the dizzy light of morning. A sort of drunkenness comes over me and places its hands, trembling, on my forehead and abdomen. "Would you like pie and coffee?," it seems to say. No, no thank you, I'm not hungry yet. But I sneak a cream of wheat sandwich and stale sweet roll, wash it down with juice squeezed from a leather belt. You who gave your life for me, what was the point? Yes, I am satisfied here with my iron teeth and my roof made of stained hats, my many roofs, and so many layers of windows the world looks like a gray mouse with its squeaking head pinned under a black shoe. Man smoking a cigar, looking up at a dying streetlight. I shut out the traffic with a personal noise in my ears.

[/QUOTE]

Hertz my brain.

Emily Dickinson is pretty sweet. And I like Langston Hughes a lot.

Sylvia Plath.

[url]http://www.stanford.edu/class/engl187/docs/plathpoem.html[/url]

Weelllll..Chem. Test in an hour..I'm going to pass <_<

I hope you fail.

LOL chmistry

Your chmistry is Cute without the 'E' B

eww TBS

*runs*

So, what up thread?

Adam has just pwn'd you with a mic. :mad:

But really, I'm tired, and the cappucino did nada for me. I'm going to school soon, so that's not too fun, but yeah..

Sup4uRoss?

Damn foo, nuttin'z goin down in tha hood.

I got work at 5 but aside from that... I'm comfortably sat on my arse. WMP keeps fannying about deciding that it'd rather none of my changes to ID3 tags for my DJ Shadow CDs should be saved, so I need to show it who's the boss. No idea how I'll do that though.