-help out around the house
- get active
Bullying is a bad thing. If you have ever been bullyed or have a bully in your school you
should tell the teacher right away so they could do something about the bullying. This
teacher might not know if the bullyer is actually a bullyer so it is best that they know
right away so that bully can be kicked out and you and your school will be a lot safer
without the bully around to tease them.
-No two spider webs are the same
-An ant can lift 50 times its own weight and can pull 30 times its own weight
-A square piece of paper cannot be folded in half more than 7 times
-25% of your bones are in your feet
-Porcupines float in water
-Cat pee glows in the dark
-Slugs have four noses
-It is impossible to sneeze with your eyes open
-A jellyfish is 85% water
-99% of people cannot lick their elbow.
1. If one synchronized swimmer drowns, do the rest drown too?
2. If you ate pasta and antipasti, would you still be hungry?
3. If you try to fail, and succeed, which have you done?
4. Whose cruel idea was it for the word "Lisp" to have an "S" in it?
5. Why are haemorrhoids called "haemorrhoids" instead of "assteroids?”
6. Why is it called tourist season if we can't shoot at them?
7. Why is the alphabet in that order? Is it because of that song?
8. If the "black box" flight recorder is never damaged during a plane crash, why isn't the
whole airplane made out of that stuff?
9. Why is there an expiration date on sour cream?
10. If you spin an oriental man in a circle three times, does he become disoriented?
Poems about The Morning
The morning sun
With its cosmic
Is a treasure
Of the mind
And heart alike.
In the morning
The greatness of
The mind and
The goodness of
The heart are
In the morning
Our hearts dawn
Is the birth
Of a new
In the morning
In all its glory
The rising sun.
The morning light
Feeds our hearts
And guides our lives.
Himself visits my
At the morning
Dawn, I hear the gentle whisper
Of my blessingful
Poems by Sri Chinmoy
Source: http://www.shortpoems.org/poems/poems_morning.htmlShort Stories
Letter from the Understudy
The first thing to say is, I'm sorry. I know it won't be easy for you to believe
after recent events, but I deeply regret the mess I've made and the embarrassment I've
caused you. I've had time to turn it all over since I've been here – to be honest,
there's not much else to do but ruminate once you've wandered around the market and
visited the Orang-utan sanctuary - so I'm writing to try and explain.
It's true, Alex and I didn't have the best relationship, but I wasn't the only one in
the cast who found him difficult. He's a fine actor, of course, but it wouldn't be an
exaggeration to say he also has an ego the size of a small planet. As a director, you
wouldn't know what it was like to be around that all the time. The way he strutted around
back stage in those tights. We used to say the only reason he'd climb a balcony in real
life was if he knew there'd be a reflective surface at the top. You don't know what it was
like to come in and see him every evening, warming his voice, poring over his notices,
practising his Jude Law smile. I knew he'd never give me a chance. Apart from anything
else, he seemed to have the constitution of a Shire horse – not so much as a runny
nose, a headache
Actually, my own head is pounding rather. It must be the heat. Apparently it's so hot
because the rains are due, that's what one of the local children told me anyway. There are
a little gang of them who like to practise their English on me. They're a welcome
diversion from my thoughts. They were asking me questions this morning.
'What is your name?'
'Where do you come from?'
Then one of them, a little girl of about seven, asked me, 'What are you doing here?'
I didn't have the phrase in my book for 'I've committed actual bodily harm against one of
the rising stars of British theatre,' so I said I was having a holiday. 'Where is your
wife?' she asked. There was a blinding shaft of sunlight between us, and the ground was
wobbling with the heat. All of a sudden I felt so terribly wretched. The theatre is my
wife, I thought, And now I've lost her. And I began to sob. Right there in front of them.
Well, they all ran away of course in hysterics and who could blame them.
< 2 >
But this is what I want to explain. The theatre is the only thing I've ever wanted,
since I was a child myself - almost before I knew what it meant to be an actor. I don't
come from a theatrical family. Mum and Dad didn't take us for a quick burst of Chekhov and
a Zeffirelli double-bill; it was Bob's Full House and The Daily Mirror, so they had no
idea where I got the notion from. Actually, it started with The Wizard of Oz at primary
school, I was a nine year-old Tin Man and I had a costume made out of foil-covered boxes.
I can still remember the song:
Just to register emotion
Jealousy – devotion
And really feel the part.
I could stay young and chipper
And I'd lock it with a zipper
If I only had a heart.
Later on I used to sing that song to myself at castings, except it became 'If I only
had a part.'
So Mum and Dad helped me through drama school, even though they wanted me to get a
nice safe job, something with a pension plan. My younger sister, Dianne, works in risk
management and drives a convertible Golf GTI. Mum's always impressed because Dianne buys
bottles of balsamic vinegar which are tied with raffia around the neck. Mum had never
eaten an olive until Di introduced her to one. All I've managed to introduce her to is a
feeling of vague anxiety. As I said, my parents aren't middle-class, they don't understand
what we affectionately call 'The Arts'. So my motivation wasn't all self-interest, you
see. I owed them. You can't have your parents carrying on the same awkward conversations
for years. 'Oh yes, Gavin's still acting…Hm? No, he's done a bit of radio work
though. Yes, The Archers. Yes, just the one episode. An assistant vet. He's in a play at
the moment. No, we hadn't heard of it either. It's touring. Middlesbrough, we think.' At
the very least you need to show them a picture, a press cutting. Something.
But I knew, I knew in my heart, that I didn't lack talent. I just needed the
opportunity to prove myself as the Gavin Pollard I could be; not the bit-playing,
spear-carrying walk-on, but the scene-stealing, balcony-scaling leading man. The prospect
of becoming one of those unemployed older actors terrified me, a lifetime spent creaking
about in the shadows, gradually filling up with a sort of Jimmy Porter vitriol, hanging
around in WH Smith to skim read copies of The Stage. So I decided I wouldn't, couldn't let
< 3 >
This has all been my own doing, and I'm not laying blame at your door, but I do
wonder, would this have happened if I'd had a chance sooner? Perhaps if you'd put me on
for the occasional Wednesday matinee? Lets be honest, it doesn't bother a party of school
children who's playing the lead, they're only there to show off in front of their mates -
like that time one of them called out, 'Oi, Romeo, when you gonna give her one?' and the
entire balcony erupted. But I never did get a matinee, and it was quite clear that Alex
wasn't going to give way. So desperation took over.
After a couple of trips to a Chinese herbalist on the Old Kent Road, and a bit of
experimentation, I found something that would do the trick: short term effects with no
lasting damage. I was too cautious at first, sprinkled some into his pre-performance
Campari and he barely noticed, just murmured something later about indigestion (as I said,
Shire horse). So next time I was more generous, and it worked like a charm. Within fifteen
minutes he was complaining about stomach cramps, and soon after that he was sleeping like
a baby. Of course, I felt a bit guilty, rather like a benign Macbeth, but I knew he
wouldn't be seriously affected.
How can I describe what it was like to stand there at last and do what I'd dreamed
about all my life, to speak those lines, to move an entire audience to tears?
It's true, I gave an immaculate performance, but I needed to be seen by the people
who mattered - the critics. So I got a mate of mine to round up some journalists and
casting agents to come and see the performance the following night. I knew the part inside
out, I'd studied every subtlety and mannerism. I was ready. So imagine how I felt when
Alex phoned up the next morning right as rain and ready to go back on. The critics would
be turning up to see me, it was my big chance. But Alex was fighting fit. I was in a
fever. I wasn't being rational, as Shakespeare has it, 'These violent delights have
violent ends, and in their triumphs die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss,
consume.' It was too late. I was already consumed. My entire professional life was hanging
in the balance.
< 4 >
It was a blustery afternoon, and I remember there was a child flying a kite as I
walked through the park towards Alex's house. I remember watching the wind toying with the
kite, hardly conscious of my body, as if I were walking through a dream. When I got there
I hid behind a Clematis bush beside the front door and put the masque on that I'd filched
from the props department. I didn't know when he'd be back, but he was usually at the
theatre by six, so I waited. My heart was going like a train, and I was sweating –
let me tell you Malcolm, it was worse, far worse than any stage fright. At five o'clock
Alex rounded the corner and as he put his key in the lock I sprang out swinging the
cricket bat. It was going to be a mild knock on the head, a gentle concussion, but he
turned at the vital moment and pushed me back - he has very quick reactions, it must be
all that fencing. There was some kind of tussle and I was sort of swinging at him with the
bat, then he made a lunge for me and that's when the masque became dislodged. We stood
there staring at each other for a fraction of a second, and I could see the word beginning
to form in his mouth, 'Gav…' and that's when I panicked and took another swing at
him. You must believe me, I didn't want to harm him seriously. Perhaps I was in shock,
because the next bit is blurry, but I remember kneeling down to check his breathing, which
sounded regular. There was some blood, just a little bit of a trickle around the nose,
which looked a different shape, sort of squashed. I called the ambulance from a pay phone
and went home. An hour or so later you rang me to say I'd be on.
'Gavin Pollard gave a charged performance,' said The Times. But I wasn't acting that
night, that was the real thing. I held Juliet to me as if she were my dying career, and
all I could do was weep and rage. Afterwards I got on a plane and came here.
It's getting dark. They'll be setting up the tables soon for dinner, and I've said
all I needed to say so I'll stop now. I hope Alex is willing not to press charges, but
that seems unlikely, given the circumstances – after all, who wants to swap a career
as Romeo for one as Richard III? I intend to write to him, I just need to find the right
< 5 >
Forgive me if I don't include a return address, I'm keeping a low profile for a
little while. But then again, I suppose I'm used to anonymity.
Source: http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/Music VideosFunny Videoshttp://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-7836547273687836884&q=Hamster+Dancehttp://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-6377855743675143177&q=Numa+NumaFunny Pictures
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