More times than not, the human brain does not recollect it’s past decisions, good or bad. Though predominantly one can identify their failed decisions and learn to correct them. Some people call it your conscience. Over the years it’s identity has shifted from that of a small cricket, to a voice in your ear, to an internal dialogue, and back again. Though it’s true form is merely a strain of diagnostic programming that runs silently in the back of all of our minds. One felt, but never heard nor seen.
As a human being, the thought of seeing my own thoughts is bone chilling. Our brains produce so many conflicting thoughts, our vision would be constantly blurred. In fact, I am willing to bet money that our eyes would fizzle out and die before properly conveying our thoughts. So sitting here writing this, I have to ask myself; how are we led to believe our own thoughts? Our opinions form to no internal conflict, yet are immediately ingrained in our subconscious.
Looking back it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when the hell broke loose. I think it was somewhere just North of London, maybe around Cambridge or Northampton. I was working as a clerk in a small grocer on a busy downtown street when the man stopped in. He spoke with a bizarre sort of accent I hadn’t heard before, and growing up near Birmingham amidst a typhoon of immigration and asylum seekers, I’d heard my fair share of accents.
The lad came in sporting a tweed blazer and trousers with a dowdy sort-of carpetbag. His English was so busted up he could barely put together a sentence, but he sputtered something out about the bag and left it on my counter. Suspecting him to be some sort of dosser, I returned his back and tried to send him out. The man wouldn’t budge. Kept yelling for me to take the bag, thrusting it into my arms.
Silently taking the bag, I placed it behind the counter. The man tipped his hat and left the shop. I watched him slowly meander back down the street. He was oddly happy to be rid of the bag, now that I think of it. I suppose that should have been my first red flag.
My shift ended around eight that evening, and I took the trolley back up to my flat a few blocks over, carpetbag in hand. I forced myself to wait until I returned home before sneaking a peek inside. Honestly I should have looked when he first gave it to me, to make sure he wasn’t handing off drugs or weapons or something.
I walked up the steps to my building and approached the massive early-century lifts ‘round the
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Melbourne, December 3
A ferocious battle has been occurring in the federal division of Melbourne, with Commonwealth Party leader Russian Hacker electing to join the foray on the father of the house and new Greens co-leader (TheTrashMan's previously safe home turf. Both candidates, both also potential candidates for Prime Minister, are running heaving-hitting campaigns to win over the hearts of Melbourne voters in this crucial, if unexpectedly competitive, seat.
TheTrashMan has run a more conservative campaign, trying to portray himself as a dependable and proven incumbent leader; much of his campaign has centred on the last government's budget, which included over $14 Billion dollars for infrastructure in Melbourne, and the CPA's involvement in voting it down, pledging that a bolstered greens government would get it passed.
RussianHacker on the other hand has run the kind of campaign you would expect from a challenger, a tour of the electorate showing off policies with an occasional jab at the incumbent. As part of his courting of the electorate, has attempted to charm crowds across Melbourne, at one event on record saying the following:
https://preview.redd.it/owfhckucq8381.png?width=549&format=png&auto=webp&s=7e43426bd004dfb2696e503415879a628cb3e4c4
This seemingly innocuous comment left some of us here at Australia tonight scratching our head, as we could've sword we had heard similar from Mr. Hacker. As it turns out, a bit of digging quickly revealed the source of this deja-vu. Our research team was able to uncover a letter Russian Hacker sent to Sydney constituents in the byelection just 8 months ago, where he called the city "the greatest place that Australia can offer." An excerpt can be seen below:
https://preview.redd.it/v5friev8r8381.png?width=766&format=png&auto=webp&s=9d151bdba6f79af35199e4ca2cffd7ac5a7e41c7
The contradiction of these two statements stands out quite obviously, with Russian Hacker seemingly having praised both of these cities as the greatest in the country, or in Melbourne's case, the world. Hacker had previously run for the Melbourne electorate this past January, losing to the then-newcomer TheTrashMan. This moving around the country and affinity for praising wherever he is has left a big question: Is the Commonwealth leader actually committed to serving the people he represents?
His opponent says no. When approached for comment, TheTrashMan said "This is a pretty egregious example of everything
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I don't want to step on anybody's toes here, but the amount of non-dad jokes here in this subreddit really annoys me. First of all, dad jokes CAN be NSFW, it clearly says so in the sub rules. Secondly, it doesn't automatically make it a dad joke if it's from a conversation between you and your child. Most importantly, the jokes that your CHILDREN tell YOU are not dad jokes. The point of a dad joke is that it's so cheesy only a dad who's trying to be funny would make such a joke. That's it. They are stupid plays on words, lame puns and so on. There has to be a clever pun or wordplay for it to be considered a dad joke.
Again, to all the fellow dads, I apologise if I'm sounding too harsh. But I just needed to get it off my chest.
I'm trying to find the title and author of a book I loved as a kid about a kid whose hard luck family moves back to their family farm house in a town that doesn't much care for them, and the kid solves the mystery of stolen gold. It would have been from a paperback scholastic book fair late 80s, early 90s.
The boy's ancestor made a bad deal a century prior with carpetbagging charlatans. The boy hears bits of the mystery and then one day starts hallucinating/time travelling back to the event from his ancestors' perspective.
The thieves steal all the town people's gold, sneaking out in the dead of night. His ancestor tricks them into trying to escape out of a horseshoe shaped mine, where the town sherrif apprehends and hangs the thieves. But the gold is never recovered, and the family is blamed for the town's fiscal ruin.
The boy uses clues from the past and present to solve the mystery- turns out the thieves melted the gold and hid it in candlesticks. The gold is returned and the boys family gets peace.
This was a chapter book and I want to say there were maybe a dozen black and white illustrations throughout the book, some at the beginnings of a chapter, some thrown in randomly for effect.
Any ideas?
The nurse asked the rabbit, “what is your blood type?”
“I am probably a type O” said the rabbit.
The doctor says it terminal.
More times than not, the human brain does not recollect it’s past decisions, good or bad. Though predominantly one can identify their failed decisions and learn to correct them. Some people call it your conscience. Over the years it’s identity has shifted from that of a small cricket, to a voice in your ear, to an internal dialogue, and back again. Though it’s true form is merely a strain of diagnostic programming that runs silently in the back of all of our minds. One felt, but never heard nor seen.
As a human being, the thought of seeing my own thoughts is bone chilling. Our brains produce so many conflicting thoughts, our vision would be constantly blurred. In fact, I am willing to bet money that our eyes would fizzle out and die before properly conveying our thoughts. So sitting here writing this, I have to ask myself; how are we led to believe our own thoughts? Our opinions form to no internal conflict, yet are immediately ingrained in our subconscious.
Looking back it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when the hell broke loose. I think it was somewhere just North of London, maybe around Cambridge or Northampton. I was working as a clerk in a small grocer on a busy downtown street when the man stopped in. He spoke with a bizarre sort of accent I hadn’t heard before, and growing up near Birmingham amidst a typhoon of immigration and asylum seekers, I’d heard my fair share of accents.
The lad came in sporting a tweed blazer and trousers with a dowdy sort-of carpetbag. His English was so busted up he could barely put together a sentence, but he sputtered something out about the bag and left it on my counter. Suspecting him to be some sort of dosser, I returned his back and tried to send him out. The man wouldn’t budge. Kept yelling for me to take the bag, thrusting it into my arms.
Silently taking the bag, I placed it behind the counter. The man tipped his hat and left the shop. I watched him slowly meander back down the street. He was oddly happy to be rid of the bag, now that I think of it. I suppose that should have been my first red flag.
My shift ended around eight that evening, and I took the trolley back up to my flat a few blocks over, carpetbag in hand. I forced myself to wait until I returned home before sneaking a peek inside. Honestly I should have looked when he first gave it to me, to make sure he wasn’t handing off drugs or weapons or something.
I walked up the steps to my building and approached the massive early-century lifts ‘round the
... keep reading on reddit ➡More times than not, the human brain does not recollect it’s past decisions, good or bad. Though predominantly one can identify their failed decisions and learn to correct them. Some people call it your conscience. Over the years it’s identity has shifted from that of a small cricket, to a voice in your ear, to an internal dialogue, and back again. Though it’s true form is merely a strain of diagnostic programming that runs silently in the back of all of our minds. One felt, but never heard nor seen.
As a human being, the thought of seeing my own thoughts is bone chilling. Our brains produce so many conflicting thoughts, our vision would be constantly blurred. In fact, I am willing to bet money that our eyes would fizzle out and die before properly conveying our thoughts. So sitting here writing this, I have to ask myself; how are we led to believe our own thoughts? Our opinions form to no internal conflict, yet are immediately ingrained in our subconscious.
Looking back it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when the hell broke loose. I think it was somewhere just North of London, maybe around Cambridge or Northampton. I was working as a clerk in a small grocer on a busy downtown street when the man stopped in. He spoke with a bizarre sort of accent I hadn’t heard before, and growing up near Birmingham amidst a typhoon of immigration and asylum seekers, I’d heard my fair share of accents.
The lad came in sporting a tweed blazer and trousers with a dowdy sort-of carpetbag. His English was so busted up he could barely put together a sentence, but he sputtered something out about the bag and left it on my counter. Suspecting him to be some sort of dosser, I returned his back and tried to send him out. The man wouldn’t budge. Kept yelling for me to take the bag, thrusting it into my arms.
Silently taking the bag, I placed it behind the counter. The man tipped his hat and left the shop. I watched him slowly meander back down the street. He was oddly happy to be rid of the bag, now that I think of it. I suppose that should have been my first red flag.
My shift ended around eight that evening, and I took the trolley back up to my flat a few blocks over, carpetbag in hand. I forced myself to wait until I returned home before sneaking a peek inside. Honestly I should have looked when he first gave it to me, to make sure he wasn’t handing off drugs or weapons or something.
I walked up the steps to my building and approached the massive early-century lifts ‘round the
... keep reading on reddit ➡