Taiwanese Media on Tiger Woods
Posted on December 1st, 2009 by admin
I don’t speak Mandarin, but now that I’ve seen how they re-enact unverified rumors using Grand Theft Auto-style computer graphics, all I can say is me likee!
I don’t speak Mandarin, but now that I’ve seen how they re-enact unverified rumors using Grand Theft Auto-style computer graphics, all I can say is me likee!
From the book Making the Movies by Ernest Alfred Dench, published in 1915.
It is only within the last two or three years that genuine Redskins have been employed in pictures. Before then these parts were taken by white actors made up for the occasion. But this method was not realistic enough to satisfy the progressive spirit of the producer.
The Red Indians who have been fortunate enough to secure permanent engagements with the several Western film companies are paid a salary that keeps them well provided with tobacco and their worshipped “fire water.”
It might be thought that this would civilise them completely, but it has had a quite reverse effect, for the work affords them an opportunity to live their savage days over again, and they are not slow to take advantage of it.
They put their heart and soul into the work, especially in battles with the whites, and it is necessary to have armed guards watch over their movements for the least sign of treachery. They naturally object to acting in pictures where they are defeated, and it requires a good deal of coaxing to induce them to take on such objectionable parts.
Once a white player was seriously wounded when the Indians indulged in a bit too much realism with their clubs and tomahawks. After this activity they had their weapons padded to prevent further injurious use of them.
With all the precautions that are taken, the Redskins occasionally manage to smuggle real bullets into action; but happily they have always been detected in the nick of time, though on one occasion some cowboys had a narrow escape during the producing of a Bison film.
Even to-day a few white players specialise in Indian parts. They are pastmasters in such roles, for they have made a complete study of Indian life, and by clever make-up they are hard to tell from real redskins. They take leading parts, for which Indians are seldom adaptable.
To act as an Indian is the easiest thing possible, for the Redskin is practically motionless.
As a public service, Cruel.Com is fighting to save archaic profanity and other abusive language before it is lost to future generations. Please incorporate this verbal filth into your own conversations, particularly if you are one of the tittering twats who uses Twitter, so that it may spread to others across the antisocial network.
The first profanity we’d like to rescue is mutton monger, an Elizabethan era term that describes a pimp. The term mutton once was used to describe prostitutes, so the mutton monger was the guy selling those nice cuts of meat.
The term can be found in Thomas Dekker’s 1604 play The Second Part of the Honest Whore, which is about a prostitute named Bellafront, her husband (and former john) Matheo and her father Orlando Friscobaldo. Orlando and Matheo aren’t getting along:
Orlando: She like a quean, thou like a knave; she like a whore, thou like a thief.
Matheo: Thief? Zounds! Thief?
Bellafront: Good, dearest Mat! — Father!
Mat: Pox on you both. I’ll not be braved. New satin scorns to be put down with bare bawdy velvet. Thief?
Orl: Ay, thief, th’art a murderer, a cheater, a whoremonger, a pot-hunter, a borrower a beggar –
Bell: Dear father –
Mat: An old ass, a dog, a churl, a chuff, an usurer, a villain, a moth, a mangy mule, with an old velvet footcloth on his back, sir.
Bell: Oh, me!
Orl: Varlet! For this I’ll hang thee.
Mat: Ha ha, Alas!
Orl: Thou keepest a man here, under my nose –
Mat: Under thy beard.
Orl: As arrant a smell-smock, for an old mutton-monger as thyself.
Mat: No, as yourself.
Matheo and his father-in-law go on insulting each other like this for pages. I don’t know if it ends with them killing each other or making out.
Here’s a modern usage of the term for instructive purposes: Jessica Simpson’s dad talks about her breasts like a mutton monger.
Comments to this post will be deleted if they do not use mutton-monger in a sentence.
Hello my name is Mary Jean Ballner, and welcome to the wonderful world of dog massage.
The dog, Henry Wrinkler, got a restraining order against Mary shortly after the making of this video.
It’s a little late for Halloween, but Allison Henry shares a tale of extruding vaginal horror on Momlogic:
Over the next year, I noticed this more and more and more. I would feel that something was poking out of my vagina when I was wiping.
In the meantime, I had a massive emergency appendectomy, I got gangrene, and I was hospitalized. It took me about eight months to heal from that whole thing, so I didn’t really address what was going on with my vagina.
One night, I took a look down there, and it was like my insides were on the outside and they were coming out. I knew I couldn’t put this off any longer. I went to my doctor and said, “My vagina is falling out of my body!”
You know it’s bad when a specialist says “Holy crap.” And we haven’t even gotten to the part about the discharge with the funky odor.
Apple’s Mac Guy and PC Guy commercials can be insufferably smug, but there’s no other major ad campaign that delivers a more devastating shot to the competition. The new spot on Windows 7 hits Microsoft squarely on the nads.
As good as the ads are, neither Apple nor Microsoft is getting my money the next time I upgrade an OS. I’m a Linux.
On ABC’s Nightline this weekend, journalist Martin Bashir caused a Scientology spokesman to get up and storm off by asking him about specific beliefs of his religion, such as the idea that an intergalactic being named Xenu stored angry spirits in our volcanoes millions of years ago who must be driven off telepathically by church adherents.
Although this is good television, it would be fun to see Bashir treat some other cosmologies I could name as if the most sacred beliefs were totally cuckoo bananas. I was taught as a child to believe that every Sunday we were eating the son of our deity, which even then I found hard to swallow.
The Ikhwan Polygamy Club has formed in Malaysia to tout the benefits of one-man, multiple-woman marriage:
For peace to prevail at home, women should start seeing his other wives as sisters, rather than enemies. It’s a sacrifice every woman must make, for the sake of her husband. Don’t say you’d rather be single. It’s like crawling into a tiger’s stomach, instead of an alligator’s. …
None of us get to choose our spouse. The club committee decides on that. They take care of everything, from accommodation to food to love. But, of course, if we don’t like the guy, we can always refuse.
The group has 1,200 members, three-quarters of whom are female.