What Happened Next?
I am two. I was really two two weeks ago but didn’t notice until today. Last year I missed being one completely. The 1st anniversary is paper though, and paper is of no use to a blogger so that was all right. This year it’s cotton and I’ve just done a big knicker shop so we’re all right there for a while. What therefore can you send me? Money obviously – there’s always money.
But I don’t want your money. What I want is an an ending for a story. This one, in fact:
A Tale.
An empty crisp packet blew down Cromwell Street. The crowd on the pavements was silent except for a lone eerie whistler, and his mother. Up in heaven God shouted at the angels to turn Inspector Morse down so He could watch the scene unfold undisturbed. He’d forgotten how He’d predetermined this one to work out.
Tormod the Tormentor, the Bully Boyle of Ballantrushal stood at one end of the street. One hand moved slightly towards a silver Colt Peacemaker in a sheepskin halter on his not un-snake like hip.
At the other end of the street a pair of clear-blue eyes narrowed menacingly as their owner planted two determined feet firmly on the municipal crazy-paving and wished his Ys weren’t riding up his bum. All eyes were on him – it would look wrong and uncool to start grabbing up there at this moment. He scanned the crowd briefly, his chiselled jaw tensing with the sort of impossible gorgeousness not seen on Stornoway’s streets since the days of Flinty MacFlynt, a fine figure of a man, aye and handy with his tairsgeir; much admired by the townswomen and – almost literally – an original Town Father. Two lady librarians and Joan from the butcher’s fainted clear away.
Ah, but this was his moment. How long he’d waited! It had been ten years since he left Lewis vowing never to return, ten years of demons haunting him, ghosts of the past taunting him, urging him on and on, never letting him rest for a moment, chasing him all the way to, as chance and Southbound roadworks would have it, Aberdeen, that great granite city of the North. There, still a pale, skinny stripling, he’d been baffled and not understood a blessed word the natives said to him. But the Aberdonians had treated him kindly, if incomprehensibly, and being baffled was better than being beaten by bully-boy Boyle.
In the intervening years he had become a highly successful ornamental hedge-trimmer which had given him broad and powerful shoulders; and lately he had joined a gym, which had given him other powerful parts. He’d saved judiciously, bought a little house and, yes, had even known love for a short while before she ran off with the rep from the Union of Topiary Workers. In the main though, he had thrived in these fertile eastern soils and was grown tall and devilish handsome, all the ladies agreed. Not unlike a taller Al Pacino.
And now was his moment! Now he would teach that low-down pustulent Boyle of a human being what it was like to know fear. His finger curled delicately round his Derringer as the wind flapped his long black leather coat cinemaesquely. He sized up Boyle. It was true, his once-famed hips were still snake-like, if the snake had just eaten a moose; his little arms barely reached them on account of the enormous gut that draped around like some monstrous skirt of beef.
He was suddenly reminded of a witticism he’d heard on the ferry on the way over: Some men were sitting around in the bar, one of them a great lump of a man, and the talk had turned to marital relations as it usually does in the choppy waters where Loch Broom meets the Minch. Apparantly the big man was himself married to a big girl, and the others were gently teasing him about how they got the business done. Big Man says “Ah, that’s what all my short-peckered friends ask.”
But this was coarse thinking and he hadn’t become such a renowned hedge-artiste by such coarseness of thought – apart from that one cash-in-hand job for the nuns on their poplars behind the tall, grey walls of the convent on The Black Isle. He blushed in recollection of how he’d fashioned their azaleas. The sisters hadn’t even mentioned azaleas but he’d got carried away.
And anyway this strange turn of thought was by the by, because all the island knew Tormod only had a very wee one. They knew this on account of his mammy, Honest Margey, taking a turn out at the fank one year and never being the same again, her peculiarity being marked by a disconcerting habit of always, always telling the truth. Tormod’s willy, incidentally (and really, it was only a very incidental willy) wasn’t the only one to pass into notoriety by way of Margey. The minister, she declared on the bus one unforgettable Monday, had a very big one indeed, not as big as Simple George from the grocery van’s, but certainly by her reckoning, bigger than average. There was quite the kerfuffle after that, alright. The disgraced minister was posted to a youth outreach program in the Gorbals within the week, and in the emergency the congregation had had to accept a young man from the South, with all the threatening new ideas these people from the South bring. Cushioned pews, indeed! Where were Christ’s cushions as he hung bleeding for our sins on the cross?
But I digress. Which isn’t like me.
Our hero shook his head. Concentrate, man! Any minute now he was going to blast two holes right above and below Tormod Boyle’s sweaty unibrow, like a divided-by sign. He’d read somewhere that to divide-by was to conquer and he was always a chap to go by the book.
Somewhere a seagull screamed, briefly. Again the whistler whistled, now low, now high and tremulously, as if the accounts of all men’s souls were to be settled that day on Cromwell Street. Again the whistler’s mother told him to shut his gob, he was putting people off. Up above, God made a mental note to smite her with a wart as soon as this was all over and she was back sitting for her portrait. God is nothing if not an avid cinema-buff, although He couldn’t see why Citizen Kane was all that special. A tumble-peat blew by.
The town-hall clock struck the hour – high-noon. According to the ancient rule for duelling crofters, on the twelfth stroke the foes were to fire.
Nine…
Ten…
Eleven…
Twelve…
BANG! BANG-BANG!
The smoke clears. The crowd gasps…
What happens next?
February 19th, 2008 at 5:01 am
Micil?n B?n stepped down from the old Massey 135. No one had believed that dilapidated pile of rust would ever run again. Yet, here it was – right in the middle of Cromwell St. Right between the two rivals.
Micil?n looked each up and down slowly. Then spoke in a gruff growl, not unlike his Massey. Then, it is said, folk grow to resemble their tractors.
Back to you …
February 19th, 2008 at 6:55 am
Micilin said, in a voice that badly needed oiling and a new radiator “Anyone missing a manilla envelope which contains this story’s denouement and whether or not there is a surprise love development at the last minute or fresh evidence which casts Our Hero in the role of passive aggressor to Tormod here’s favourite childhood hen, Goldie, thus shedding a whole new angle of the light on the supposed “bullying”?”
Could Tormod’s tormenting be in response to unkind things said to his chicken? Surely there’s a love triangle with a toothsome herring-girl, in here somewhere? Is it too late? Is one or both dead? Did they somehow miss? Was Our Hero’s Derringer really all that much bigger than Tormod’s Peacemaker?
February 19th, 2008 at 6:57 am
Did Joan and the lady librarians have an alternative motive for swooning?
And what of the mysterious whistler?
February 19th, 2008 at 7:31 am
Damn, I had a feeling you’d leave us in suspense! I pity the minister: fancy losing your job for having a big willy! The church will never reach deep into peoples’ souls with such outdated attitudes.
February 19th, 2008 at 8:09 am
He wouldn’t have reached Honest Margo’s soul via that route anyway, Nanas. According to their last Proceedings, the General Synod have located, confirmed, ratified and rubber-stamped the seat of the soul as hovering near the right opposable thumb. It’s how they say they know animals don’t have souls – by virtue of their not having opposable thumbs. I know you have a soul much richer and hairier than any Free church rev. though, sweet ‘rilla that you are.
February 19th, 2008 at 10:24 am
is that tormod the tormentor aka norman the niggler, cousin of uisdean the unwashed (the bottom burper of balllallan)? son of ian the irritator (aka john the jobby, the sheep strangler of shawbost)?? or am i confusing them with someone else?
February 19th, 2008 at 10:31 am
bang bang bang, the crowd gasps, the smoke clears……….. slowly from the cloud of smoke appears….. a large group of people who are appear to be the free chuch continuing (lords day observance branch) complaining that such activities should not take place on the sabbath day and that everyone is going to hell…..
February 19th, 2008 at 10:35 am
Alas, our hero realized that he’d brought the Derringer instead of something more substantial, a Derringer being suitable for knee-capping someone under the poker table in the salon of a river boat plying the waters between St. Louis and Memphis, while the captain periodically yells, “Mark Twain,” thereby summoning the passengers to a reading of “Connecticut Yankee.”
Cheers.
February 19th, 2008 at 10:37 am
Another crisp packet blew down Cromwell St. The habitual crisp eater, still whistling through his ear from an earlier mishap with the ball-hitch of a Massey, reached archer-like inside his Tesco mega-multi pack of crinkle crisps, while dropping the nickel plated 44 magnum back home, having drilled both.
The Hedge-trimmer and the Boyle traveled to the Gorbals to visit the minister, now in the small pharma/munitions business. Who had quickly discovered that a handicap in one place. Well, more that measured up in others. Having now polished a natural streak of irony, gave a 45 Colt with 44 ammo, the other something useful at less than five feet.
But before both were fully leveled.
The whistler and the crowd turned towards the docks on hearing the turbo whine of an expensive machine and with narrowing eyes and itchy fingers gasped. When Morag the Gap turned into the scene. Her ample seat cushioned, marking all with the knowing look from for her an unusually elevated position. Her vermin license Winchester to hand, just in case. Lifted her hand from the wheel to wave a thanks at both lads now flat on the street, herself and the minister being partners. The lads, wondering with their last, why Morag was not enveloped in purple.
February 19th, 2008 at 1:38 pm
Then I woke up and realised it was all a dream!
February 19th, 2008 at 2:24 pm
Kevin Costner yells “cut!”. He pushes past the extras to be the first to see if the cameraman Vinny got the shot the way it was planned.
“Shit. I don’t look tall from this perspective and you know that I have to look tall.” He storms over to the sidelines and glares at Vinny. The next time Coppola asks for a “favor” he’ll have to decline.
February 19th, 2008 at 9:36 pm
Wee Niaff – that’s the very Tormod! And he begat a Seamus and Seamus’s girlfriend says Seamus has just gone and begat a wee someone himself, although word is Seamus is having none of it and said the baby could have been begot by any one of the Ness 5-aside team. The Free Church Continuing protest missed Cromwell Street altogether though, I’m afraid. They continued on, see.
Rand, he did indeed have cause to curse his Derringer but opted to bring that because of an involved bout of playing reverse-compensatory psychology. In other words, he thought if he showed up packing a bazooka, everybody would think he had a small willy too like Tormod; only a real man could get away with a little pop-gun and still look hard as nails. It even crossed his mind to let Honest Marge have a look and broadcast his full inchage to all, so there’d be no doubt.
Vincent, purple makes a lady’s bum look big. This is a splendid ending but I want to know what gauge was the streak of irony? I think I know Morag the Gap.
Bad Ambassador, nice Southforkian twist. And I can see why you went for it. Cromwell Street does have a dreamy kind of feel to it, though many would say that was just the fog. We even have our very own private eye in Stornoway, called Secretive Richard. He has the space above the welly-boot emporium/bakery.
Jali, ha! I like the petulant Costnerian edge you bring to your interpretation of Our Hero. I agree, he should be a flawed character. He needs to be fleshed out a bit better. I propose he be a blueberry-munching (that could be his trademark thing) fluffy-animal-hating, passive-aggressive s.o.b with a love for all things Italian, and a limp. Hmm, too much? OK, cut the limp.
February 19th, 2008 at 10:49 pm
Sam
This story resonates with us who were brought up on our fathers’ Western novels. Thousands of them. From the Carnegie library. Thousands.
If I might intrude on you, by sharing the great Guy Clark’s Last Gunfighter Ballad, I hope you won’t take it too amiss and shoot me dead at first glance next week, before I’ve had so much as the chance to say, Howdy Ma’am:
The old gunfighter on the porch
stared into the sun
and relived the days of living by the gun
when deadly games of pride were played
and living was mistakes not made
and the thought of the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
Ah, the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
It’s always keep your back to the sun
and he can almost feel the weight of the gun
it’s faster than snakes or the blink of an eye
and it’s a time for all slow men to die
and his eyes get squinty and his fingers twitch
and he empties the gun at the son of a bitch
and he’s hit by the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
hit by the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
Now the burn of a bullet is only a scar
he’s back in his chair in front of the bar
and the streets are empty and the blood’s all dried
and the dead are dust and the whiskey’s inside
so buy him a drink and lend him an ear
he’s nobody’s fool and the only one here
who remembers the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
remember the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
He said I stood in that street before it was paved
learned shoot or be shot before I could shave
and I did it all for the money and fame
noble was nothing but feeling no shame
and nothing was sacred but stayin’ alive
and all that I learned from a Colt 45
was to curse the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
curse the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
Now he’s just an old man that no one believes
says he’s a gunfighter, the last of the breed
and there are ghosts in the street seeking revenge
calling him out to the lunatic fringe
now he’s out in the traffic checking the sun
and he’s killed by a car as he goes for his gun
So much for the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
so much for the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
February 19th, 2008 at 11:19 pm
Cheers Bock, I love this. It’s all kinds of evocative with that squinty stoic cowboy poignancy. If I’d lived in the old West I’d have been a wreck from falling head-over-heels in love with every far-distance-gazing cowboy who rode into town. I found a Johnny Cash version of this to listen to but couldn’t find a Guy Clark recording. Flaming great lyrics. Ta.
Have you decided yet which of your colourful pals will be minding you next week? Crikey, it is next week, innit!
February 19th, 2008 at 11:23 pm
All too true, PCB, purple will do that to you, if worn. But what I had in mind was a Vanity Fair cover or the like. Which for the life of me, cannot remember either who photographed or was in it. But the contrast of blood red rose petals with the alabaster was magnificent. So why not a bed of heather for Morag, the lads loved her after all.
Well I have never seen a plump Glaswegian, thin as a rail they were. So narrow gauge.
February 19th, 2008 at 11:45 pm
Vince – ah, I get you now. Was it the American Beauty film cover one? I remember an alabaster woman surrounded by red petals from then. A bed of heather is terrific in theory, but the actual scratchy lying in it with the flipping bumble-bees always at you and the unknown beasties crawling over you… It’s like a lambswool jumper. It looks and sounds gorgeous but you will emerge from it scoured and inflamed from scratching. And oh but how right you are, all the laddies love a Morag.
February 20th, 2008 at 12:08 am
Yeah. The Johhny Cash version is absolute shite. You’ll have to buy the Guy Clark album instead.
Never mind the minders. I’ll be going to Dublin as myself, but you’ll have to guess which one I am.
February 20th, 2008 at 12:34 am
Bock, I shall merely request a look at the shins of all gentlemen in attendance. The owner of the most battered shin will, I believe, be you, unless you choose to hobble your pals in between now and then. That will of course be your choice and your burden. Any coyness about raising one’s trouser leg for inspection will be interpreted as a sign of yourselfness too. In Scotland, of course, there would be no need for such a charade. We believe a man’s shins shuid gang free but we all look the same* so every extra identification mark on a chap is handy for his wife and kids to pick him out in a crowd.
*Bearded, with eyes that occasionally roll back in our heads – all of us – even the babies. It’s only since Immac that I’ve been able to pursue a normal life as a woman outside of Scotland.
February 20th, 2008 at 8:06 am
I was thinking Monroe for some reason on the image, that era, but your one will do very well indeed. Et/agus, heather is surprise-ing-ly comfy.
February 20th, 2008 at 9:16 am
What happens next is that. after wiping the tears from her eyes, this procrastinating blogger realizes to her horror that she too has been invited to complete this in the same gloriously beguiling style. And can’t, of course, even though she ought to be able to, being resident in Scotland and having visited an island or two. So she weasels out of it by clicking out, but then just has to read it again, so comes back, lurks another five minutes or so, still giggling nervously, then before she can weasel out again, reads all the comments. And is so taken by the phrase ‘petulant Costnerian edge’ that she knows that even if she can’t finish this story she has to leave SOME kind of comment, so this is it.
‘Tumble peat.’ That is just brilliant. Would it tumble? Or merely drag wetly along?
February 20th, 2008 at 10:10 am
Well I’ve made a right pig’s a–e out of that. It was the empty crisp packet that caught my imagination – it’s been so long- too late I realise that was a red herring. Now I’ll have to go back ;and read it again. No hardship I admit. Be back later.xoxox
February 20th, 2008 at 10:24 am
Back again and having read the comments feel superfluous.
Interesting to see VincentH is another crisp packet obsessive and Bock the Robber makes me think of my Dad and Zane Grey.
Heather may be comfy but think of the ticks!
Have you now got all your documents for your trip. I dread to think of what you’ll get up to in Ireland but as long as you bring back tales and mebbe pix you’ll be welcomed with open arms.
February 20th, 2008 at 11:16 am
…the PA from Vanity Fair was about to lose it, again.
“No, no, no, no, NOOOOOOO!” he screamed. “It has to be BANG-BANG! BANG!! and the smoke has to be white, not grey! And Tormod, DAHRLING, you have to look PAST and slightly ABOVE him, not AT him, otherwise it won’t work for Annie. Can we have the peat in first position, PLEASE?! Miss Liebovitz, I’m so sorry, we’ll be ready for you again in just a moment. AND RESET the BLOODY clock, SOMEONE!
He silently cursed the fool who’d suggested the “Once Upon A Time in Lewis” photoshoot. There’d be a memo, a very long memo…
February 20th, 2008 at 1:22 pm
Our hero cursed the fact that it had taken him 2 shots to extinguish the candle on the cake between them, whereas Tormad had done his first time. However, with both candles now out, Sam stepped forward to make a wish and the whole crowd burst into “Happy BlogDay to you…”
February 20th, 2008 at 1:55 pm
Both men stood with their trousers round their ankles, their belt buckles blown clear off. The beautiful midget Mairi McCulloch who lives in isolation at the edge of the island and had come into town for supplies stared at Tormad then squealed ‘finally a man I can take’ and whisked him away to her hovel. Neither were seen again but when the wind blows in a certain direction you can sometimes here the sounds of their rapturous coupling.
February 20th, 2008 at 5:31 pm
Happy tooth Sam , and was Flinty MacFlynt on a grassy knoll somewhere having gotten man jealous, in that square jawed man way, cause the gal?s were checking out Tormod and hedge-trimmer?s tairsgeir, and unfortunately got the whistler in a collateral damaging third shot. (Is the whistler the lill guy from The Yearling and is tairsgeir actually what I think it is?) I?m drawn to a peripheral Flinty , he feels wise and distinguished and I can see him blowing smoke from the end of the gun-barrel, rolling a gasper and lighting it with one hand all the while twirling his colt before re-holstering.
February 20th, 2008 at 9:25 pm
Vincent, it’s true that with a blanket heather’s better than a Posturepedic mattress but I’ve got a 20-odd year old scar on my spine from a woody heather stalk.
Mary, you say the sweetest things and you are a beautiful generous soul – much too generous I’m afeardy. I wondered about the logistics of tumble-peat too, but North Atlantic winds could strip the rivets off a Rosie-riveted robot and regularly tumbles my mother’s big rockery stones about, so I reckon a dried tumble-peat would fairly fly down the road.
Pat, you are never, ever superfluous, sweetheart. As far as Ireland’s concerned I’ve just heard today that Irish traffic controllers are on strike. My documents are all in order but I’m envisioning long uncertain hours in Atlanta. I’m well used to long uncertain hours in airports but this is only a trip of a few days and I’ve been looking forward to it. Fingers crossed it all goes to plan.
Conan, brilliant! You sound just like one of the artier types in the Gaelic mafia – same neuroses and insecurities as auteurs everywhere, only stubbornly refusing to speak in a language that actually has bona fide words for things like cinematography and technology.
Kim, cheers – it’s been a valuable two years for me, here in blogland. I’ve learnt stacks and met some really terrific people, of which you were one of the first. It’s ten million times better than pen-pals, constantly surprising, refreshing and always very real, despite the medium. Viva blogging!
Eryl, I almost burst my buttons laughing at that and it just goes to show that for every key there’s a lock – that’s a lovely thought all by itself.
Sniffly, ooh I like it! – Flinty as the Outsiders’ Outsider. I’m getting a twirler vibe from him too. The kind of colt twirling that goes awhickawhickawhicka. A tairsgeir is a long L-shaped implement for cutting peats, but what’s a gasper?
February 20th, 2008 at 10:15 pm
Gasper, a cigerette. Must work on my tairsgeir moves though. BTW, excellent stuff Sam.
February 21st, 2008 at 10:44 am
I forgot to say happy bloggy birthday, so caught up was I in the story. So, well done that girl for making it to two. You’re great and we love you!
February 21st, 2008 at 10:49 am
Was I really one of the first? Gosh, it makes me feel all sort of bigger brotherly
February 21st, 2008 at 1:04 pm
Me too, on the two. Well done you!
February 21st, 2008 at 11:36 pm
Sniffly, this year at home they put out a charity calendar with 4 crofters posing in the blue-bummed nude out on the moor digging peats, with only a string and a peat to preserve their modesty. I got one at Christmas and I think there’s a tairsgeir in one of them. I’ll bring it over if I remember.
Eryl, ah cheers, hun, the feeling’s mutual. This blogging lark’s a trip.
Kim, you were, big bro!
Conan, cheers backatcha.
February 22nd, 2008 at 1:27 am
Is a tairsgeir the same as a slean or is it something else entirely, altogether, and not similar at all?
I looked it up and got a whole heap of Scots Gaelic which I was surprised to discover I could understand for the most part. Well, some of it anyway. Well, a little bit.
February 22nd, 2008 at 9:27 am
Bock, the best I can Google for a tairsgeir is this
It’s in there somewhere. I come from Stornoway in Lewis. My family comes mainly from Tolsta Chaolais
February 22nd, 2008 at 9:49 am
Did you know that in olden times lost of people suffered from sleeplessness and used to get up in the early hours and meet and chew the fat and then later go back to bed. They celebrated their insomnia and made it a social event and their nights were split into two bed times. According to the BBC:)
February 22nd, 2008 at 2:02 pm
A very happy blogiversary to you, Sam.
Hopefully we’ll be tippling next week.
February 22nd, 2008 at 7:40 pm
then the bunny gets the girl.
February 23rd, 2008 at 12:21 am
Pat, it’s now twenty past midnight and i wish to god i had two bedtimes so’s i could make up for the one i’m about to lose. Anyway, re the story, i would definitely have a moment of hush, then a lone female runs into the scene, wailing piteously, to comfort one or other of the duellists. The other, of course, turns away and gets on his horse. Or into his bmw, whatever.
February 23rd, 2008 at 6:44 am
While I’m still dwelling on the bang! bang-bang! (I like a good dwell – been know to do it for years) I’ll go ahead and say congrats on your 2nd Blog-Birthday. So begin the terrible twos.
February 23rd, 2008 at 8:39 am
Likewise from this newborn.
February 24th, 2008 at 1:12 pm
The two men fell to the ground and rolled over into the gutter, narrowly missing the Tennant’s lager cans, both convince the other had fired.
But here it was just McKillop’s pigeon scarer going off, as it did every twenty minutes.
The women dashed to the side of the beautifully-made pruner and Joan started to beat him about the head with a large black pudding, known locally as “a minister” saying, “You stupid big man, leave him he’s not worth it! Come away in with me and I’ll make you a wee bit of lunch, some dumpling and Lorne sausage, just the way you used to like it! Just don’t tell the Kirk Session. Excuse us ladies! And then maybe you’ll be good enough to give my bush out front a wee clip? “
February 26th, 2008 at 5:43 am
Pat, my auntie and uncle do that!
Medbh, you better believe it!
Asym – the only hard part would be to determine if she was really wailing piteously or was just in a regular mood.
Eolai, this year I plan on being more troublesome. I’ll thcream and thcream until I’m thick (No smart comments please – you will be taken out and shot)
Prenderghast, technically though we’re both still in blogging nappies. Ta.
Apprentice, ha! I love it! I may never write a story ending again. I’ll just farm ‘em out to you lot – some a’ these are ace, like.
February 26th, 2008 at 5:44 am
Going offline for a bit, folks. Back next week. Toodles!
February 26th, 2008 at 2:12 pm
Safe travels!
February 27th, 2008 at 7:21 pm
have a nice journey there and back, Sami.
February 29th, 2008 at 8:27 pm
congrats on 2 years and safe travels/have fun, sugar!
March 1st, 2008 at 7:29 pm
Them Gorbals Boyles are trouble, I have their blood in me veins and it plays me up of a full moon. Still I can’t help hoping Tormod pulls through, if he doesn’t it could change the course of history and I may not be born, which means I won’t be reading this and you won’t get this comment.
March 3rd, 2008 at 10:31 am
Have you gone? Come back safe.xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
March 3rd, 2008 at 7:07 pm
a taller al pacino? what is this? how can i move on from that? al pacino? really? like…the godfather years? the scarface era? i have to know, because there was only a short stint of hotness between godfather and scarface. very very short. i can’t move on til i know.
March 6th, 2008 at 4:46 pm
Just popping in to say, “hello” and wish you a speedy return. I miss your posts.
Cheers.
September 8th, 2011 at 1:50 am
Hello…
My life,vist it http://www.travelblog.in/next/next.php?membername=juhuacha ,Thanks….
September 9th, 2011 at 1:00 pm
Hello…
My life,vist it http://www.protectiamediului.org/nicedress/2011/09/01/find-wedding-cakes-with-stairways-picture/ ,Thanks….
September 13th, 2011 at 1:18 am
Hello…
My life,vist it http://juhuachadress.monportefolio.com/2011/09/02/loose-ribbon-swirl-wedding-cakes/ ,Thanks….
September 18th, 2011 at 1:23 pm
Hello…
My life,vist it http://rawsonl.blogreaction.com/ ,Thanks….
October 21st, 2011 at 11:43 am
Great One…
What music is played when the visiting team’s starting lineup is announced at Celtics Games? , http://defrete.bloging.ro/258495/designer_wedding_dresses___make_your_big_day_much_more_unique.html...