Rebecca

NICE! you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

pssst! Where's the attachment? you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Dude! Rock on! I just saw this, and I changed my mind about where they should go. The docked group is so nice and symmetrical, they'd look great across the shoulder blades. You'd lose that effect around your leg, I think. Besides, it's a great excuse to run around with your shirt off, right? you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

I need some help fast! My boss won't leave the office On a Friday night Have to find a way To trick her to go away I wanna go jump!!! you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Hi right back atcha I'm doin' just fine thank you 'cept a bit jealous Wishing that I too Could skip out of work and drink Two hours to go Here is my problem: Go to dropzone or the bar? Dropzone is so far... But that's much more fun Than hanging out with whuffos Sigh. Choices, choices you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Learn the rules you must There is no try, just haiku Use the force Ivan you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

'Cause this is MY United States of Whatevah! you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Don't worry peppermint- that's been posted before in full-length. The cat was actually okay- he jumped up and ran far, far away from the fan. It does look pretty cruel, but I have to admit I laughed. A lot.

Okay, it's beer o'clock in the islands now- that means Cuba Libres or Dark 'n' Stormies. Who's got the Black Seal rum? you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Who's talking about lesbians? I'm talking about women exploring ways to pleasure themselves with toys designed for that purpose. And if, while learning how to do so safely and effectively, female classmates help each other out a little, so be it... Not too hard to hijack- it pretty much started in this direction anyway... you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Ahh, I see. Remove the threat of the vibrator by letting the guys play, too. I tell you, that boders on genius... maybe you should write the judge and suggest he take an interest in his wife's hobby. Maybe if he understood it, he wouldn't be so afraid. Nah, the one guy thing wouldn't work. It'd have to be all SOs or no guys at all. you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

I LIKE the way you think! Hmm, let's see, it's beer o'clock in Sao Paulo right now- Caipirinhas it is!! I know you're in, Wendy! you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Especially if the Croatians are drinking too- presto! You're not drinking early OR alone! you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Thanks! Don't forget though- women aren't usually ready to roll over and go to sleep after just one yowza- often it whets our appetites, so hangin' around might not be a bad idea anyway... you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Wait for what? If they're being taught to use them effectively, there wouldn't be much left for you to do by the end of the class... Just a thought... you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Depends on your schedule. I mean, if that's when you normally get home from work, that's like your happy hour, right? In that case, I'd say no, it's not too early. you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Don'tcha just hate that? You get all excited, 'cause you found something cool to share with your online friends, and then you're waiting for someone to respond with "Cool!", but then all you get is finding out that it's not anymore. I feel for ya' dude. you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Thanks Sebazz! I can't believe we got his far without a mention of good ol' Stanley. One of the first posts I read in this forum was about him. Strange intro to TalkBack, to say the least. So, what the hell has he been up to? Pop? Stanley? you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Yeah, well, he asked for it. Besides, after those enormous grammar/ punctuation threads, you'd think he mighta learned somethin'. Ah well. A grammar Nazi's work is never done. (Didja see that, JT? I used an apostrophe up there, even though there's only one of me. ) you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

WHOOOHOOOO!!!!!

Everybody lock your doors, get a gun, protect yourself! Ms. Rebecca is planning to create massive civil unrest! Let me begin by saying that she would not hesitate to force square pegs into round holes if she felt she could benefit from doing so. "What's that?", I hear you ask. "Is it true that her compeers can conceive of nothing but deluded defenses of her amateurish practices?" Why, yes, it is. I'd like to finish with a quote from a private e-mail message sent to me by a close friend of mine: "Ms. Rebecca has an ego of galactic proportions". Too funny! Good stuff- thanks Zenister! you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Bahahahaha!!! Dude, awesome mental picture! Also brings to mind 'Beat It'... "Just beat it! Just Beat it, beat it, wooo!" you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Damn. Too bad he's a dick. It's still a cool article though. you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

You're welcome! An article like this makes you realize exactly why every fighter pilot you meet has an ego the size of Texas. My favorite part is: "If ever in my life I had a chance to nail Nicole Kidman, this was it." you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?

Got this in an e-mail. LOVE those pilots!!! This guy writes for Sports Illustrated. VERY funny! On a Wing and a Prayer by Rick Reilly Now this message for America's most famous athletes: Someday you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country's most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have -- John Elway, John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few. If you get this opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity . . . Move to Guam. Change your name. Fake your own death. Whatever you do, do not go. I know. The U.S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was pumped. I was toast! I should've known when they told me my pilot would be Chip (Biff) King of fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach. Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like, triple it. He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time. If you see this man, run the other way. Fast. Biff King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions. ("T-minus 15 seconds and counting...." Remember?). Chip would charge neighborhood kids a quarter each to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps surrounded by nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, "We have a liftoff." Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60 million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not unlike Colin Montgomerie. I was worried about getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I should eat the next morning. "Bananas," he said. "For the potassium?" I asked. "No," Biff said, "because they taste about the same coming up as they do going down." The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign -- like Crash or Sticky or Leadfoot - but, still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I had a chance to nail Nicole Kidman, that was it. A fighter pilot named Psycho gave me a safety briefing and then fastened me into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would "egress" me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be immediately knocked unconscious from the G-forces. Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. In minutes we were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out and then canopy-rolled over another F-14. Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life. Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80 minutes. It was like being on the roller coaster at Six Flags. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, snap rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per minute. We chased another F-14, and it chased us. We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G-force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was smashing against me. This is my favorite part . . . And I egressed the bananas. I egressed the pizza from the night before. And the lunch before that. I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth grade. I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of the G's, I was egressing stuff that did not even want to be egressed. I went through not one airsick bag, but two. Biff said I passed out. Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a mock bombing target and the G's were flattening me like a tortilla and I was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was the first person in history to throw down. I used to know cool. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or Norman making a five-iron bite. But now I really know cool. Cool is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and Freon nerves. I wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but I'm glad Biff does every day, and for less a year than a rookie reliever makes in a home stand. A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he and the fighter pilots had the perfect call sign for me. Said he'd send it on a patch for my flight suit. What is it? I asked.... "Two Bags." you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?