Whoz yo mama! mystere and his old boyfriend chad reconnect static electricity human body

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"This must be part of God’s plan" Mystere mused. Soon the Deep State witch hunt will be revealed and Hillary Clinton will be arrested and jailed. Then (in 2020) Donald Trump will be elected to a 2nd term. As fireman Mark Taylor had prophesied. Just thinking of Satan’s minon (the Hildabeast) behind bars caused Mystere to smile. He started skipping and chanting in a sing-song voice.

Mystere was about to close the lid when he noticed a package pushed all the way to the back of the box. Reaching in Mystere grabbed the parcel and withdrew it. Printed on the front of the rectangular box wrapped in brown paper was his name, Mystere. In the upper left hand corner, instead of a return address, the sender had written a friend. There was no postage or postmark. "I wonder what this is?" Mystere pondered. Possibly a mail bomb?

Mystere took the mail (including the box) inside. After dropping the bills on his husband’s desk, Mystere looked around for his canine, Buttstink. "Is this a bomb, Buttstink?" Mystere held the box close to Buttstink’s nose. "Buttstink says no" Mystere declared after reading the dog’s expression. He shook the box violently. "I think that would have set it off" Mystere concluded. He placed the box on the kitchen table, then tore off the wrapping.

Removing a sharp knife from the butcher block, Mystere sliced into the packing tape that sealed the unwrapped cardboard box. Suddenly he slipped and cut a deep gash into the side of his hand. "Owww! My hand" Mystere screamed, dropping the knife. gas house gang Blood sprayed from the wound. Mystere ran to the kitchen sink and ran cold water on his hand. The pain was unbearable. Mystere almost passed out from blood loss. He started crying.

"No, Mystere. Be a man" he commanded himself. Then he grabbed a kitchen rag and wrapped his owie. "F*ck the asshole who sent me this cursed package" Mystere lamented. But the box was open, so Mystere decided to look inside. Bending back the cardboard flaps, Mystere found an envelope. On the envelope it said To Mystere from your friend, Pookie Toot Toot. What could it be, Mystere wondered. Placing the envelope aside for the time being, Mystere dug into the packing peanuts.

Eventually Mystere fished out a half dozen paper envelopes. gas what i smoke Written in crayon on each of the envelopes were the words Astral Mushroom Spores. "Am I supposed to smoke or snort them?" Mystere wondered. Maybe the letter would provide the sought after information. Opening the letter Mystere began reading. It said, "Mystere, I apologize for stealing your bong and three bags of weed. I couldn’t help myself. Please accept as my apology the enclosed Astral Mushroom spores. Trust me, these will get you super high".

What followed were instructions on how to plant and grow the mushrooms. "Damn it" Mystere swore. "Why couldn’t Pookie send me already grown mushrooms?". Mystere went out to the backyard. In the corner of the property was an old greenhouse, build by the previous owner. gas exchange in the lungs is facilitated by Mystere knew there were some bags of potting soil in there. He found some clay pots and scooped some of the dark, rich soil into them. Then he took the pots back inside.

Mystere opened the basement door. This was a dark damp place that would be perfect for growing mushrooms. Although it scared Mystere to go down here. There might be ghosts. Or one ghost, specifically. Flipping on the lights, Mystere carefully made his way down the stairs which creaked under his weight. Mystere placed the box containing the spores on a old wood table located in a corner of the basement. Along with the soil filled clay pots.

Mystere took one of the pots over to an ancient cast iron sink and ran some water over the soil, making sure it was good and damp. He opened one of the paper envelopes and sprinkled some of the spores over the moistened dirt, as per the hand written instructions. "That should do it" Mystere announced. Mystere glanced at an ice chest in the other corner of the basement. It was old, but still ran. Luckily.

Mystere didn’t know where he’d keep his pizzas and ice cream sandwiches if it quit working. Also Chad’s dead body. Mystere approached the freezer. It hummed loudly. Opening the lid, Mystere picked up some pizza boxes, just to check if Chad was still there. Mystere poked the body, which was wrapped in plastic. Chad was pretty solid by this time, having been frozen for over a year.

Mystere thought back to that day. His phone rang. electricity and magnetism physics definition Answering it, Mystere heard a voice say, "Mystere, it’s me, Chad". Mystere was a little shocked, given that it had been almost a decade since he’d heard from his old boyfriend. "I thought you died from AIDS" Mystere replied icely. "No, I’m alive" Chad said. Silence. "I heard you got married" Chad said finally.

"You heard wrong. Unlike you, I’m not a fag" Mystere angrily replied. "Really? I heard you were cohabitating with the wrestler Rikishi". "Yes" Mystere confirmed. "For legal reasons we decided a contract would be best. Nothing wrong with two totally straight bros taking advantage of the fag marriage law to protect themselves. Legally speaking".

"No. gas leak chicago No way. I don’t want to see you" Mystere answered. "I’m already here. I knocked on your front door but nobody answered. I saw Rikishi leave alone and figured you were probably inside the house". "Nope, I’m at the grocery store" Mystere lied. "Your car is in the driveway" Chad countered. "I went for a walk" Mystere lied again. "I’m looking right at you" Chad said, calling Mystere on his lie.

"Impossible. I’m in the bathroom sitting on the toilet. That’s why I ignored the knocking". Then Mystere looked out the bathroom window and saw (to his shock) a face starring in at him. It was his ex boyfriend Chad. "Hi". Chad waved. Mystere hung up his phone. "Excuse me, I’m pooping" Mystere yelled at the face in the window. "Actually, it looks like you’re masturbating" Chad remarked, peering in the window.

"I’m masturbating and pooping. Not that it’s any of your business" Mystere replied angrily. "Is it ok if I just come in?" Chad asked. "I already tried the back door and it’s open. I didn’t want to barge in on you, however". "Sure. electricity units calculator in pakistan Come in through the back door. I’ll meet you there". "OK. I’ll do that" Chad said, then disappeared. Mystere quickly stood and pulled up his underwear and pants (without wiping). Then ran to the bedroom.

It is the denial to human beings of the possibility of choice, the getting them into one’s power, the twisting them this way and that in accordance with one’s whim, the destruction of their personality by creating unequal moral terms between the gaoler and the victim, whereby the gaoler knows what he is doing, and why, and plays upon the victim, i.e. treats him as a mere object and not as a subject whose motives, views, intentions have any intrinsic weight whatever–by destroying the very possibility of his having views, notions of a relevant kind–that is what cannot be borne at all.

What else horrifies us about unscrupulousness if not this? Why is the thought of someone twisting someone else round his little finger, even in innocent contexts, so beastly (for instance in Dostoevsky’s Dyadyushkin son [Uncle’s Dream, a novella published in 1859], which the Moscow Arts Theatre used to act so well and so cruelly)? After all, the victim may prefer to have no responsibility; the slave be happier in his slavery. Certainly we do not detest this kind of destruction of liberty merely because it denies liberty of action; there is a far greater horror in depriving men of the very capacity for freedom–that is the real sin against the Holy Ghost. Everything else is bearable so long as the possibility of goodness–of a state of affairs in which men freely choose, disinterestedly seek ends for their own sake–is still open, however much suffering they may have gone through. Their souls are destroyed only when this is no longer possible. It is when the desire for choice is broken that what men do thereby loses all moral value, and actions lose all significance (in terms of good and evil) in their own eyes; that is what is meant by destroying people’s self-respect, by turning them, in your words, into rags. This is the ultimate horror because in such a situation there are no worthwhile motives left: nothing is worth doing or avoiding, the reasons for existing are gone. We admire Don Quixote, if we do, because he has a pure-hearted desire to do what is good, and he is pathetic because he is mad and his attempts are ludicrous.

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