Mr. Scott's Crayon Thread

so this chart has been here before but interesting they occur when they do...

Yes every time it appears to be keeling over i am one of those taking shots at it. Certainly seem to have a large supply of helium these bastards.

"In brief, my lord, we both descried
(For then I stood by Henry's side)
The Palmer mount, and outwards ride,
Upon the earl's own favourite steed:
All sheathed he was in armour bright,
And much resembled that same knight,
Subdued by you in Cotswold fight:
Lord Angus wished him speed."
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke,
A sudden light on Marmion broke:
"Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!"
He muttered; "'Twas nor fay nor ghost
I met upon the moonlight wold,
But living man of earthly mould.
O dotage blind and gross!
Had I but fought as wont, one thrust
Had laid De Wilton in the dust,
My path no more to cross.
How stand we now?—he told his tale
To Douglas; and with some avail;
'Twas therefore gloomed his rugged brow.
Will Surrey dare to entertain,
'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain?
Small risk of that, I trow.
Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun;
Must separate Constance from the nun -
Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive!
A Palmer too!—no wonder why
I felt rebuked beneath his eye:
I might have known there was but one
Whose look could quell Lord Marmion."

Where's the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land? - Marmion
The stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land.
The deer across their greensward bound
Thro' shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry Homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath-hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
Floats thro' their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.
The Cottage Homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes.
Thro' glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath the eaves.
The free, fair Homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!

Scott, I hope you will reconsider backing out. In so many of the battles I have studied, researched, read about -- the battles weren't won by the masses doing what they were trained to do. They were won by a few men who went beyond training and duty. We are now in a battle of ideas and resolve. You are one of those that can make a difference. Think about it.

I will still be around, just contributing less. FF has become the refuge of scams, trolls, frauds, and abusive and offensive people. Admin seems unwilling or unable to clean it up.

“If you saw Atlas, the giant who holds the world on his shoulders, if you saw that he stood, blood running down his chest, his knees buckling, his arms trembling but still trying to hold the world aloft with the last of his strength, and the greater his effort the heavier the world bore down upon his shoulders - What would you tell him?"

I…don't know. What…could he do? What would you tell him?"

To shrug.”
― Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

Never argue with an idiot. They will only bring you down to their level and beat you with experience.”
― George Carlin

George is right but sometimes no uninjured space left on the lip to bite.

I think they are unable to clean it up as it appears to me posters represent a cross section of what is going on around the world.

I would tell Atlas nothing as I know he is one who will stand firm until his last dying breath and is crushed. You and I both know that at some point in time that will happen.

As to idiots (and the left) -- They must be unconditionally and completely defeated. Present facts and truth. When all facts are presented and it starts becoming a simple pissing contest - leave. Scott, you have a unusual grasp of history, political savvy and understanding of human nature -- you are needed at the front battle line.

To my small circle of friends at FF: Too often we become totally disgusted watching our countries, their values, things that made us what we are, and our military trashed and walk away. For the sake these things, and our family's we simply can't turn away. PERIOD!

looks like Stu might need my advice...

Tough one, but expected can put it into bag....GJ easier.

for kim

Thanks Scott ....Playing around in Ben's World

GA - Land of the 886

she has done let's see...

see GN if so inclined....

Here's the thing Jim...the factory and Twee seem to have an agenda and it is not congruent with me or trading.

There is the rub...and the reason I will probably leave.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.

Spx bat?

Alt makes more sense Scott?

Understand your point more today than yesterday. Would never ask you to violate your principles, my friend. May have a few to follow you.

sure is there....thought you be scalping 2/3 points in micro land...