Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
Delete me!
- Thread starter Rowan Sjet
- Start date
She's safe, just like I promised. She's all set to marry Norrington, just like she promised. And you get to die for her, just like you promised. So we're all men of our word really... except for, of course, Elizabeth, who is in fact, a woman.
if at first you don't succeed then give up
100 years ago, a satellite detected an object under the sands of the Great Desert.
An expedition was sent.
An ancient starship, buried in the sand. Deep inside the ruin was a single stone that would change the course of our history forever.
On the stone was etched a galactic map
and a single word more ancient than the clans themselves:
Hiigara.
Our home.
An expedition was sent.
An ancient starship, buried in the sand. Deep inside the ruin was a single stone that would change the course of our history forever.
On the stone was etched a galactic map
and a single word more ancient than the clans themselves:
Hiigara.
Our home.
Son of a beach!
Let's show this prehistoric bitch how we do things downtown.
Flash...ahh ahhh! He'll save every one of usss!!!
More than Eleven, Thirty-Seven!
Right now, poised at the edge of the galaxy, Emperor Zurg has been secretly building a weapon with the destructive capacity to annihilate an entire planet! I alone have information that reveals this weapon's only weakness. And you, my friend, are responsible for delaying my rendezvous with Star Command!
At ease, men. I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country...Men, the stuff we heard about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the war, was a lot of horsedung. Americans traditionally love to fight. All real Americans love the sting of battle. When you were kids you all love the sting of battle. When you were kids you all admired the champion marble player, the fastest runner, the big league ballplayers, the toughest boxers. Americans love a winner and do not tolerate a loser. Americans play to win all the time. I wouldn't give a hoot in hell for a man who lost and laughed. That's why Americans have never lost, and will never lose a war, for the very thought of losing is hateful to Americans.
An army is a team. It lives, sleeps, eats, fights as a team. This individuality stuff is a lot of crap. The bilious bastards who wrote that stuff about individuality for the Saturday Evening Post don't know any more about real battle then they do about a sock full of silt. We have the finest food, equipment, the best spirit and men. I pity those poor bastards we're going against--by God, I do. We won't just shoot the bastards. We're going to cut out their living guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks. We're going to murder those lousy Hun bastards by the bushel. Many of you boys are wondering whether you'll chicken out under fire. Don't worry about it; I can assure you you will all do your duty. The Nazis are the enemy. Wade into them and spill their blood. Shoot them in the belly.
When you stick your hand into a bunch of goo that a moment before was your best friend's face...you'll know what to do. There's another thing I want you to remember. I don't want to get any messages saying: "We are holding our position." We're not holding anything. Let the Hun do that. We are advancing constantly and are not interested in holding anything, except onto the enemy. We're going to hold on to him by the nose and kick him in the ass. We'll kick the hell out of him all the time. We'll go through them like crap through a goose. There's one thing you men will be able to say when you get home. You may all thank God for it. Thirty years from now, when you are sitting around the fireside with your grandson on your knee and he asks what you did in the great Word War II, you won't have to say, "I shoveled shit in Louisiana." All right--now you sonsuvbitiches know how I feel. I will be proud to lead you wonderful guys into battle anytime, anywhere
An army is a team. It lives, sleeps, eats, fights as a team. This individuality stuff is a lot of crap. The bilious bastards who wrote that stuff about individuality for the Saturday Evening Post don't know any more about real battle then they do about a sock full of silt. We have the finest food, equipment, the best spirit and men. I pity those poor bastards we're going against--by God, I do. We won't just shoot the bastards. We're going to cut out their living guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks. We're going to murder those lousy Hun bastards by the bushel. Many of you boys are wondering whether you'll chicken out under fire. Don't worry about it; I can assure you you will all do your duty. The Nazis are the enemy. Wade into them and spill their blood. Shoot them in the belly.
When you stick your hand into a bunch of goo that a moment before was your best friend's face...you'll know what to do. There's another thing I want you to remember. I don't want to get any messages saying: "We are holding our position." We're not holding anything. Let the Hun do that. We are advancing constantly and are not interested in holding anything, except onto the enemy. We're going to hold on to him by the nose and kick him in the ass. We'll kick the hell out of him all the time. We'll go through them like crap through a goose. There's one thing you men will be able to say when you get home. You may all thank God for it. Thirty years from now, when you are sitting around the fireside with your grandson on your knee and he asks what you did in the great Word War II, you won't have to say, "I shoveled shit in Louisiana." All right--now you sonsuvbitiches know how I feel. I will be proud to lead you wonderful guys into battle anytime, anywhere
