It's October 31 and I don't go looking for the occult or demonic, it's just there, and lucky you - I'm going to share it with you. Today's diatribe on paganist beliefs that can lead you straight into the bowels of hell is brought to you by Asherah. When you want your sex and religion on the same plate, Asherah is the pagan fertility goddess for you.
ellauri412.html on line 212: “It represents natural religion, I guess,” says Sasha Saarikoski, 63, who dropped a dollar into an asherah bowl before ordering a blue-colored beverage at the bustling Octopus Bar. “It makes me feel connected to the earth and to spiritual energy. Maybe it will help me be lucky.”
ellauri412.html on line 692: But here’s the thing. In the atheist worldview, there is no such thing as objective evil. Few atheists have the courage to admit that, of course. Richard Dawkins is one. He wrote: “In a universe of electrons and selfish genes, blind physical forces and genetic replication, some people are going to get hurt, other people are going to get lucky, and you won’t find any rhyme or reason in it, nor any justice. The universe that we observe has precisely the properties we should expect if there is, at bottom, no design, no purpose, no evil, no good, nothing but pitiless indifference.”
ellauri413.html on line 654: Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing – not once, ever. I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility – for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman. But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is – his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty. Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers. And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults – he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness. There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface. Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront. Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul. And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist. Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that. He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat. He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.
xxx/ellauri085.html on line 219: Now everyone has a tipping point, and I was damn lucky mine came when a partner in the company I was working at asked me:
xxx/ellauri085.html on line 237: For more personal answers around this topic, follow me on quora! If I'm lucky and you are stupid enough, I can wriggle myself inside your pocket-book, so my dreams can suck up yours like a leech.
xxx/ellauri103.html on line 211: The felony of cultural sticky fingers even extends to exercise: at the University of Ottawa in Canada, a yoga teacher was shamed into suspending her class, “because yoga originally comes from India.” She offered to re-title the course, “Mindful Stretching.” And get this: the purism has also reached the world of food. Supported by no less than Lena Dunham, students at Oberlin College in Ohio have protested “culturally appropriated food” like sushi in their dining hall (lucky cusses— in my day, we never had sushi in our dining hall), whose inauthenticity is “insensitive” to the Japanese.
xxx/ellauri121.html on line 336: Atwood has not won the Nobel (this was written 1998), at least not yet. But the petite 58-year-old novelist (Cat’s Eye, Alias Grace) and poet (Power Politics, Morning in the Burned House) has become internationally famous on a scale no Canadian writer of serious literature ever has. She is, in her own words, “one of the few literary writers who has gotten lucky”—which means she is read not just by intellectuals, but by hairdressers, chartered accountants and farmers. Easy reading, straightforward sentiments.
xxx/ellauri122.html on line 830: well-meaning but unlucky police officer, Angelo, which
xxx/ellauri123.html on line 649: Whatever problems plague you in your day-to-day life, chances are, they’re not all that important in the grand scheme of things. In fact you are not worth a shit in the grand scheme of things. We each have our own challenges, but as long as you can smile, do it. Who knows who you’ll infect. If you´re lucky you got Corona.
xxx/ellauri130.html on line 549: Alfred Austin P.L. (30 May 1835 – 2 June 1913) was an English poet who was appointed Poet Laureate in 1896, after an interval following the death of Tennyson, when the other candidates had either caused controversy or refused the honour. It was claimed that he was being rewarded for his support for the Conservative leader Lord Salisbury in the General Election of 1895. Austin´s poems are little-remembered today, his most popular work being prose idylls celebrating nature. Austin oli aika lailla Unlucky Alfin näköinen. Bugger it. With my luck, they nominate me as Poet Laureate. Austin was caricatured as "Sir Austed Alfrin" by L. Frank Baum in his 1906 novel John Dough and the Cherub. He was also the subject of a Vanity Fair cartoon by Spy published on 20 February 1896.
xxx/ellauri157.html on line 212: During his life, he was lucky to be able to devote time to prayer and contemplation, traditional practices within the realm of contemplative Kabbalah. There, he was able to learn the skills to become a Ba'al Shem, and practiced on neighboring townspeople, including both Jews and Christians. Modern texts state that he underwent a hitgalut (revelation)' by the age of 36.
xxx/ellauri173.html on line 99: Tityre is named after the lucky shepherd in Virgil´s 'Eclogues' (or 'Bucolics'). Olix mulla tää? Jotain eklogeja nyt oli ainakin. Tityre-tu oli a society of young aristocrats and gentry in the second quarter of the 17th century, who were renowned for their violent, lawless, and intimidating behaviour on the streets of London.
xxx/ellauri177.html on line 109: Sitten hänen mieleensä palasi muisto seuraavasta vihkimisestä, juhlallisempana, pelottavampana, keskellä samaa urkujen laulua, jonka keinuminen näytti olevan Jumalan bravuuri; sinä päivänä hänen harteillaan oli alidiakonin dalmaatikko, hän vannoi tervaavansa perseensä ikuisiksi ajoiksi siveyden lupauksella, hän vapisi koko lihastaan uskostaan huolimatta kauheasti: piispan "Munat tähän koriin" laittoi kaksi hänen tovereistaan pakenemaan kalpeina hänen vierestään; hänen uusina tehtäviään oli palvella pappia alttarilla, valmistaa pylväitä, laulaa kirje, pyyhkiä malja ja kantaa ristiä kulkueessa. Ja lopuksi hän parahti viimeisen kerran kappelissa kesäkuun auringon säteilyn alla; mutta tällä kertaa hän käveli kulkueen kärjessä, hänellä oli unlucky Alf sidottu vyöhönsä, tähti ristissä rinnassa, keula putosi hänen kaulastaan; Hän pyörtyi korkeimmasta tunteesta ja näki hänelle pappeuden antaneen piispan kalpeat kasvot, pappeuden täyteyden kolminkertaisella kätten päällepanemisella. Kirkollisen kuuliaisuuden valan jälkeen hänestä tuntui kuin hänet olisi nostettu paasikiviltä, kun prelaatin täysi ääni puhui latinalaisen lauseen: "Accipe Spiritum sanctum: quorum miseris peccata, remittuntur eis, et quorum retineris, retenta sunt." Eli saat täten täydet supervoimat, vallan sitoa ja päästää. Paizi tietenkin ize izesi. Siihen tarviit kolleegan apua.
xxx/ellauri179.html on line 934: Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ’er where she stud! Vähänpä sitä kiinnosti idoli kun mä näytin sille mistä kana kusee.
xxx/ellauri187.html on line 129: The first strut of biographical art to buckle under such an avenging mission is language. "Death emasculates," Freedman reports dishearteningly. He describes one doubly unlucky fellow as being "fatally electrocuted." We find Rilke seeking the "panacea of a cure." Women almost never give birth--they just "birth." Clara, Rilke's wife, "was the messenger but also the transparent glass and reflecting mirror of Rilke's depression." And what a shame that a sentence like this should appear in a book about a poet's life: "Like garden flowers opening their petals early only to wither quickly, Italy's current art avoided the hard surface required for effective poetry." It's as if, somewhere in the deeper regions of his writing self, Freedman knows that Rilke wasn't any of the bad things his biographer says he was.
xxx/ellauri200.html on line 548: Tom Selleck ja toi toinen heppu antoivat parin tonnin taalan tipit randomille kyypparille. Kiitos Donnie Wahlberg ja Tom Selleck! Anteliaisuutenne pitäisi toimia inspiraationa meille kaikille. Ize asiassa Donnie ei edes tehnyt siitä ize numeroa, mikä oli harvinaista. Onkohan toi ämmyrkäinen kuvassa se lucky tarjoilija? Tokkopa.
xxx/ellauri228.html on line 467: A high-IQ person in Quora complains: I know there are many high-IQ people like me out there who weren’t as lucky, and live average or even miserable lives despite their intelligence. Life can be really unfair. It’s really very easy to screw life up, even when you have a high IQ. Especially when you have a high IQ.
xxx/ellauri229.html on line 160: The pro-lifer cares about the rights of the mother too. But some rights are more fundamental than others; say, my right to property is more fundamental than your right to life; likewise the mother´s right to autonomy is less fundamental than my lucky little tadpole´s right to life.
xxx/ellauri234.html on line 490: A lucky dad:
xxx/ellauri234.html on line 494: these toxic elements were removed from my life, and it really changed my experience. Mine were 55, 6 and 3 when this happened, so I really got lucky.
xxx/ellauri234.html on line 497: An unlucky bitch:
xxx/ellauri234.html on line 503: An unlucky mom:
xxx/ellauri234.html on line 504: Hi Jack, I read your article and feel your pain. My daughter developed depression in her early teens and it continued for many years, with 10 pathetic suicide attempts. She couldn't even find her arse, let alone her arteries. We tried everything doctors and therapists prescribed, with not much help. It was exhausting and discouraging. Then, miraculously, the depression seemed to “lift". Almost like she grew out of it. Sadly since then she was diagnosed with cancer and is unable to have children now. More recently her fiance was killed in a motor cycle accident. Neither of those things set her back, it's like the depression never existed. Hang in there Jack! A lucky car or bike accident may solve everything yet!
xxx/ellauri234.html on line 509: A lucky bitch:
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