On Wed, 28 Jun 2006 10:08:17 GMT, Bookman <thebookman@kc.rr.comNULL> wrote:

On Tue, 27 Jun 2006 13:51:41 GMT, www.peaceinspace.com <truth@r.us>
wrote:

On Tue, 27 Jun 2006 09:41:52 GMT, Bookman <thebookman@kc.rr.comNULL> wrote:

On Mon, 26 Jun 2006 13:23:41 GMT, www.peaceinspace.com <truth@r.us>
wrote:

Awh, bookie, you're pissed off.

Ci9ting someone else's froggery of you as 'evidence' that I am "pissed
off" is a logical fallacy, Alexa.  

False assumption.

Nope.  Factual evaluation, since you responded to someone frogging
you, but called them "bookie" as though they were me.  Logical fallacy
on your part, Alexa.  QED.  

At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow,
rhythmical chant of 'B-B! ...B-B!' -- over and over again, very slowly, with
a long pause between the first 'B' and the second-a heavy, murmurous sound,
somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the
stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-toms. For perhaps as much as
thirty seconds they kept it up. It was a refrain that was often heard in
moments of overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the wisdom
and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was an act of self-hypnosis, a
deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise. Winston's
entrails seemed to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help
sharing in the general delirium, but this sub-human chanting of 'B-B!
...B-B!' always filled him with horror. Of course he chanted with the rest:
it was impossible to do otherwise. To dissemble your feelings, to control
your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction.
But there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the expression of
his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him. And it was exactly at this
moment that the significant thing happened -- if, indeed, it did happen. 

ROFLMAO, 

Hebephrenic laughter noted.  

pussy

Making a call for a lesbian lover, since you've failed so badly in
your hetero relationships, Alexa?  

Momentarily he caught O'Brien's eye. O'Brien had stood up. He had taken off
his spectacles and was in the act of resettling them on his nose with his
characteristic gesture. But there was a fraction of a second when their eyes
met, and for as long as it took to happen Winston knew-yes, he knew!-that
O'Brien was thinking the same thing as himself. An unmistakable message had
passed. It was as though their two minds had opened and the thoughts were
flowing from one into the other through their eyes. 'I am with you,' O'Brien
seemed to be saying to him. 'I know precisely what you are feeling. I know
all about your contempt, your hatred, your disgust. But don't worry, I am on
your side!' And then the flash of intelligence was gone, and O'Brien's face
was as inscrutable as everybody else's. 

Note: No answer.  

That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had happened. Such
incidents never had any sequel. All that they did was to keep alive in him
the belief, or hope, that others besides himself were the enemies of the
Party. Perhaps the rumours of vast underground conspiracies were true after
all -- perhaps the Brotherhood really existed! It was impossible, in spite
of the endless arrests and confessions and executions, to be sure that the
Brotherhood was not simply a myth. Some days he believed in it, some days
not. There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might mean anything
or nothing: snatches of overheard conversation, faint scribbles on lavatory
walls -- once, even, when two strangers met, a small movement of the hand
which had looked as though it might be a signal of recognition. It was all
guesswork: very likely he had imagined everything. He had gone back to his
cubicle without looking at O'Brien again. The idea of following up their
momentary contact hardly crossed his mind. It would have been inconceivably
dangerous even if he had known how to set about doing it. For a second, two
seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal glance, and that was the end of the
story. But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in
which one had to live. 

On Mon, 26 Jun 2006 18:59:07 +0545, "www.peaceinspace.com"
<up-chuck-inspiring-hairy-ass-monger.net@sci.psychology.voluminous.puddin.pie>
wrote:

www.peaceinspace.com <truth@r.us>, the plump tramp and three-legged
cocoa-shunter who likes odious intimate relations with muskrats, and
whose partner is a kerb crawler with a frightful love canal, wrote in
<1lmv92hr0hns6144cm3m3oup7et44qsr8o@4ax.com>:  

Zinc-plated sister-of-charity with contagious southern smile and
gigantic honkers needs screwed up ivan the terrible for extensive
dick-drinking. Mail me at <truth@r.us>

ESL!