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Post by howard lee on Nov 11, 2023 9:41:35 GMT -5
Didn’t Ralph Kramden belong to a lodge called The Mystic Buffaloes?
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Post by drlj on Nov 11, 2023 10:03:55 GMT -5
Didn’t Ralph Kramden belong to a lodge called The Mystic Buffaloes? It’s not necessary to ruin every joke I make. You can let a one slide every now and then.🙄 If they didn’t belong to the Mystic Buffalo Lodge, perhaps one should be started. Todd can be The Supreme Bison for the first 3 years. After that, we hold elections. Dues will buy beer. We will need a treasurer. I think it’s best not to trust me to do it.
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Post by howard lee on Nov 11, 2023 10:37:09 GMT -5
It’s not necessary to ruin every joke I make. You can let a one slide every now and then.🙄 If they didn’t belong to the Mystic Buffalo Lodge, perhaps one should be started. Todd can be The Supreme Bison for the first 3 years. After that, we hold elections. Dues will buy beer. We will need a treasurer. I think it’s best not to trust me to do it.
My sincere apologies. It won't happen again.
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Post by drlj on Nov 11, 2023 10:46:16 GMT -5
It’s not necessary to ruin every joke I make. You can let a one slide every now and then.🙄 If they didn’t belong to the Mystic Buffalo Lodge, perhaps one should be started. Todd can be The Supreme Bison for the first 3 years. After that, we hold elections. Dues will buy beer. We will need a treasurer. I think it’s best not to trust me to do it. My sincere apologies. It won't happen again.
All in fun, Howard. Apologies are not wanted, needed, or expected. Jokes are jokes. Some are good, some are not. Apologize again and you are out of the will. 🥸🥸🥸
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Post by Russell Letson on Nov 11, 2023 12:28:31 GMT -5
Bliss isn't bliss. Maybe a world of euphoria is possible, and might even sound good to some folks. But from my perspective, I've observed that there is very little joy to be experienced in life that isn't so by contrast to its alternative. From the last half of Robert Frost's "To Earthward": Now no joy but lacks salt, That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault; I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove. When stiff and sore and scarred I take away my hand From leaning on it hard In grass and sand, The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength To feel the earth as rough To all my length. In my mind, this poem is always paired with the ending of "Birches": I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
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