Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.

Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.

Tuesday, February 11, 2003

YOU, go to your room.

YOU, Time Out. Now.

YOU, lighten up.

YOU play nice. Don't make me come over there.

YOU, put down the lighter fluid and step away from the grill.

YOU are NOT taking that into your room. Put it up.

YOU ... well, I don't know WHAT you're doing, but stop it this minute.

I heard that. YOU go to your room, too.

YOU need to step away from the computer. Take a dandelion break.

YOU need more coffee.

YOU need a reality check. Yours bounced.

I don't care if SHE said you could, YOU can't. Face in the corner.

What the hell do YOU think you're doing with those scissors?

YOU go play in the microwave.

YOU, stop instigating. We've got enough of that already.

YOU, get a girlfriend.

YOU stop leaning on your elbow.

YOU stop trying to nuke the cats.

YOU sit down and stop walking on your damned ankle.

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