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IMHO they spelled it wrong. Should be SENSE.

That must have hurt during the decal heat transfer. I would have tucked my necklace in.

Yep notice the head dress feathers covering his necklace.

Yeah, that face it America is definitely photoshopped. And the first one, the I in IF is not on his shirt, it's on the rifle receiver.

I found this online, so I think it's Photoshopped. Also, no wrinkles in the lettering on either meme:

...... no I didn't. ........... and you can't prove otherwise

That's a Maple Leaf Pard.

OMGNO!,NO!,NOOOOOoooooooooooooo ...... you just HAD to say that, didn't you

That's only funny if you've never done it yourself...and just never you mind how I know.

He forgot the 20 feet of fallopian tube.

Either way, that's a nice set of bowsers.

IR -InfaRed PRC - when you say it you pronounce it this PRC= Prick E7= Rank

I'm going with screenshot.

Took the Honda Shadow out for a ride today... I like to ride every month of the year, never need to worry about flat batteries that way... And Yes I'm in Canada... Jabez Cowboy

Boy that would make for a great Christmas present.

LOL you had to know that was comin' Wallaby

Hey look! Alpo, I found it! Angus

they did come with a V8,on occasion, and the above examples certainly did ....... ..... but mostly a straight 6; and a 3 speed column shift, or 4-on-the-floor manual transmission, in some cases a tri-matic auto transimssion. Mostly for delivery and/or tradesmen, but also as a surfing wagon with a mattress in the back and board racks on the roof. Most had a bench seats although the examples above probably had bucket seats. Great as a grocery getter, but useless as a family conveyance. Holden was a General Motors subsidiary. GMH

I am trying , without success , to figure out what it reminds me of (CAR) , maybe make it L/H drive and poke a V8 in it (BIG BLOCK) could be a fun grocery getter CB

So is every other living creature on earth, a great many plants, and more than a few rocks, dust, and sand.

Two questions: What is "PLQ"? What is the new rank? "Special Corporal"? "Leaf Corporal"? "Special Chevron Corporal"? Angus

Dear Arm & Hammer, As your customer I would greatly appreciate in the future if you could affix warnings or perhaps bold letters depicting the words "MENTHOL" on the bottle of your "EXTRA STRENGTH PLUS" sinus rinse. As a long time customer of your saline washes, I was left to assume that "EXTRA STRENGTH PLUS" referred to the sodium level in the saline spray. I stand corrected in my assumption. It actually means SPICY ACID BATH OF NOSTRIL LAVA. This product set off an unexpected chain of events which led me to quite literally; shit my pants. As with prior sinus rinses I inserted the nozzle into my nostril, tilted my head back, and began to spray the saline wash into my nose letting it work it's way through my sinus canals. Suddenly, with a thunderous vengeance, the menthol activated. It felt like I had snorted pure wasabi. My whole head began to burn like a prostitute trying to enter the Vatican. I felt burning in places I had never felt sensations before. It was so hot, my third eye began to water. I can only describe it as my "inside face" had caught on fire. Meanwhile my teeth, armpits, and groin suddenly felt freezing cold. Parts of body began to tingle, as if my Spidey Sense was warning me that the worst was still yet to come. This sudden combination of sensations prohibited me from leaning forward to let it drain from my nose into the sink. Instead, it began to run down the back of my throat sending me into an uncontrollable coughing fit, ultimately leading me to lose control of my rectal retention. Thus removing my ability to govern self control over my sphincter - which regrettably induced an episode of what I'd like to call "unexpected wet farts of despair." I'd estimate, I coughed five times in total, whilst simultaneously farting each time. Each one sounding exactly like air escaping a balloons blow hole being pinched and spread apart. Crying out in a high pitched whine mimicking someone whispering the word "Whhhhhhhyyyyyyyy?" in a really really sad voice. Take note Arm & Hammer: "Half blind, on fire, and shitting your pants," were not mentioned in potential side effects. You may want to add that for legal purposes. I implore your marketing and design department to have the word "VERY SPICY" printed on the front of the label. Along with "MAY SHIT PANTS." Your loyal customer, Sean

I want one!

TWO MENS' GIFTS "I knew you were coming." The man was tall, tanned, his face weathered, as was his bald head. A few of the Brethren shaved their scalps into the monastic tonsure. The Abbott had no need; his hairline began to recede in his nineteenth year, and was only just slowing its retreat, now that he had nought but a band around the back of his head and over his ears. His visitor was silent; his tread had not been heard, not from the moment he'd dismounted. The Abbott turned, smiled a little, advanced and thrust out his hand. The pale eyed Sheriff gripped it: the two men held their grip a moment longer than was required, as each one looked deep into the other's soul. "Have a seat," the Abbott said, gesturing: he and the Sheriff sat. Watered wine was brought, decanted from a locally fired clay pitcher, into cut-glass tumblers -- a gift, the Sheriff knew, from the grateful wife of a successful businessman, after the White Sisters tended their family when the plague of measles swept through. The Abbott waited: he wore his patience the way he wore a cloak; just as silence cascaded from the Sheriff, patience rolled off the Abbott, for both men had seen much of the world, and much of what they'd seen, both together, and in their separate lives, were things they wished they'd never experienced. A light meal was brought in and laid before the pair. They ate in silence; a discreet watcher slipped in, silent on bare feet, refilled their tumblers, withdrew discreetly. "You had a bad one." Linn looked up, considered, then nodded, once. "I understand you were in the middle of the situation." "Turned out that way." Linn's voice was quiet, almost reluctant. "You knew them." "Most of 'em." "You could have stood back and let Digger handle the dead." Linn set his tumbler on the table, turned it slowly with just the tips of his thumb and fingers. "No," he finally said. "No, I knew 'em. 'Twas best they had someone they knew ... warn't much family left to ... tend 'em." "How many men could have done that, Linn?" Linn raised his eyes but made no other move. "How many other men would have taken one look and wet themselves and then run in panic just to see it?" Linn's expression was bleak, memories looking out through his pale eyes like ghosts crowding behind the window of an abandoned building. "You remember ..." The Abbott stopped, considered: he picked up a slice of sourdough, buttered it, then folded it and broke it in two, handed half to the Sheriff. The Abbott pinched two fingers into the salt cellar and sprinkled a little salt on his half: it was a newly acquired salt, evaporated from ocean water, and traded for by his quartermaster. Linn took the bread and hesitated, waited until the Abbott garnished his half, then both men raised theirs and took a bite. "Damn that War," Linn finally said. The Abbott nodded. "I have, many times," he agreed. Linn's expression was haunted; the Abbott had seen this before -- good men, strong men who'd lived their lives after the War, but when they wore a particular look, when they stared through the wall at something a thousand miles away, it generally meant a memory had arisen and enveloped their soul, almost like an invisible fog surrounding the sufferer. Linn looked at the Abbott. "I reckon you're right," he finally said. "Oh?" The Abbott's reply was carefully neutral. "No normal man could have done what I did." The Abbott nodded slowly, eyes half-lidded. It did not surprise the Sheriff in the least little bit that his boon companion from back during that damned War knew exactly what had happened, what Linn had done, the hell this pale eyed old campaigner had seen yet again. Word of misfortune and sorrow travels fast, and the Abbott took pains to have information brought to him. Linn suspected that was another result of the Abbott's having survived that damned War. "I thought I'd buried it," Linn said softly, his fingertips restless on the smooth wood tabletop. "I thought all those hard memories were long ... not forgotten, but ... I'd thought there was enough years' worth of dirt and leaf-litter fell on 'em to bury 'em." "And then they came rip-roarin' out of their six foot deep grave and all the rocks you'd piled on top to keep 'em buried." "That," Linn agreed quietly, "is exactly what happened." The Abbott nodded slowly, took a sip of his cool wine. "You were needed," the Abbott said finally. "Reckon so." "How many family was left to tend the needfuls?" "Just one ... just one girl, and her not half Sarah's age." The Abbott shook his head. "Dear God," he whispered. "Has she any family elsewhere?" Linn nodded. "Back East. Sent 'em a telegram. Sean and Daisy took her in, Daisy said she needed another woman t' keep all those wild Irishmen in line!" The Abbott chuckled, shook his head. "Sean is an impressive man," he said softly, "but Daisy is more than his match!" The Sheriff chuckled, nodded: the Abbott did not miss the smile that escaped the man's careful reserve. "I seem to remember hearing about her scattering strong men before her, and her armed with a wooden spoon!" Linn laughed this time, a good honest laugh: the black cloud hovering over him was shattered by now, and gone: "You should have seen it," Linn affirmed, "men that weren't afraid of the Devil himself, scatterin' like leaves before the williwaw!" "Heaven keep me safe from a woman's temper," the Abbott intoned in a gentle voice: Abbott and Sheriff both raised their glasses in hearty agreement, drank. "You went back into the Church after the War," Linn said thoughtfully. "Atonement?" "Healing," came the reply: "I went back to my New Orleans seminary, then I went West and found I was still needed." He looked at the Sheriff. "You were needed too," he said, "and you still are." "Yes," Linn agreed, "but at what cost?" " 'Who heals the healer', eh?" "Yeah," Linn said, his voice suddenly husky. "Everything ... set aside everything from that damned War and I've still ... waded through ... more grief ..." "You've handled grief and loss that would last ten men their lifetimes," the Abbott agreed firmly. "You have done that. No other man could have. You were tempered like a spring in the forge of war. Evil that War was, evil those days were and terrible were those bloody days and nights, but they prepared you for all that came after!" The Abbott leaned forward, looked very directly, very intently at his pale-eyed guest. "You're still needed, Linn. You've done more good than you realize." Linn smiled with half his mouth, reached up, tapped the middle of his own forehead. "I know that here" -- tap, tap -- "but it's harder to realize it here" -- his fingers lowered to his breastbone, tapped twice more. The Abbott rose, and Linn rose with him. "Forgive me," Abbott William said, "I have services." Two old veterans of more hell than living men should know, clasped hands again: one rode away on an Appaloosa stallion, returning to where he was needed, and another man, tall, bald, helped the White Sisters tend the sufferers in their small infirmary: he would lead the faithful in prayer and in song, he would direct the operation of the Rabbitville monastery, but he never forgot that every soul that came through the gates was a guest, and he never failed to greet each one with a gentle courtesy. Two men were needed, and two men served, according to their gifts.

When she refers to someone as her next husband you can start worrying!! Schoolmarm points to me in such conversations and just says, “never again!”