Go To Heaven Now!!

[Jim Scannell]

LAWS OF GOD



1. Be a light to others. Teach the
laws of God.

2. Love everything. Do not fear
anything.

3. Be perfect. Do not doubt
yourself.

4. Be wise. Do not allow yourself to
be foolish.

5. Be truthful. Never lie.

6. Be joyous. Anything else is less
than what you are capable.

7. Be physically healthy. You are
full of life.

8. Thank God for making these laws
already true in you.





God Mantra



Thank you god for making me a teacher of teachers.

Thank you God for eliminating all fear in me so that I can now show perfect
Love for all.

Thank you God for making me perfect. You have removed all doubt.

Thank you God for making me wise. Foolishness is gone.

Thank you God for making me honest. I am truth personified.

Thank you God for giving me boundless joy.

Thank you God for making me perfectly healthy.

Thank you God for making me in your image of Yourself.

I am Your servant.


--

Jim Scannell
jscannell@wi.rr.com

The love that brings us together
is stronger than the fear that drives us apart.

[Kai]

Jim Scannell wrote:
>
> I am Your servant.

Good. Now tell me what the heck is alt.recovery.cals-tables and who created
it?

ME

[Blue Moon]

On Fri, 10 Oct 2003 07:53:42 -0500, "Jim Scannell"
<jscannell.nosp*m@wi.rr.com> wrote:

>2. ... Do not fear
>anything.
>
>3. Be perfect.

For me, these are mutually exclusive. Only when I eliminated the need
to be perfect was I able to live with myself without fear.

--
Blue Moon

[Father Joeseph Murphy O'Brian]

Jim Scannell wrote:
> LAWS OF GOD
>

<snip>

What a load of shit.

[Tommy]

"Father Joeseph Murphy O'Brian" > Jim Scannell wrote:
> > LAWS OF GOD
> >
>
> <snip>
>
> What a load of shit.

Smith Smythe
Shit shite
What's the difference

The greatest Story Ever Told.
Now, I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication,
but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing
that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out
to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that
macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that
it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with
Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little
bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little
connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment. We
went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar
then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in
order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the
hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening,

I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia
were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps bit too much, however. I had
not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By
the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble.
There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble
breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I
thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the
table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a
minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's
amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than
the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress... I got up
from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two
sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the
sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handic
apped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall
since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case,
the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife
telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagional wirecutters
is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the
normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large,
handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of
time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the
circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure
on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.

I began "The Move."For those women who may be reading this, let me take a
moment to explain "The Move."

Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when
the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur
that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make
that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn
to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones
waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same
time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in
the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that ones ass is
properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the
choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event
that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of
coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about half-way
into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that
had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids
night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had
first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by
such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so
intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex
started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated
stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch.
What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit
fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that moment of
impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on
at the other end.

To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half
crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of
vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes
precidence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your
ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill
you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not
aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My
attention was thus diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in
what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline
along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something
similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an
enormous plug of shit the consistancy of thick mud with embedded pockets of
greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way
down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of
just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it
ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of
incidence equal to the angle at which it initally hit the toilet seat.

Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occured, I was already half-way
to
sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have
always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you
get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may
be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so
sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself
on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a
high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the
puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a
significant amount of shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim
which I had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit... While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was
still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my
mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had
just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when
vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet,
though.Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now
slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also
directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway
between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not
just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles?

In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three
Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on
the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet. In the next
several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the
event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my
back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three
ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough
force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of
liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring
curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no fucking toilet
paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the
guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since
I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I
calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him
to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he
brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what
happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to
explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet
towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where
we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming
that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was
wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her
(still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight
accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close
calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or
something and just needed to being the car around so we could bolt
immediately.

Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across
the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt,
and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles
thingies) new sneakers.

And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began
to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I
would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for
the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry
ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me
that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned.

Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in
that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to
deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage
of just slightly above.

At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the
situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will
be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose. Fortunately,
commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and
have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy.
Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the
spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet
towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and
passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing
into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I
finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still
stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out
of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there
naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made
a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the
entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the
room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to
go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out,
three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing
ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up
again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to
pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's
Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any
restaurant in which I have eaten.

[Father Joeseph Murphy O'Brian]

Tommy wrote:
> "Father Joeseph Murphy O'Brian" > Jim Scannell wrote:
>>> LAWS OF GOD
>>>
>>
>> <snip>
>>
>> What a load of shit.
>
> Smith Smythe
> Shit shite
> What's the difference
>
> The greatest Story Ever Told.
> Now, I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer
> fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth.
> Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks
> ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was
> a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot
> bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday
> night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown
> wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It
> may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to
> those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment. We went
> through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot
> bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as
> possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I
> started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and
> beef were consumed that evening,
>
> I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian
> ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps bit too
> much, however. I had not really been feeling well all day, what with
> a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed
> plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on
> my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time,
> the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only
> gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table
> without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a
> minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea.
> It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far
> faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I
> digress... I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom.
> Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two
> urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against
> the back wall. One of them was a handic apped bathroom. Now, normally
> I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch
> out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock
> was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to
> stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagional wirecutters is
> having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the
> normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the
> large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because
> that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit
> too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the
> regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical
> proportions.
>
> I began "The Move."For those women who may be reading this, let me
> take a moment to explain "The Move."
>
> Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And
> when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological
> events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There
> is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the
> toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said
> toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down
> the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very
> fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless
> expulsion of shit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly
> placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the
> choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the
> event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a
> picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.
>
> I was about half-way
> into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of
> vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little
> bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I
> did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I
> would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much
> and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely
> experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with
> the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four
> plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What
> happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a
> bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that
> moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted
> from the goings-on at the other end.
>
> To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half
> crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a
> load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that
> vomiting takes precidence over shit no matter what is about to come
> slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing
> since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of
> mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the
> bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus
> diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only
> be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along
> the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something
> similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet,
> an enormous plug of shit the consistancy of thick mud with embedded
> pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I
> was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave
> was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back
> curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat
> and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle
> at which it initally hit the toilet seat.
>
> Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occured, I was already
> half-way to
> sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have
> always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but
> when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how
> limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of
> considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance
> off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you
> would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even
> though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no
> water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of
> shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now
> just collapsed upon.
>
> Now, back to the vomit... While all the shitting was going on, the
> vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed
> on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the
> macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human
> body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over.
> I was still sitting on the toilet, though.Therefore, bending over
> resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs,
> positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my
> pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my
> knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just
> pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles?
>
> In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or
> three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in
> my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by
> my feet. In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts,
> a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there
> with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced
> off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of
> about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me,
> covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while
> thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the
> shape of a toilet seat. And there was no fucking toilet paper.
>
> What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac
> to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if
> I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was
> crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would
> get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet
> paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with
> him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told
> him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening
> in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him
> to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting
> and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I
> had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.
>
> About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing
> what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I
> explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out
> words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that
> I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed
> that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to
> being the car around so we could bolt immediately.
>
> Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go
> across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new
> pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage
> around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers.
>
> And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She
> began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I
> promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to
> handle damage control for the time being. She left.
>
> The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few
> dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he
> assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be
> cleaned.
>
> Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going
> on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect
> anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's
> making minimum wage of just slightly above.
>
> At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the
> situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that
> I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
> Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and
> tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to
> make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He
> hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began
> cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my
> wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall,
> whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag
> that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished
> cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck
> in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out
> of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing
> there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I
> had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended
> to keep it that way.
>
> When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up
> the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the
> center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the
> bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all
> he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff
> were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so
> hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to
> scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by
> the front door.
>
> The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at
> Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of
> any restaurant in which I have eaten.

Bullshit.

[F.H.]

Father Joeseph Murphy O'Brian wrote:
>
> Jim Scannell wrote:
> > LAWS OF GOD
> >
>
> <snip>
>
> What a load of shit.

Smart enough to recognize a load of shit but not quite enough to keep
you from cross posting it all over the fucking place. I'm sure you made
brother Jim very happy.

[debs]

got fed up with the reception you got at alt.support.depression.manic did
you Jim

Shoulda know better....we are all nuts in there

debs

--
Earth is the insane asylum for the universe.
"Jim Scannell" <jscannell.nosp*m@wi.rr.com> wrote in message
news:HYxhb.19671$%C5.12078@twister.rdc-kc.rr.com...
> LAWS OF GOD
>
>
>
> 1. Be a light to others. Teach the
> laws of God.
>
> 2. Love everything. Do not fear
> anything.
>
> 3. Be perfect. Do not doubt
> yourself.
>
> 4. Be wise. Do not allow yourself
to
> be foolish.
>
> 5. Be truthful. Never lie.
>
> 6. Be joyous. Anything else is
less
> than what you are capable.
>
> 7. Be physically healthy. You are
> full of life.
>
> 8. Thank God for making these laws
> already true in you.
>
>
>
>
>
> God Mantra
>
>
>
> Thank you god for making me a teacher of teachers.
>
> Thank you God for eliminating all fear in me so that I can now show
perfect
> Love for all.
>
> Thank you God for making me perfect. You have removed all doubt.
>
> Thank you God for making me wise. Foolishness is gone.
>
> Thank you God for making me honest. I am truth personified.
>
> Thank you God for giving me boundless joy.
>
> Thank you God for making me perfectly healthy.
>
> Thank you God for making me in your image of Yourself.
>
> I am Your servant.
>
>
> --
>
> Jim Scannell
> jscannell@wi.rr.com
>
> The love that brings us together
> is stronger than the fear that drives us apart.
>
>