Potentates, prelates and protuberates and pale ale drinkers everywhere, please be seated and at ease if you will. This is only going to take a few minutes. And the last thing I intend to do is bore you or any of your friends or relatives.
Rather, be aware powers recently and imexplicably granted to me give me the ability to penetrate your consciousness, even if you didn't know you had one. Because I can at any time essentially be one with you the only challenge becomes to avoid reckless exploitation of my affinity for thinking inside your thoughts.
Trust me, I'm pretty good at this. I'm wise enough to realize not everyone is psychologically endowed. If you're given this window on reality you want to guard against using it to the disadvantage of any living anthropoid, beast, plant or plastic product, regardless of order, odor or hair style.
Members of The Tribe of the Pulse (loose) share in common many primary characteristics, including cyber dexterity, unfathomable vanity and basic typing skills. That any of you have found your way in here today bears immediate testimony to the broad vapidity of what was once known as French Culture and/or the weather in your zip code, which we can assume is probably shitty. If you can't go outdoors because it's icy and you can't watch television because it drains all of your soul and personal energy, you have to come here as it has proven to be traditionally north of New York, as they should say.
This web site makes sense when nothing else does, and it rarely does. Like Drudge, Farrar and Winnebago, it offers shelter for the brain when the rain can't explain the deranged on the range of what once was a page.
If where you live is anything like York, Ontario or even North York or any of the Yorks, old and new, a holiday pint to you from the Pulse o' da Yule, fool that he was prior to possession of post molecular reaching. Here's listenin' to ya.
O.L. Pulseloose
Dec. 26, 2005