360 is sucking more than normal and I can't get any embedded sounds to work, so here is a link to the audio

Pipsy, Pipsy,
Little dog that runs around and
licks me, licks me
like a frog she jumps and her snout
hits me, hits me
in the mouth or sometimes in my eye

Mold me, mold me,
If I make you angry then you
scold me, scold me,
All I want to do is what you
told me, told me
All I'll ever want to do's for you

They said to be sensible with your small dog.
Be sure to assert you're on higher ground,
but they never stood and watched her run 'round
while she excitedly circles the room
with her feet never touching the ground

Pipsy, Pipsy,
when I leave for work I know you'll
miss me, miss me
Sometimes I'm home late, too,
so Pispy, Pipsy
Every night I'll say, "this walk's for you."

Ah, but they never stood in the house with you, love
when you blaze through all of the rooms with your tail faster than your behind!
Pipsy, Pipsy,
Little dog that runs around and licks me, licks me,
Someday I will outlive you so lick me, lick me
and every night I'll say, "this walk's for you!"

Didn't the E.U. and 48 states in the U.S. win lawsuits against you and your company, forcing IE to be separated from the O.S., and STILL your piece of shit IE software lost my blog comments responding to Arti and Tess? Your damn browser sucks criminally!

Abraham Bomba described his experience as a barber in Treblinka:

"We worked inside the gas chamber for about a week or ten days. After that they decided that we will cut their hair in the undressing barrack. [The gas chamber] was not a big room, around twelve feet by twelve feet. But in that room they pushed in a lot of women, almost one on top of another. But like I mentioned before, when we came in, we didn’t know what we were going to do. And then one of the kapos came in and said: ‘Barbers, you have to do a job to make all those women coming in believe that they are just taking a haircut and going in to take a shower, and from there they go out from this place.’ We know already that there is no way of going out from this room, because this room was the last place they went in alive, and they will never go out alive. . . We were waiting there until the transport came in. Women with children pushed in to that place. We the barbers started to cut their hair, and some of them—I would say all of them—some of them knew already what was going to happen to them. We tried to do the best we could—to be the most human we could. . ."

"[The women] were undressed, naked, without clothes, without anything else—completely naked. All the women and all the children, because they came from the undressing barrack—the barrack before going into the gas chamber—where they had undressed themselves. . . .I felt that. . . I got to do what they told be, to cut their hair in a way that it looked like the barber was doing his job for a woman, and I set out to give them both, to take off as much hair as I could, because they needed women’s hair to be transported to Germany. We didn’t [shave them]. We just cut their hair and made believe they were getting a nice haircut. . . In one day there was about, I would say, going into that place between sixty and seventy women in the same room at one time. After we were finished with this party, another party came in, and there were about 140, 150 women. They were all already taken care of, and they told us to leave the gas chamber for a few minutes, about five minutes, when they put in the gas and chocked them to death. . . ."

"We waited outside the gas chamber and on the other side. On this side the women went in and on the other side was a group of working people who took out the dead bodies—some of them not exactly dead. They took them out, and in two minutes—in one minute—everything was clear. It was clean to take in the other party of women and do the same thing they did to the first one. Most of them had long hair—some had short hair. What we had to do was chop off the hair; like I mentioned, the Germans needed the hair for their purposes."

"A friend of mine worked as a barber—he was a good barber in my hometown—when his wife and his sister came into the gas chamber. . . I can’t. It’s too horrible. Please."

[At Lanzmann’s urging he continues, and the translators relates what Bomba said:] "They tried to talk to him . . . . [He] could not tell them this was the last time they stay alive, because behind them was the German Nazis, SS men, and [he] knew that if [he] said a word, not only the wife and the woman, who were dead already, but also [he] would share the same thing with them. In a way, [he] tried to do the best for them, with a second longer, a minute longer, just to hug them and kiss them, because [he] knew they would never see them again."

(from http://www.uiowa.edu/~c032150/shoah.html)

Click here or here for the astonishingly beautiful midi.

A winter's day
in a rainy February
I am alone,
looking through the kitchen, heating up some pho (white man's pronunciation)
With some frozen veggies that I thought would go.
Where is our wok?!
Where is our frying pan?!

We bought a house--
Signed documents a'mighty!
Then you flew south of L.A.
We've bought hazard insurance, the title deed's arranged.
Its finding things and cooking I disdain!
Where is our wok?!
Where is our frying pan?!

Not in the stove!
But I've seen the wok before.
It's sleeping in my memory.
It's not that I've forgotten, the knowledge simply died.
I never learn, my spouse often has cried!
Where is our wok?!
Where is our frying pan?!

I have a cold,
and no remedies to protect me.
I am shielded from society,
Hiding in my room, orgizationally doomed
I stress no one but no one cooks for me.
Where is our wok?!
Where is our frying pan?!

And my clothes have new stains,
And no baby ever cries.