MikeLigalig.com

http://asmartrock.wordpress.com/
By N Mark Castro


The picture here is from The Thinking Class of the Philippines Facebook Page and we are reposting it here to spread the word and the show the horrific gall of Sen. Ramon “Bong” Revilla, Jr., former movie actor and currently a shameless Senator in the Republic of the Philippines who is involved in the pork barrel scandal in the Philippines.

Hmm, morag statistically unbelievable na man nga taga Balingsya na lang ang tanang buotan sa kalibotan...

Quote from: chicogon on September 12, 2013, 12:22:43 AM
The rich and the suddenly super rich!!!

To add insult to national injury, hypocrite bleeding hearts pa ra ba ang mga hinampak...

Quote from: islander on September 11, 2013, 07:56:01 PM
estorbot na naman tayo dito.

Estorbot nga estoryok
Sigi lang tuyoktuyok...

Quote from: islander on September 10, 2013, 01:47:06 PM
kanyahay ra modiretso na lang kog plan z aron mahuman dayon.

Hmm, z as in zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz? Iring jud diay...

Cuckold

Cuckold historically referred to a husband with an adulterous wife and is still often used with this meaning. In evolutionary biology, the term cuckold is also applied to males who are unwittingly investing parental effort in offspring that are not genetically their own. Cuckold derives from the cuckoo bird, alluding to the alleged habit of the female in changing its mate frequently and authentic (in some species) practice of laying its eggs in other nests within its community. --Wiki

Kanindot ipalit ani. Pero di ba kaha ta mapusilan kon mao ni atong isul-ob samtang magsuroysuroy...

He he, at first abi nakog BUOTAN NGA ASAWA...

Buotan nga sawa





Si Reynan Opada, usa ka freelance photographer, nagpatuyang og papiktyur sa sawa nga gitawag og Burmese python kay matod pa niya, di man kini mamaak o mukaon og tawo. Ang sais anyos nga sawa binuhi sa sulod sa usa ka zoo sa Loay, Bohol. (Tampo nga hulagway)
http://www.sunstar.com.ph/

Hmm, a real crime committed by a real millionaire...

Florida real estate developer James “Bob” Ward was already in a whole lot of trouble before he fatally shot his wife Diane in 2009. He was being sued by his insurance company over allegations that he had misappropriated over $20 million for personal purchases, including a $750,000 mansion and a $140,000 car. Bob Ward subsequently claimed that the stress had made Diane suicidal, and that he had accidentally shot her while attempting to prevent her from taking her own life. We’ll leave it for you to decide if this is consistent with his call to the 911 operator immediately after the shooting: “I just shot my wife. She’s dead. She’s done. I’m sorry.”

Ward was sentenced to 30 years in late 2011, despite pleas for leniency from his two adult daughters. Incredibly, his lawyers argued that Ward was the victim of “class prejudice“â€"specifically that statements made by the prosecution about the Wards’ lavish lifestyle biased the jury against him, amounting to “prosecutorial misconduct.” The appeal was roundly denied, and Ward remains in prison. -- http://listverse.com/

Hmm, yabag og tingog vs. yabag og utok?

Quote from: TUBAGBOHOL.com on September 12, 2013, 07:29:04 AM
When I was a young child, I used to imitate Ferdinand Marcos' signature. His signature inspired me to have my own difficult-to-forge signature.

What a coincidence. I did, too.

Hmm, perhaps our universities are not really performing poorly. More likely it's just that the other universities have vastly improved.

Quote from: hubag bohol on September 12, 2013, 09:26:42 AM
There is something deeply beautiful about how Mule is living. Just read through his Facebook page to see how much people admire his deliberate wanderings and his simple, poetic insights. Many of the things he says about development, the "Megatropolis," and balance sound almost prophetic. It's especially captivating to hear him talk about his way of life as a place in and of itself. "These mules and the way that we are living is a place. It's got its own magic, there's no doubt about it. We are protected and guided. I'm out there on the side of the road, with cars coming at us, and there is something protecting and guiding us. This place has got its rules. You only take what you need, and you give your hope and your faith to this place. It's a great place to be."

Something deeply beautiful, indeed. What an enviable way of life...

Mule grew up in suburbia, just south of San Francisco, and spent his childhood exploring the orchard fields of Los Altos, orchard fields that were long ago replaced with homes and offices for technology giants. He's 65 years old. He's been wandering with his mules for 29 years, and doesn’t like what he has seen change in that time. He will eventually make his way down to San Diego in January for his court date, but he’s in no rush. He’ll make new friends along the way, and will probably butt heads with police along the way, too. As Mule likes to put it, “We live everywhere and aren’t going anywhere.”

There's a man wandering California with three mules, and a website, collecting Likes along the way.

But I see it differently. Not everyone will be so lucky as to stumble into Mule like I did, to share a brief but powerful encounter with a man who is living his life in a way that makes you ask yourself big questions about public and private space, freedom, and balance. But they can easily stumble onto his website and his Facebook page through the power of Shares and Likes to sample his message.

While he was detained in the psychiatric facility, he handwrote a description of his arrest. When McDonald visited him, Mule gave the note to McDonald to photograph and post on Facebook, so that he could share what he had happened. The note, which is full of grammar mistakes, concludes: “We had the right to be on US101 therefore the order was unlawful we had the duty of a citizen in a free country to disobey an unlawful order and suffer the consequences JAIL.” Without making too grandiose of a comparison, it kind of makes you wonder if Thoreau would have posted portions of “Civil Disobedience” on Facebook, too.

But there is also something deeply ironic about Mule's use of technology. He travels in a way that feels biblical, except that he's carrying a GPS tracker, cell phones, and a tablet. He goes to Starbucks to charge his devices and use their free WiFi, and it's hard to think of a more obvious symbol of suburban sprawl than Starbucks. In fact, the first time Mule and McDonald entered a Starbucks together to work on the website, Mule insisted that McDonald didn't film him inside, fearing it would look bad.

There are those who will say that you can't preach against the excesses of development while at the same time using the products of development. They will say that he's just freeloading off the work of others, and that his message is hollowed out by posting it on Facebook.

There is something deeply beautiful about how Mule is living. Just read through his Facebook page to see how much people admire his deliberate wanderings and his simple, poetic insights. Many of the things he says about development, the "Megatropolis," and balance sound almost prophetic. It's especially captivating to hear him talk about his way of life as a place in and of itself. "These mules and the way that we are living is a place. It's got its own magic, there's no doubt about it. We are protected and guided. I'm out there on the side of the road, with cars coming at us, and there is something protecting and guiding us. This place has got its rules. You only take what you need, and you give your hope and your faith to this place. It's a great place to be."

Every time they meet, Mule takes scrupulous notes in a notebook on topics like how to post photos to Facebook, or edit captions, or leave comments. It's a slow process. As McDonald put it, "it takes a tremendous amount of patience to work with Mule, and he is slow to build trust. He has given me his passwords, but then he gets paranoid and changes his passwords, and then he'll call me and give me the new ones." The first time they met, McDonald taught Mule how to send text messages, so Mule didn't have to pay roaming charges for the extremely limited plan he had for his cell phone.

As of this writing, Mule has 2,802 likes on his Facebook page. McDonald encouraged him to set up the Facebook page as a tool to better reach an audience with his message, and it took a lot of convincing. Mule didn't like the ads on the site, because he doesn't want his message to be tainted by commercial interests. But Mule is now hooked on it. He told me about his Facebook page three separate times over the course of our interview, and McDonald says that when they meet, the first thing Mule wants to do is talk about how the Facebook page is doing, and study the analytics.

There is a man wandering through California with three mules, and a website.

When Mule first turned west from Ely, Nevada, he had his heart set on starting a website. "I needed a website so that when I got to California, I would have a voice," Mule explained to me. "I don't have the brain to deal with this technological stuff, but I knew that the website would be a voice. I'm nothing. I'm uneducated, I'm a weak little man, I'm the low man on the totem pole and I've been there my whole life. But a website would be my voice."

When John McDonald first met Mule over a year ago, Mule was carrying with him three cell phones, two voice recorders, a digital camera, and a Samsung tablet. He already had his website, 3mules.com, up and running -- set up as an act of kindness by a person he met on his way to California. But the website had very little information, and Mule didn't know how to update it. When Mule agreed to let McDonald film him, he asked for a favor in return: McDonald had to teach Mule how to use the tools that he carried with him.

Mule's lawyer, Sharon Sherman, took on his case because she is fascinated by the legal questions that Mule's way of life raise. "There is always a balance between people's freedoms, and the needs of a community," she explained to me. "To me, this is another example of that. I've been in practice for 35 years, but Mule really made me stop and think about issues that I've never considered before. We have a countervailing balance between public space, private space, and what access do we really have to public space. Sure, I can walk down a street, but which street? What's the difference in using a road in a car, than with mules? Why do you have more rights in a car, than if you are walking, and walking with animals?"

But what struck me most when I came across Mule along the Canal Trail, an offshoot of the Iron Horse Trail, wasn't just the mules, or his simple, nomadic way of life. It was the large white lettering that was stenciled to the side of his packs, lettering that wrote out 3MULES.COM.

The filmmaker John McDonald met Mule the same way that I did -- a happenstance bumping into him, and McDonald couldn't contain his curiosity. After a few interactions, Mule agreed to let McDonald make a documentary about him, and to follow him around and collect footage.

While McDonald was at first interested in Mule as a documentary subject, after a few months of filming, he confessed to Mule, "I really believe a lot in what you're doing. In spite of the documentary, I would probably want to support you and what you're doing, and I respect you."

Everyone has their own attraction to Mule. While I was interviewing him, roughly a dozen people stopped to say hi, wish him luck, or even give him gifts, like a man who gave Mule a length of high-quality nylon rope. "A cowboy can always use some rope," the stranger said with a smile, and walked off. Mule is very popular amongst equestrians -- while researching this article, I found out that a writer with Mules and More Magazine is also writing about Mule. He has support from advocates of multi-use trails that connect communities, trails like the Iron Horse Trail in Contra Costa County in San Francisco's East Bay, a trail that allows people to safely get from town to town without using cars.

Recently, he had a rather nasty, run-in with the police in Gilroy, south of San Jose. He was arrested on August 30 while walking along the side of 101. The police wanted Mule to leave the road, but he insisted that there were no signs prohibiting him from being there. They arrested him for failing to follow the orders of a police officer, and Mule was taken to jail, and then transferred to a psychiatric facility, where he stayed locked up for six days. The animals were sent to a nearby animal shelter. Mule was released through the aid of a patients-rights advocate, who told a friend of Mule that it was the most bogus case she had ever seen. Mule will be going to court on September 12 to defend his plea of not guilty so that he can get back to wandering.

The police mostly let him stay for the night, since he’s only passing through. It’s rare to find places where mules are explicitly prohibited by law, so they often don’t have much to go on besides complaints from the community. Sometimes the police scare him off from where he intended to sleep for the night. Sometimes they ticket him, but they almost always drop the charges. But not always. He is currently facing a $485 charge for sleeping outside the entrance to the Torrey Pines State Reserve. He's fighting the ticket, which is why he has a lawyer, Sharon Sherman, who has taken on the case pro bono. The first thing she had to do was push the date of the trial back from August 2013 to January 2014, because Mule follows the sun and the seasons, and escapes the summer heat in the north, and was far from San Diego at the time of the original trial date.

He has walked the boardwalk in Venice Beach with his mules. They once slept under a BART station in Oakland. They walk at day, and stop at night to rest in public spaces, which are mostly parks and neglected patches of grass along the sides of roads. His mules graze and drink the water they come across along the way. "We claim our right to use public space in a way that is applicable to us," Mule told me.

But this does not always go well for Mule. As he walked through Sacramento, a police officer told him, "This is not okay. Maybe in the gold rush days. But now we have cars." Police stop him constantly, which is a nuisance for Mule. He's not doing anything wrong, at least as he sees it. "We don't attempt to stay anywhere for more than a few days to rest. We don't set up camp structures or anything permanent. We don't collect garbage. We’re not homeless. Our home is the Earth."

Two years ago, he walked the 295 mile stretch of land between Las Vegas and Ely, Nevada, land that was supposed to stay undeveloped by the Bureau of Land Management, land that had been used by Shoshone Indians for hundreds of years. In that BLM land, he encountered powerlines, the earliest stages of development. He knew then that he wanted to speak up about what he was seeing. Most immediately, suburban sprawl was threatening his way of life, but as Mule sees it, it threatens the way we all are meant to live. On the road to Ely, he gave up on wandering in the wild by himself. He got to Ely, and turned west, so that he could talk to people about the disappearance of public space.

Which is why there is a man wandering through California with three mules.

But the world he inhabited was changing. While he sought solitude, he kept bumping into development. Land he had passed through was no longer public, and was vanishing behind fences. Everywhere he looked, he saw ever more roads and cars.

Mule is 65 years old and has slept outside with his three mules for the last 10 years, though he’s lived his nomadic lifestyle for much longer than that -- 29 years on and off. Early on, he split his time between summer wandering, and then enduring what he calls “shit jobs” during the winter to earn enough to live off for the next summer.

He got his first mule in Spokane, Washington, so that he could carry more supplies with him into the bush than his meager, rail-thin frame can handle; McDonald says of Mule, "He has the build of Ghandi, but he sure doesn't have the personality of Ghandi." With his first mule, and then a second, and a third, he could load up on supplies to last him for much longer in the undeveloped parts of the American West, so he’d only have to resurface in towns to resupply once every month or so before once again disappearing.

He has a name, but he prefers to go by Mule. Police departments throughout the state know his name. They inevitably get calls from residents who wonder why a man with three mules is sleeping on the side of the road, and from time to time they have to go and investigate and decide whether or not to ticket him. He has had so many run-ins with the police that he has a lawyer. (The lawyer knows Mule's name.) The filmmaker John McDonald, who has spent hundreds of hours filming Mule on his journeys, and who helped Mule set up a Facebook page, knows Mule's name as well.

But Mule introduced himself to me as Mule, and so that's what I'm going to call him.

There Is a Man Wandering Around California With 3 Mules
By Mark Lukach | The Atlantic â€" 13 hours ago




 
There is a man wandering around California with three mules.

Quote from: bugsay on September 12, 2013, 08:00:31 AM
ayayay..di magamit kay lantay ring akong higdaanan..

Aw, lusot2x ra diay ang ihi kon masobraag bugok og bahal...

Naay uban recycled teenager--recycled many times over...

Ay am a prawd risaykolir...

Quote from: TUBAGBOHOL.com on September 12, 2013, 07:43:42 AM
She refuted rumors on the cause of the death of her father.

Rumors?

Quote from: bugsay on September 12, 2013, 08:01:55 AM
RIP..

RIP. Still young.

Beer raises levels of good cholesterol. High-density lipoprotein or HDL is the good cholesterol that helps arteries from getting clogged. Studies show that a beer or two a day raises levels of HDL, the friendly scavenger that cruises the bloodstream. HDL removes harmful bad cholesterol from where it doesn’t belong. It scrubs the inner walls of blood vessels called endothelium, preventing damage that can lead to heart attack.

Beer lowers levels of bad cholesterol. In reverse, drinking beer help remove low-density lipoprotein or LDL from our system. The bad cholesterol clogs the artery, forming a bump in the artery wall called a plaque. When the surface of the plaque ruptures, the blood clot formed can cause a heart attack.

Beer thins the blood. Research shows that drinking even moderate amounts of beer can affect blood coagulation -- acting as a “blood thinner.” This indicates a bottle of brew can ease the flow of blood to and from your heart.

Beer lowers blood pressure. A Harvard University study found that moderate beer drinkers were less likely to develop high blood pressure, a major risk for heart attack. The research also shows that beer can lower blood pressure better than sipping wine or spirits.

But how much should you drink? Scientists say roughly 12 ounces of beer, the amount usually found in one bottle or can. Keeping in mind the importance of not overdoing too much of a good thing, beer can be considered a part of a health regime. The tactic is to keep everything in moderation and drinking responsibly.

(The Philippine Star) | Updated September 12, 2013 - 12:00am



Drinking beer in moderation can actually lower your risk of suffering from heart disease.

     
MANILA, Philippines - Don’t forget to say “cheers” to a healthy heart the next time you enjoy a mug of beer. Did you know that you are reducing your risk of heart disease as you booze? Here are some benefits of the liquor that is not only a well-known match for broken hearts, it actually mends themâ€"literally!

Quote from: TUBAGBOHOL.com on September 11, 2013, 10:25:20 PM
Back in 2006, Arellano started his own company that produces shoe cushions and soles in India.

Hmm, modest beginnings...

Way to go, bro!

Quote from: hubag bohol on September 11, 2013, 11:21:47 PM
Preserve a Cuckold, if you can;
You'll find him a most useful man;
A screen as needful as attire
To guard against a scorching fire:
But if the screen you over-turn,
your reputation soon will burn.

Aw, di man hinuon tantong way hinungdan. Makalingaw baya, in a sense...

As secretary of state, Parolin is the head of government and seen as the most powerful official at the Vatican after the pontiff.

Many of Pope Francis' predecessors had declared the subject off-limits.

“There has been a lot of resistance to discussing the issue of celibacy,” said Abigal Frymann, online editor and former foreign editor with U.K.-based Catholic weekly The Tablet.  "[Parolin’s comments] open up a fascinating argument."

Father Federico Lombardi, the director of the Holy See’s press office, said Parolin’s comments were "in line with the teachings of the church." NBC News' Claudio Lavanga contributed to this report.

Hoang Dinh Nam / AFP - Getty Images
Archbishop Pietro Parolin is the Vatican's secretary of state.

He added that while it was not dogma, clerical celibacy was a deeply entrenched Catholic tradition.

"The efforts that the church made to keep ecclesiastical celibacy, to impose ecclesiastical celibacy, have to be taken into consideration," Parolin said. "One cannot say simply that this belongs in the past."

Pope Francis' No. 2: Clerical celibacy is open to discussion

Archbishop Pietro Parolin, the secretary of state of the Vatican, opens up about potential modifications to the strict traditions of priestly celibacy. Pope Francis addressed the matter last year, prior to becoming pope, saying he was in favor of maintaining the tradition "for the moment." NBC's Michelle Kosinski reports from London.


By F. Brinley Bruton, Staff Writer, NBC News

The Vatican’s new secretary of state has said that priestly celibacy is not church dogma and therefore open to discussion, marking a significant change in approach towards one of the thorniest issues facing the Roman Catholic Church.

"Celibacy is not an institution but look, it is also true that you can discuss (it) because as you say this is not a dogma, a dogma of the church," Archbishop Pietro Parolin said in response to a question during an interview with Venezuelan newspaper El Universal.

Catholic priests may be allowed to marry amid Papal changes
http://www.thetimes.co.uk/
James Bone
Rome
Published 1 minute ago


The Vatican has opened the door to the possibility of married priests, a move that would go against centuries-old Church tradition.

Archbishop Pietro Parolin, who will be the No. 2 in the Catholic church when be becomes secretary of state next month, declared that priestly vow of celibacy derived from an age-old rule but was not Catholic dogma.

“It’s not a dogma of the Church and it can be discussed because it’s an ecclesiastical tradition,” Archbishop Parolin told El Universal in Venezuela, where he is completing his term as Papal Nuncio.

Hmm, ang modepensa aning mga kawatana, klarong otrong bulok!

Hmm, bahal na lay kuwang...

Quote from: chicogon on September 12, 2013, 12:28:22 AM
>

Quote from: Lorenzo on September 12, 2013, 12:30:22 AM
  ≥    = 

∴   = 

Quote from: hubag bohol on September 11, 2013, 11:17:54 PM
Why is a man disgrac'd, I pray,
Because his wife shall go astray?

Pathetic...

He he, pilot og ayroplanong kagang-kagang...

A quick Google search will bring up directions from Wald and other pro-poop DIY-ers. (Materials list: 50 milliliters of someone else's doody; 100 milliliters saline; home enema kit; blender.) While there's a growing body of research on the potential benefits of fecal transplantation, its use for the treatment or prevention of obesity has not been tested in humans. But somewhere down the road, we could see scientists turning crap into gold. - by Amanda Schupak

Fecal transplants are still considered experimental and most doctors are wary of performing them. That's why when he suggests fecal transplants to patients with ulcerative colitis, multiple sclerosis or cancer, Wald gives them an instructional pamphlet on how to do your own transpoosion at home. "Generally patients have to get poop from a relative, because genes that are closer might be a better fit. Research shows that stool from any seemingly healthy person works. You can even get it from a close friend, as disgusting as that sounds." Disgusting indeed. But Wald swears that in his experience he can't think of a single time a patient didn't see improvement.

The Promise of Poop

In the meantime, the only way is the old fashioned way: fecal transplants, or transpoosions, as they've been called. "There is no way they're going to reinvent poop in the lab," Wald asserts. "They can make something that has the basic components," but it won't have the biochemical nuances that make fecal transplants so effective against irritable bowel disease, a deadly antibiotic-resistant infection called C. difficileand a number of autoimmune disorders.

"Together, these results illustrate how a diet high in saturated fats and low in fruits and vegetables can select against human gut bacteria taxa associated with leanness," the authors write. "…The stage is set for studies designed to determine which culturable components of a given person's gut community are responsible [for body composition and metabolism]." From here, they posit that scientists may be able to figure out how to manufacture a treatment that doesn't require actual, physical feces.

But there was a twist. The transfer of bacteria that protected against obesity only worked when the mice were fed a diet low in fat and high in fruits and vegetables. When lean and obese mice were housed together and given high-fat, low-fruit diet, there was no change in the bacterial makeup; the mice with obese cultures gained weight.

Next, the research team took bacterial cultures from the poop samples, grew them in petri dishes and put them into a new set of healthy mice. They housed mice with the obesity bacteria in cages with lean-bacteria-carrying mice and waited. Mice are coprophagic, which is the clinical way of saying that they eat each other's poop. The mice did as mice do, and the researchers noticed a remarkable trend. The mice that should have gained fat didn't. Analysis of their gut microbiota after several days showed that it looked a lot like that of their lean-cultured cage-mates. Effectively, being skinny was contagious.

The mice were fed the same diet of low-fat chow and ate the same amount. As expected, the mice that received transplants from obese donors quickly got fat, while those harboring the gut microbiota of thin twins did not. The results don't surprise Michael Wald, M.D., a nutrition and integrative medicine specialist who has been a proponent of fecal transplants for a decade and a half and was not involved in this research. "We use probiotics to modify gut environment to affect various inflammatory modulators and cell signaling molecules to enhance metabolic rate," all of which are involved in obesity. This is the same principle.

Researchers from the Center for Genome Sciences and Systems Biology at the Washington University School of Medicine took stool samples from four sets of 20- or 30-something twins, each comprising one lean sister and one obese sister. The scientists then implanted bits of the samples into the intestines of lab mice, in a process called fecal transplantation. Though we think of feces as pure waste, to a scientist it can be a treasure trove of bacteria and chemicals that live in the gut and play important roles in a wide range of body functions from digestion to inflammation and obesity.

By YouBeauty.com | Healthy Living â€" 1 hour 18 minutes ago



Fecal transplants might ne the answer to our nation's obesity problem.


Could the answer to obesity be right under our (wrinkled) noses? A September 2013 study published in the journal Science demonstrates that the ability to prevent obesity might be hiding in the intestines of skinny people. The proof is in the poopy.

Quote from: TUBAGBOHOL.com on September 11, 2013, 10:25:20 PM
Arellano, the president of the Filipino community in the country, said that even though there are relatively fewer Filipinos in India, they are a close-knit group, often throwing parties during weekends.

Way to go!

THE CUCKOLD is a controversial dramatic feature that pushes a camera lens through the peephole of American taboo, focusing on the flashpoint where racial and sexual tensions collide. While set against the backdrop of a little-known fetish in the swinging lifestyle called 'cuckolding', THE CUCKOLD tells the broader story of two suburban couples and two urban men whose lives collide in a tale woven together by the threads of deceit, lust, and primal vengeance. It also explores the consequences and risks in looking beyond the skin in search of love. Written by Jonathan Corban Butler -- http://www.imdb.com/

Preserve a Cuckold, if you can;
You'll find him a most useful man;
A screen as needful as attire
To guard against a scorching fire:
But if the screen you over-turn,
Your reputation soon will burn.

Should this be every Cuckold's case,
How much, alas, 'twould thin our race!
The world would suffer to its cost,
For half the husbands would be lost.
She mourn'd because she, to her woe,
Lost one of two strings to her bow.
He curs'd the name, and griev'd for life;
He'd nothing left--except the wife.

But Carpenter, who, lost in thought,
Other retaliation sought
Determin'd he would soon cashier
Aldworth of thirty pounds a-year--
Jump'd in a pond, where he was drown'd;
There full revenge on Aldworth found.

O, cruel word! it sorely gall'd;
'Twas gone, and could not be recall'd.
The rage of Carpenter we sing,
As rising to the treble string;
His best revenge is, we suppose,
To kick the bottom; ring the nose.
And was this styptic in his power,
He might apply it half an hour.

What though the sky be calm and bright
For many a day and many a night,
Yet not expect a change is vain;
'Twill end in thunder, wind, and rain.
This our two heroes did betide,
Who shar'd the favours of the bride.
A quarrel rose while she was by;
The lightning flash'd from either eye;
From Aldworth chief it flew apace,
Who call'd him Cuckold to his face.

How, when, and where, we'll not relate,
Only a real fact we state.
Aldworth held thirty pounds a year
During the life of Carpenter:
He'd every motive to shun strife--
Aldworth should try to save his life.

We'll now the curtain raise, and there
Three sober people shall appear;
Mr. John Carpenter and bride,
With Mr. Aldworth by their side;
They liv'd in peace, shunn'd all demur,
She lov'd them both--they both lov'd her.
Yet every act, though they agree,
Must not be known to all the three.
She'd charms, though not expos'd to view,
Which Carpenter and Aldworth knew.

Why is a man disgrac'd, I pray,
Because his wife shall go astray?
Why sneering language at him sent
For evils which he would prevent?
Good boys will never make their sport
Of people who are bent or short.
If he consents not to her shame,
He merits pity, never blame.
But if he aids her acting ill,
Then call him Cuckold if you will;
But he'll regard no more your cries
Than blust'ring winds a lover's sighs.

The Cuckold
by William Hutton

The Muse, as property is gone,
She should, by right, put mourning on.
The simple smile shall fly the place;
My tale comes with a serious face.

                    ‘I guess so,’ said Nick.
                    ‘It’s a hell of a thing.’
                    ‘It’s an awful thing,’ Nick said.
          They did not say anything. George reached down for a towel and wiped the counter.
                    ‘I wonder what he did?’ Nick said.
                    ‘Double-crossed somebody. That’s what they kill them for.’
                    ‘I’m going to get out of his town,’ Nick said.
                    ‘Yes,’ said George. ‘That’s a good thing to do.’
                    ‘I can’t stand to think about him waiting in the room and knowing he’s going to get it. It’s too damned awful.’
                    ‘Well,’ said George, ‘You better not think about it.’

          Nick walked up the dark street to the corner under the arc-light, and then along the car-tracks to Henry’s eating-house. George was inside, back of the counter.
                    ‘Did you see Ole?
                    ‘Yes,’ Said Nick. ‘He’s in his room and he won’t go out.’
          The cook opened the door from the kitchen when he heard Nick’s voice.
                    ‘I don’t even listen to it,’ he said and shut the door.
                    ‘Did you tell him about it?’ George asked.
                    ‘Sure. I told him, but he knows what it’s all about.’
                    ‘What’s he going to do?’
                    ‘Nothing.’
                    ‘They’ll kill him.’
                    ‘I guess they will.’
                    ‘He must have got mixed up in something in Chicago.’

                    ‘I’m not Mrs. Hirsch’ the woman said. ‘She owns the place. I just look after it for her, I’m Mrs. Bell.’
                    ‘Well, Good-night, Mrs. Bell,’ Nick said.
                    ‘Good-night,’ the woman said.

          Nick went out. As he shut the door he saw Ole Anderson with all his clothes on, lying on the bed looking at the wall.
                    ‘He’s been in his room all day,’ the landlady said downstairs. ‘I guess he don’t feel well. I said to him: ‘‘Mr. Anderson, You ought to go out and take a walk on a nice fall day like this,’’ but he didn’t feel like it.’
                    ‘He doesn’t want to go out.’
                    ‘I’m sorry he don’t feel well,’ the woman said. ’He’s an awfully nice man. He was in the ring, you know.’
                    ‘I know it.’
                    ‘You’d never know it expect from the way his face is,’ the woman said. They stood talking just inside the street door. ‘He’s just as gentle.’
                    ‘Well, good-night, Mrs. Hirsch,’ Nick said.

          Ole Anderson rolled over towards the wall.
                    ‘The only thing is,’ he said, talking towards the wall, ‘I just can’t make up my mind to go out. I been in here all day.’
                    ‘Couldn’t you get out of town?’
                    ‘No,’ Ole Anderson said. ‘I’m through with all that running around.’
          He looked at the wall.
                    ‘There ain’t anything to do now.’
                    ‘Couldn’t you fix it up some way?'
                    ‘No. I got in wrong.’ He talked in the same flat voice. ‘There ain’t anything to do. After a while I’ll make up my mind to go out.’
                    ‘I better go back and see George,’ Nick said.
                    ‘So long,’ Said Ole Anderson. He did not look towards Nick. ‘Thanks for coming around.’

         Ole Anderson looked at the wall and did not sat anything.
                    ‘George thought I’d better come and tell you about it.’
                    ‘There isn’t anything I can do about it,’ Ole Anderson said.
                    ‘I’ll tell you what they were like.’
                    ‘I don’t want to know what they were like,’ Ole Anderson said. He looked at the wall. ‘Thanks for coming to tell me about it.’
                    ‘That’s all right.’
          Nick looked at the big man lying on the bed.
                    ‘Don’t you want me to go and see the police?’
                    ‘No,’ Ole Anderson said. ‘That wouldn’t do any good.’
                    ‘Isn’t there something I could do?’
                    ‘No. There ain’t anything to do.’
                    ‘Maybe it was just a bluff.’
                    ‘No, it ain’t just a bluff.’

          Nick opened the door and went into the room. Ole Anderson was lying on the bed with all his clothes on. He had been a heavyweight prize-fighter and he was too long for the bed. He lay with his head on two pillows. He did not look at Nick.
                    ‘What was it?’
                    ‘I was up at Henry’s,’ Nick said, ’and two fellows came in and tied up me and the cook, and they said they were going to kill you.’
          It sounded silly when he said it. Ole Anderson said nothing.
                    ‘They put us out in the kitchen,’ Nick went on. ‘They were going to shoot you when you came in to supper.’

          Outside, the arc-light shone through the bare branches of a tree. Nick walked up the street beside the car-tracks and turned at the next arc-light down a side-street. Three houses up the street was Hirsch’s rooming-house. Nick walked up the two steps and pushed the bell. A woman came to the door.
                    ‘Is Ole Anderson here?’
                    ‘Do you want to see him?’
                    ‘Yes, if he’s in,’
          Nick followed the woman up a flight of stairs and back to the end of the corridor. She knocked on the door.
                    ‘Who is it?’
                    ‘It's Nick Adams.’
                    ‘Come in.’

                    ‘You better not have anything to do with it at all,’ Sam, the cook, said. ‘You better stay way it at all,’ Sam, the cook, said. ‘You better stay way out of it.’
                    ‘Don’t go if you don’t want to,’ George said.
                    ‘Mixing up in this ain’t going to get you anywhere,’ the cook said. ‘You stay out of it.’
                    ‘I’ll go see him,’ Nick said to George. ‘Where does he live?’
          The cook turned away.
                    ‘Little boys always know what they want to do,’ he said.
                    ‘He lives up at Hirsch’s rooming-house,’ George aid to Nick.
                    ‘I’ll go up there.’

          Nick stood up. He had never had a towel in his mouth before.
                    ‘Say,’ he said. ‘What the hell?’ He was trying to swagger it off.
                    ‘They were going to kill Ole Anderson,’ George said. ‘They were going to shoot him when he came in to eat.
                    ‘Ole Anderson?’
                    ‘Sure.’
          The cook felt the corners of his mouth with his thumbs.
                    ‘They all gone?’ he asked.
                    ‘Yeah,’ said George. ‘They’re gone now.’
                    ‘I don’t like it,’ said the cook. ‘I don’t like any of it at all.’
                    ‘Listen,’ George said to nick. ‘You better go see Ole Anderson.’
                    ‘All right.’

                    ‘So long, bright boy,’ he said to George. ‘You got a lot of luck.’
                    ‘That’s the truth,’ Max said. ‘You ought to play the race, bright boy.’
          The two of them went out of the door. George watched them, through the window; pass under the arc-light, and cross the street. In their overcoats and derby hats they looked like a vaudeville team. George went back through the swinging-door into the kitchen and untied Nick and the cook.
                    ‘I don’t want any more of that,’ said Sam, the cook. ‘I don’t want any more of that.’

                    ‘Come on Al,’ Max Said.
                    ‘What about the two bright boys and the nigger?’
                    ‘They’re all right.’
                    ‘You think so?’
                    ‘Sure. We’re through with it.’
                    ‘I don’t like it,’ said Al. ‘It’s sloppy. You talk too much.’
                    ‘Oh, what the hell,’ said Max. ‘We got to keep amused, haven’t we?’
                    ‘You talk too much, all the same,’ Al said. He came out from the kitchen. The cut-off barrels of the shotgun made a slight bulge under the waist of his too tight-fitting overcoat. He straightened his coat with his gloved hands.

                    ‘Bright boy can do everything,’ Max said. ‘He can cook and everything. You’d make some girl a nice wife, bright boy.’
                    ‘Yes?’ George said. ‘Your friend. Ole Anderson, isn’t going to come.’
                    ‘We’ll give him ten minutes,’ Max said.
          Max watched the mirror and the clock. The hands of the clock marked seven o’clock, and then five minutes past seven.
                    ‘Come on, Al,’ said Max. ‘We better go. He's not coming.’
                    ‘Better give him five minutes,’ Al said from the kitchen.
          In the five minutes a man came in, and George explained that the cook was sick.
                    ‘Why the hell don’t you get another cook?’ the man asked. ‘Aren’t you running a lunch-counter?’ He went out.

          Two other people had been in the lunch-room. Once George had gone out to the kitchen and made a ham-and-eggs sandwich ‘to go’ that a man wanted to take with him. Inside the kitchen he saw Al, his derby hat tilted back, sitting on a stool beside the wicket with the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun resting on the ledge. Nick and the cook were back to back in the corner, a towel tied in each of their mouths. George had cooked the sandwich, wrapped it up in oiled paper, put it in a bag, brought it in, and the man had paid for it and gone out.