Subbes Unlimited (USA)

<body bgcolor="#800080" text="#FFFF00"><script> (function(i,s,o,g,r,a,m){i['GoogleAnalyticsObject']=r;i[r]=i[r]||function(){ (i[r].q=i[r].q||[]).push(arguments)},i[r].l=1*new Date();a=s.createElement(o), m=s.getElementsByTagName(o)[0];a.async=1;a.src=g;m.parentNode.insertBefore(a,m) })(window,document,'script','//www.google-analytics.com/analytics.js','ga'); ga('create', 'UA-47423994-1', 'fortunecity.ws'); ga('send', 'pageview'); </script> <center> <br> <div> <script language="javascript" type="text/javascript" src="http://ad.broadcaststation.net/ads/show_ad.php?width=728&height=90"></script> </div> </center> <p align="center"><font size="4"><u>Well, hello...</u></font></p> <p align="left">How are you today? And the kids? Everyone well? That's good to see. Now, I'm afraid I have a little bad news for you, Mister Jones. Your browser can't cope with frames. I know it's a bit of a shock, after all you've been coping perfectly well with this browser of yours for a long while, and never had any problems. But time moves on. And technology just keeps evolving, so you're no longer at the cutting edge. In fact, you're so far from the cutting edge that you can take your safety goggles off. Yes. They look silly anyway.</p> <p>But in order to console you, I've written you a little story or two. Ah yes. Aren't you lucky. What you thought was a problem has a small silver lining inside it. Now, if you like these stories, you'd be advised to find a browser that supports frames. Either that or stop viewing the source code and get on with the rest of the site. Tsk, I don't know, some people...</p> <p align="center"><font color="#8B5ACD" size="4"><u>A little story...</u></font></p>  <p align="left"><font color="#8B5ACD" size="3">One day, I was walking along the street in my normal way (one foot in front of the other, trying not to fall over - which is a difficult thing at the best of times), when a young man came up to me. When I say a young man, I might not be being exactly accurate. He was, after all, older than myself, and I would take offence at being called a young lady. Better than some of the things I've been called, of course, but even so I feel it would be a little demeaning. Anyway. This young man came up to me. I can remember it now. He had short hair which he attributed to having been attacked by a man-weilding lawnmower, or something, or what. And he told me he was looking for a way to get to Pimlico, because it has a lovely gallery. And so I showed him the tube map and said he could have my Travelcard because I'd finished with it. He was very grateful and presented me with a CD and a kiss on the cheek before dashing off (presumably to Pimlico) muttering to himself about his house being a nice house, a place he can take his friends to, on a street you can walk down without coming to any harm, in a place where it's easy to be sleazy, living beside the sea. Of course, nothing else happened. Which makes this a bit of an uneventful story really but never mind, it gave you something to think about, didn't it? Now, get back to plotting to take over the universe. Both you and I know that's what you were doing. </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#8B5ACD" size="3">But it makes you think, doesn't it? If it's easy, being sleazy-when you live beside the sea, why do so many people live there? Why can't someone else live there instead of them? Just how many Camptown races were there? And is there only one way to drive a fast sports car, really?</font></p> <p align="center"><font color="#8B5ACD" size="4"><u>Another story?</u></font></p>  <p align="left"><font color="#8B5ACD" size="3">Aha. there you are. I'd thought I'd lost you for a moment there. Not getting tired, are you? For there are more stories to come. All of them blatantly pointless and made up but you know you love them really, don't you? Ahhh yes you do. Admit it. Come on. You want it really. You can't wait for me to give it to you, can you? Thought not. Do you want it now? Yes?<br> Okay. Lie back, relax and it'll all be over soon.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#8B5ACD" size="3">I always believed you, of course. What kind of a person would I be if I didn't believe you, after all? I wouldn't be trusting, would I? And then I wouldn't be me. Not that it matters because I'm hardly ever myself. Do you really think this is me? Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. Maybe I'm not even a person, maybe I didn't write this. Maybe this is the concotion of a group of monkeys sitting in a room with three typewriters. So, am I me? Who is me? Do you know? Answers on a postcard please to P.O. Box 12, Dorking. </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#8B5ACD" size="3">I always believed you, of course. You were so believable, so sincere. The small smile that played upon your lips (I believe it was playing Scrabble) and your repeated assurances that you loved looking up at large trees in your garden made me believe you. Your complete and utter certainty in the fact that you had failed your exam made me laugh, knowing full well you could do whatever you wished, pass or fail or merely get lost in a snowstorm on the way to buy a pint of applejuice from the local market that is held in the marketsquare down the road from a big Red House. Completely unjustified shyness made me think deeply on the concept of life, on fireflies and butterflies. It was the way you'd planned it, after all, wasn't it? Or did you not plan it? Was it all some happy coincedence that led to the way things are? So I believed you. I believed completely and utterly. And where has it got me? To a world where up is down and left is right and all I know is that I am the only one to believe that these walls are scalable. I could climb out if I wished. What is outside? You never told me, when you came visiting. You would always deflect the conversation. But one day I'll get out of here and I'll find out. I'll find you and find out what you meant. I'll find out what extraneous details are.</font></p> <p align="center"><font color="#8B5ACD" size="4"><u>Yet...</u></font></p>  <p align="left"><font color="#8B5ACD" size="3">And yet. <br> And yet you told me everything. <br> Why then did you not tell me about the clouds?<br> Were they a secret?</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#8B5ACD" size="3">Such secret clouds. <br> Why then can everyone see them, <br> Up there, bright blue<br> In the sky?</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#8B5ACD" size="3">Were you tying to deceive me again?<br> I won't be deceived by you, my dear.<br> I am the mistress in my world of make-believe!</font></p> <p align="center"><font color="#8B5ACD" size="4"><u>The Seaside. It beckons me.</u></font></p>  <p align="left"><font color="#885ACD" size="3">Jellyfish. Funny creatures, aren't they? When you stop to think about it, I mean. If I were made out of jelly I wouldn't be washed up on the seashore. What earthly good does it do them, lying on the beach? I tried to take them back into the water but they wouldn't swim away. They just floated there in the water. Why wouldn't they swim away? Why? Why did they just stay there, taunting me? I didn't mean to do it! I didn't mean to kill the first one, it just wouldn't leave me alone and I only had a plastic bucket with me, so I swung at it and it... it went all still. Why did it stop swimming? Do you know why?</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#885ACD" size="3">Now, let's go make some sandcastles. I do believe the tide is out, there's no danger of you getting your feet wet, my dear. What are you waiting for? I have my bucket and spade here... Are you scared? I'll protect you from the sharks. </font></p> <p align="center"><font color="#885ACD" size="3">I promise. </font></p>  <p align="left"><font color="#000000" size="2">Written with the aid of a computer, some friends of mine and inspiration from a Vessel. A small amount of hysteria also went into writing this. And I'm probably due for some anti-psychotic drugs now. Can you tell?</font></p>  </body>