Slashdot Mirror

That's so nice I mirrored it! But 800+Megs seems a bit much for a PVR system. In case you can't see the pic, it's a shot of the install screen with a pic of Dina Tersago, listed as the source of inspiration and a Miss Belgium.

Jonah Hex

This story was intresting and relatable. Having run and hosted my own site for almost a full year now, I empathize with many of tech users sentiments.
Mr. Malba, you have a knack for story selection.

Sparc Classic 50Mhz, 48MB RAM, OpenBSD. Early 90's I believe. I still own older computers but that one is on pretty much 24x7x365.

Shinobi Super System

The old STB Velocity 128 video cards WITH TV out will work with an old standard resolution arcade monitor by directly connecting the inputs to the CRT. You can even run the windows version of mame on it. Please no comments about my HTML I have not updated the site in several years and my HTML back then was so bad I'm amazed browsers don't choke.

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

When I think of dirty old men, I think of stonent@stonent.pointclark.net and when I think about stonent@stonent.pointclark.net I get a hard-on that won't quit.

Sixty years ago,I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.

stonent@stonent.pointclark.net always looked lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.

He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.

Old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, he extended his hand, lifted his leg lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old man winked at me, "stonent@stonent.pointclark.net Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."

I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."

"Now me," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net, "I just love jumping men . . ."

"I'll bet you do."

". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said stonent@stonent.pointclark.net.

"I though we were talking about . . ."

"You lstonent@stonent.pointclark.net jumping old men's peckers?"

I shook my head.

"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." stonent@stonent.pointclark.net lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."

That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.

Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, stonent@stonent.pointclark.net wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.

"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" stonent@stonent.pointclark.net licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."

"People do that?"

He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"

"I never . . ."

"Well, old stonent@stonent.pointclark.net's willing to let you find out."

"No way."

"Just teasing," said

Try playing Street Fighter II with a keyboard and mouse. Watch me whip you with a PS1 controller connected to the PC through an EMS USB2 adapter.

Well, if you want to make a fool of yourself, go ahead. I've been MAMEing on a keyboard since the start and continue to give diehard controller gamers a nice man-beating. I've even played them against me on the keyboard and them on the arcade control. See my website Mame Arcade Cabinet. When I play SFII, SFA, SFA2,SFA3 on keyboard I can rock anyone.

I bought a used Shinobi and got it working, the power supply was putting out +16v on the +12v side and +8v on the +5v but there was a manual adjustment "screw" that I used to lower the power down to 12v and 5v and it worked great after that. Later I converted it into a PC/PS2 based arcade system. My website about it

Well since a standard arcade monitor can take RGB from a playstation or playstation 2 using an lm881 to separate the sync I think it should work.

I connected a Saturn, Psx, ps2, and PC into mine:

Shinobi Super System

I have the koolance pc2-601 which is a modified "antec" case, in actually neither company makes these cases. A few suggestions: first I have dropped 90mm fans in every spot that would support them, and perhaps dust does enter the case but after 4 months solid running there is not a TRACE of dust anywhere in the box. Frankly with good aiflow dust should NEVER be an issue, and again after the time in a dusty carpeted room I feel I could eat off the case. A view of my ENTIRE system, from top to bottom is available at my box, and pretty much will give you a good indication of what I'm running.

again the key to lack of dust is proper airflow, if you have that you won't have dust. Anyone with questions about building with anything I used can also feel free to e-mail me, and I'll answer as I get time. Rolling your own is a very rewarding experience. tre

Nothing is really new. There are a bunch of other companies like Ucentric out there

- Adomo
- 2Wire
- Coactive
to name a few off the top of my head.

You can find links to other companies on our old website. It's a bit dated, but still useful. None of these companies are doing anything open source (AFAIK).

We started our own project here at Point Clark Networks. It's an open-source solution to what Ucentric is offering. We're not even near anything cool yet, but people are more than welcome to contribute :-)

Cheers!

Nothing is really new. There are a bunch of other companies like Ucentric out there

- Adomo
- 2Wire
- Coactive
to name a few off the top of my head.

You can find links to other companies on our old website. It's a bit dated, but still useful. None of these companies are doing anything open source (AFAIK).

We started our own project here at Point Clark Networks. It's an open-source solution to what Ucentric is offering. We're not even near anything cool yet, but people are more than welcome to contribute :-)

Cheers!

Yet another internet appliance. Why would someone want to connect their coffeemaker to the Internet? For some reason... I would want to. And I'm not sure why.

A few folks - including myself - are currently looking at developing a home server... basically a little "black box" that sits in a corner and acts as the brain/manager/conductor of smart appliances. You can get the preliminary details at PointClark Networks

We will likely develop the product on Linux - no surprise there. We want the product to be reliable, secure, simple, and smart. My Mom has to be able to use it (read: it must be pretty easy to use!).

We will be keeping track of the "home server" aka "residential gateway" aka "internet appliance" market. If you want the latest news on this nascent market, you should check the website regularly.

Regards,
Peter
peterb@pointclark.net

Yet another internet appliance. Why would someone want to connect their coffeemaker to the Internet? For some reason... I would want to. And I'm not sure why.

A few folks - including myself - are currently looking at developing a home server... basically a little "black box" that sits in a corner and acts as the brain/manager/conductor of smart appliances. You can get the preliminary details at PointClark Networks

We will likely develop the product on Linux - no surprise there. We want the product to be reliable, secure, simple, and smart. My Mom has to be able to use it (read: it must be pretty easy to use!).

We will be keeping track of the "home server" aka "residential gateway" aka "internet appliance" market. If you want the latest news on this nascent market, you should check the website regularly.

Regards,
Peter
peterb@pointclark.net