10knotes:

theburiedlife

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, he wordlessly picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles roll

ed into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full.. The students responded with a unanimous ‘yes.’

The professor then produced two Beers from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar effectively filling the empty space between the sand.The students laughed..

‘Now,’ said the professor as the laughter subsided, ‘I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things—-your family, your children, your health, your friends and your favorite passions—-and if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house and your car.. The sand is everything else—-the small stuff.

‘If you put the sand into the jar first,’ he continued, ‘there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life.

If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness.

Spend time with your children. Spend time with your parents. Visit with grandparents. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and mow the lawn.

Take care of the golf balls first—-the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the Beer represented. The professor smiled and said, ‘I’m glad you asked.’ The Beer just shows you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of Beers with a friend.

Follow this blog, you will love it on your dashboard

(via oh-april)

543,093 notes

TeamPervert: They Post Nudes: Master Post »

theypostnudes:

This will be a master post that contains links to all the blogs. This post will be updated continuously so bookmark (or like) it. In the interest of being helpful, we will categorize them by race and include any other pertinent information.
===================

Please add…

735 notes

"Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply."

— Stephen R. Covey (via aysunshinetm)

(Source: onlinecounsellingcollege, via aysunshinetm)

92,270 notes

kushnstarbucks:

bettystoner:

18-15n-77-30w:

theuppitynegras:

glovesinthesummertime:

He just keeps speaking the truth. 

This shit right here was real as fuck. The system is fucked all the way. I don’t blame him for not wanting to live in this world. Shiiiid I know I damn sure don’t want to.

YOU NEED TO WATCH THIS.  If you’re Afro-American and you’ve ever been in corporate America you’ll feel this.  We have this need to “keep it real,” but with that philosophy you’re defeated before you’ve even started.  You have to learn to be conniving because the only thing that’s real, the only honest character in your corporate relationships, is the money.  The money is the only truth!!!  Don’t get rope-a-doped by the welcoming smiles and the pats on the back.  All of that is just tactical maneuverings.  Don’t think that working hard is going to make you successful.  You have to work smart!!  That requires you to be fake…or just don’t play the game at all…unplug!!  You can’t unplug and then be angry though; that’s just self mutilation if you ask me.  You either play the game and be angry about what it takes to win (at least in the end you’ll get that win, hopefully), or you unplug and be happy that you don’t have to sacrifice who you are to find your own happiness.

why doesn’t this have more notes?

Seriously.

(via tikicestlaviee-deactivated20130)

198 notes

aye-deen:

alucienas:

iluisindustries:

vondell-swain:

fireking:

The voice cast of Spongebob redubs Casablanca, Singin’ in the Rain, and The Godfather.

nothing more needs be said

this is one of my favorite videos on the whole internet

I didn’t know I wanted this. But I did.

^^^^^^

death upon my laughbox

39,506 notes

lazarusofarabia:

MY CHILDHOOD BASICALLY^

(Source: gilliananderson, via kiss-me-on-myneck)

190,351 notes

domingoblane:

Your keyboard is now Daft Punk…

this is not a video, click on it

 

I LOL’D

OMFGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!

(Source: rossocrama, via flyhigh4ever12)

358,151 notes
a-pedo-in-a-van:

mrpicard:

Always reblog this.

It’s beautiful.

a-pedo-in-a-van:

mrpicard:

Always reblog this.

It’s beautiful.

(Source: imakeitsnazzy, via goonbabykush)

214,701 notes
oh-april:


They told me the big black Lab’s name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I’d only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.
But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn’t hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie’s advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn’t look like “Lab people,” whatever that meant. They must’ve thought I did.But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes and a sealed letter from his previous owner.See, Reggie and I didn’t really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too.Maybe we were too much alike.I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that. “Okay, Reggie,” I said out loud, “let’s see if your previous owner has any advice.”____________ _________ _________ _________To Whomever Gets My Dog:Well, I can’t say that I’m happy you’re reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie’s new owner. I’m not even happy writing it. He knew something was different.So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he’s part squirrel, the way he hoards them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn’t done it yet. Doesn’tmatter where you throw them, he’ll bound after them, so be careful. Don’t do it by any roads.Next, commands. Reggie knows the obvious ones —-“sit,” “stay,” “come,” “heel.”He knows hand signals, too: He knows “ball” and “food” and “bone” and “treat” like nobody’s business.Feeding schedule: twice a day, regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.He’s up on his shots. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car. I don’t know how he knows when it’s time to go to the vet, but he knows.Finally, give him some time. It’s only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He’s gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn’t bark or complain. He just loves to be around people, and me most especially.And that’s why I need to share one more bit of info with you…His name’s not Reggie. He’s a smart dog, he’ll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn’t bear to give them his real name. But if someone is reading this … well it means that his new owner should know his real name. His real name is “Tank.” Because, that is what I drive.I told the shelter that they couldn’t make “Reggie” available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. You see, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could’ve left Tank with .. and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, that they make one phone call to the shelter … in the “event” … to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my CO is a dog-guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he’d do it personally. And if you’re reading this, then he made good on his word.Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family. And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family, too, and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way heloved me.If I have to give up Tank to keep those terrible people from coming to the US I am glad to have done so. He is my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.All right, that’s enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. Maybe I’ll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight - every night - from me.Thank you,Paul Mallory____________ _________ _________ _______I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure, I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the SilverStar when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.“Hey, Tank,” I said quietly.The dog’s head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.“C’mere boy.”He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn’t heard in months. “Tank,” I whispered.His tail swished.I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried myface into his scruff and hugged him.“It’s me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me.” Tank reached up and licked my cheek.“So whatdaya say we play some ball?” His ears perked again.“Yeah? Ball? You like that? Ball?”Tank tore from my hands and disappeared into the next room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.”

:’3

oh-april:

They told me the big black Lab’s name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I’d only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.


But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn’t hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie’s advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn’t look like “Lab people,” whatever that meant. They must’ve thought I did.

But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes and a sealed letter from his previous owner.

See, Reggie and I didn’t really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too.
Maybe we were too much alike.

I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that. “Okay, Reggie,” I said out loud, “let’s see if your previous owner has any advice.”
____________ _________ _________ _________

To Whomever Gets My Dog:

Well, I can’t say that I’m happy you’re reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie’s new owner. I’m not even happy writing it. He knew something was different.

So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.

First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he’s part squirrel, the way he hoards them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn’t done it yet. Doesn’t
matter where you throw them, he’ll bound after them, so be careful. Don’t do it by any roads.

Next, commands. Reggie knows the obvious ones —-“sit,” “stay,” “come,” “heel.”

He knows hand signals, too: He knows “ball” and “food” and “bone” and “treat” like nobody’s business.

Feeding schedule: twice a day, regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.

He’s up on his shots. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car. I don’t know how he knows when it’s time to go to the vet, but he knows.

Finally, give him some time. It’s only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He’s gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn’t bark or complain. He just loves to be around people, and me most especially.

And that’s why I need to share one more bit of info with you…His name’s not Reggie. He’s a smart dog, he’ll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn’t bear to give them his real name. But if someone is reading this … well it means that his new owner should know his real name. His real name is “Tank.” Because, that is what I drive.

I told the shelter that they couldn’t make “Reggie” available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. You see, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could’ve left Tank with .. and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, that they make one phone call to the shelter … in the “event” … to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my CO is a dog-guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he’d do it personally. And if you’re reading this, then he made good on his word.

Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family. And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family, too, and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he
loved me.

If I have to give up Tank to keep those terrible people from coming to the US I am glad to have done so. He is my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.

All right, that’s enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. Maybe I’ll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.

Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight - every night - from me.

Thank you,

Paul Mallory
____________ _________ _________ _______

I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure, I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver
Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.

I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.

“Hey, Tank,” I said quietly.

The dog’s head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.

“C’mere boy.”

He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn’t heard in months. “Tank,” I whispered.

His tail swished.

I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my
face into his scruff and hugged him.

“It’s me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me.” Tank reached up and licked my cheek.

“So whatdaya say we play some ball?” His ears perked again.

“Yeah? Ball? You like that? Ball?”

Tank tore from my hands and disappeared into the next room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.”

:’3

266,307 notes

karnythia:

notime4yourshit:

theeducatedfieldnegro:

quirkysnark:

kingjaffejoffer:

Killer Mike Speaking On Trayvon Martin & Going In On Jesse Jackson

Every once in a while someone asks me why I fuck with Killer Mike so much, this right here is just one of the reasons. 

I am speechless and I am in tears.

Realest Shyt Said!

I’M NOT WIT MARCHIN, I’M WIT MOBBIN!

I mean, I need to hug him & have this written up & disseminated to everyone everywhere. Hubby & I are going to always be armed & so will our children.

(via kiss-me-on-myneck)

700 notes