Rate My Fantasy Football Team
Posted September 03, 2008 - 06:42 PM
QB - Tony Romo
RB - Marshawn Lynch
RB - Kevin Smith
WR - Calvin Johnson
WR - Jerricho Crotchery
WR - Donald Driver
WR - Derrick Mason
TE - Jason Witten
K - Rob Bironas
Team Defense - Redskins
QB - Trent Edwards
RB - Julius Jones
RB - Ronnie Brown
RB - Ryan Torain
WR - Javon Walker (I hate him, but he was in the of the last rounds)
WR - James Hardy
TE - Daniel Graham
Team Defense - Browns
Posted September 03, 2008 - 08:50 PM
# Pick Player
1. (8) Marion Barber
2. (13) Tom Brady
3. (28) Marques Colston
4. (33) T.J. Houshmandzadeh
5. (48) Marvin Harrison
6. (53) Kellen Winslow
7. (68) Willie Parker
8. (73) Ricky Williams
9. (88) Michael Turner
10. (93) Chris Johnson
11. (108) Brett Favre
12. (113) Devin Hester
13. (128) Donte' Stallworth
14. (133) Mason Crosby
15. (148) Oakland
Posted September 04, 2008 - 04:03 AM
not too bad. you must have had a late pick, yeah?
I got the 12th pick (last pick) of the 1st round, and the first pick of the second round.
There were 18 rounds.
Posted September 04, 2008 - 07:01 AM
what pick did you havve Jlolya?
Posted September 04, 2008 - 09:48 AM
Posted August 04, 2009 - 12:47 AM
... You cannot imagine how wonderfully he sang. It was not like the singing of other canaries. And that isn't just my fancy. Often, from the window I used to see people stop at the gate to listen, or they would lean over the fence by the mock-orange2) for quite a long time — carried away. I suppose it sounds absurd to you — it wouldn't if you had heard him — but it really seemed to me he sang whole songs, with a beginning and an end to them.
For instance, when I finished the house in the afternoon, and changed my blouse and brought my sewing on the verandah3) here, he used to hop, hop, hop from one perch4) to the other, tap against the bars as if to attract my attention, sip a little water, just as a professional singer might, and then break into a song so exquisite5) that I had to put my needle down to listen to him. I can't describe it; I wish I could. But it was always the same, every afternoon, and I felt that I understood every note of it.
... I loved him. How I loved him! Perhaps it does not matter so very much what it is one loves in this world. But love something one must! Of course there was always my little house and the garden, but for some reason they were never enough. Flowers respond wonderfully, but they don't sympathize. Then I loved the evening star. Does that sound ridiculous? I used to go into the backyard, after sunset, and wait for it until it shone above the dark gum tree. I used to whisper, “There you are, my darling.” And just in that first moment it seemed to be shining for me alone. It seemed to understand this... something which is like longing, and yet it is not longing. Or regret — it is more like regret. And yet regret for what? I have much to be thankful for!
... But after he came into my life I forgot the evening star; I did not need it any more. But it was strange. When the Chinaman who came to the door with birds to sell held him up in his tiny cage, and instead of fluttering6), fluttering, like the poor little goldfinches7), he gave a faint, small chirp8). I found myself saying, just as I had said to the star over the gum tree, “There your are, my darling.” From that moment he was mine! cheap wow gold
... It surprises even me now to remember how he and I shared each other's lives. The moment I came down in the morning and took the cloth off his cage he greeted me with a drowsy9) little note. I knew it meant “Missus10)! Missus!” Then I hung him on the nail outside while I got my three young men their breakfasts, and I never brought him in, to do his cage, until we had the house to ourselves again. Then, when the washing-up was done, it was quite a little entertainment. I spread a newspaper over a corner of the table and when I put the cage on it he used to beat with his wings, despairingly, as if he didn't know what was coming. “You're a regular little actor,” I used to scold him. I scraped, dusted it with fresh sand, filled his seed and water tins, tucked a piece of chickweed11) and half a chili12) between the bars. And I am perfectly certain he understood and appreciated every item of this little performance. You see by nature he was exquisitely neat. There was never a speck13) on his perch. And you'd only to see him enjoy his bath to realise he had a real small passion for cleanliness. His bath was put in last. And themoment it was in he positively leapt into it. First he fluttered one wing, then the other, then he ducked his head and dabbled14) his breast feathers. Drops of water were scattered all over the kitchen, but still he would not get out. I used to say to him, “Now that's quite enough. You're only showing off.” And at last out he hopped and standing on one leg he began to peck himself dry. Finally he gave a shake, a flick15), a twitter16) and he lifted his throat — Oh, I can hardly bear to recall it. I was always cleaning the knives by then. And it almost seemed to me the knives sang too, as I rubbed them bright on the board. (buy wow gold)
... Company, you see, that was what he was. Perfect company. If you have lived alone you will realize how precious that is. Of course there were my three young men who came in to supper every evening, and sometimes they stayed in the dining-room afterwards reading the paper. But I could not expect them to be interested in the little things that made my day. Why should they be? I was nothing to them. In fact, I overheard them one evening talking about me on the stairs as “the Scarecrow17)”. No matter. It doesn't matter. Not in the least. I quite understand. They are young. Why should I mind? But I remember feeling so especially thankful that I was not quite alone that evening. I told him, after they had gone. I said, “Do you know what they call Missus?” And he put his head on one side and looked at me with his little bright eye until I could not help laughing. It seemed to amuse him.
... Have you kept birds? If you haven't, all this must sound, perhaps, exaggerated. People have the idea that birds are heartless, cold little creatures, not like dogs or cats. My washerwoman used to say every Monday when she wondered why I didn't keep “a nice fox terrier”, “There's no comfort, Miss, in a canary.” Untrue! Dreadfully untrue! I remember one night. I had had a very awful dream — dreams can be terribly cruel — even after I had woken up I could not get over it. So I put on my dressing-gown and came down to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was a winter night and raining hard. I suppose I was half asleep still, but through the kitchen window that hadn't a blind, it seemed to me the dark was staring in, spying. And suddenly I felt it was unbearable that I had no one to whom I could say, “I've had such a dreadful dream,” or — “Hide me from the dark.” I even covered my face for a minute. And then there came a little“Sweet! Sweet!” His cage was on the table, and the cloth had slipped so that a chink18) of light shone through. “Sweet! Sweet!” said the darling little fellow again, softly, as much as to say, “I'm here, Missus. I'm here!” That was so beautifully comforting that I nearly cried. (world of warcraft gold)
... And now he's gone. I shall never have another bird, another pet of any kind. How could I? When I found him, lying on his back, with his eye dim and his claws wrung, when I realised that never again should I hear my darling sing, something seemed to die in me. My breast felt hollow, as if it was his cage. I shall get over it. Of course. I must. One can get over anything in time. And people always say I have a cheerful disposition. They are quite right. I thank God I have.
... All the same, without being morbid19), or giving way to — to memories and so on, I must confess that there does seem to me something sad in life. It is hard to say what it is. I don't mean the sorrow that we all know, like illness and poverty and death. No, it is something different. It is there, deep down, deep down, part of one, like one's breathing. However hard I work and tire myself I have only to stop to know it is there, waiting. I often wonder if everybody feels the same. One can never know. But isn't it extraordinary that under his sweet, joyful little singing it was just this — sadness? — Ah, what is it? — that I heard.
Posted August 27, 2009 - 06:06 PM
Posted August 29, 2009 - 11:28 PM
Hakeem Nicks (Dropping him for Derrick Ward)
One slot open with the trade
1st trade I made this year
Yes I gave a lot up but god damn it it was for Calvin Johnson. And I just wanted to have an Elite WR lineup.
Edited by magicbalala245, August 29, 2009 - 11:32 PM.
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