* * * This message was from Methuselah Jones to rec.arts.sf.tv.babylon5.m * * *
         * * * and has been forwarded to you by Lord Time * * *         
            -----------------------------------------------             

{at}MSGID: 
{at}REPLY:
<0001HW.C1398DCF02AA2454F0407530{at}news.ver
Carved in mystic runes upon the very living rock, the last words of Josh
Hill of rec.arts.sf.tv.babylon5.moderated make plain: 

> Hey, I grew up during the Great Depression doing back-breaking child
> labor in a Midwestern town so small that visitors would step over it
> and then ask where it was, so poor that on feast days we ate roast
> mouse, and so backwards that the people there still laid eggs. In the
> rare moments when the overseer laid down his whip to take a potty
> break in the putrid ditch that served as sewer, drinking fountain, pig
> wallow, and baptismal font, the other kids used to make fun of me
> because I was born in a brown egg rather than a white one. "Brown egg!
> Brown egg!" they'd lisp through their toothless gums, until they were
> so merry with spite that they coughed up mouse hairs and blood-stained
> tubercular phlegm -- at which point the overseer, having returned from
> his break, would give me a sound thrashing for having distracted the
> other boys from their task of sorting coal. "This boy will come to no
> good," he would say as the whip cut new scars through the
> scarcely-healed welts of my old ones: "Brown egg boys never do."

And you try and tell the young people of today that ..... they won't 
believe you!

-- 
Methuselah
No man is an island, but some of us are long peninsulas.
   -- Ashleigh Brilliant
                                                                           
                                     
--- SBBSecho 2.11-Win32