- a canon source for power levels beyond the Frieza saga? Because if not, I agree that we shouldn’t just throw out numbers that have no backing. — nonoitall 03:40, 15 August 2008 (UTC)
- An internal bodily fluid, not necessarily red, that performs a similar function in invertebrates
- Violence involving bloodshed
- smear with blood, as in a hunting initiation rite, where the face of a person is smeared with the blood of the kill
- The red liquid that circulates in the arteries and veins of humans and other vertebrate animals, carrying oxygen to and carbon dioxide from the tissues of the body
- the fluid (red in vertebrates) that is pumped through the body by the heart and contains plasma, blood cells, and platelets; “blood carries oxygen and nutrients to the tissues and carries away waste products”; “the ancients believed that blood was the seat of the emotions”
- temperament or disposition; “a person of hot blood”
- Poo (Po in Asturian) is one of nine parishes in Cabrales, a municipality of the autonomous community of Asturias, in northern Spain.
- Nicola Davies (born in Suffolk) is an English zoologist and writer. She was one of the original presenters of the BBC children’s wildlife programme The Really Wild Show. More recently, she has made her name as a children’s author.
- Poo (English: Flower) is a Tamil language film released in November 2008. It stars Srikanth and Parvathi Menon in the lead roles.
why is there blood in my poo – There Is
“There Is No Right Way To Meditate” is a comic compilation of illustrated guides to meditation, mindfulness, intentions, peace, and happiness. Including the following illustrated guides:
“Sometimes It’s Okay If The Only Thing You Did Today Was Breathe”
“Seven Simple Ways To Practice Peace”
“10 Ways To Get Rid Of Your Bad Mood”
“How To Make Your Intentions Come True”
“Three Illustrated Quotes From Deepak Chopra”
“How To Reduce Your Pain Body”
“A Meditation For Drinking Tea”
“There Is No Right Way To Meditate”
This is them at dinner time. They have been brought inside from the large aviary, constructed of Arundo canes and chicken-wire, which had come to dominate one corner of our back garden. Here they would sit on the clothes-horse, newspaper judiciously distributed on the floor beneath their bottoms, waiting for whatever delectables might be thawing in the kitchen sink. The newspaper was there not so much to catch the kookaburra poo, as to catch any blood and guts which might be inadvertently splattered on the floor whilst the birds were thrashing their ‘prey’ in order to break all the bones. (Like owls, and unlike hawks, which tear at their food, kookaburras swallow their prey whole after pulverising the bones: a process which can be quite extraordinary to watch, especially when the victim is a snake.) For years, this was a nightly routine in our household. Often, in their excitement, the kookaburras would laugh whilst waiting to be fed, and the whole house would reverberate with their merriment. I became adept at imitating their laughs, and could sometimes coax a chortle out of them by producing one myself.
Look closely at Golliwog, and you will see that she has a wonky leg, and that one wing hangs conspicuously low. All three birds were, to use my father’s word, ‘crocks’, with wing fractures so profound that they would never fly again. According to legislation in the Australian Capital Territory, once it had been ascertained that these birds were incapable of surviving in the wild, they should have been destroyed. It was my first experience of contempt for legislators: throughout my childhood, I lived in constant fear that some bureaucratic inspector would come and tell me that my kookaburras were illegal. Because of their extreme adaptability, I maintain that these three had an excellent quality of life. They were only ever caged to protect them from the neighbourhood cats, they played an active (and vocal) part in the life of the household, and every baby-kookaburra season, they took responsibility for the care of the orphans and foundlings.
When hungry, baby kookaburras make a fairly awful and repetitive noise, although I have to concede that it is not quite so awful as the sound made by human babies. In order to stifle this noise, my kookaburras would shove food down their gullets. As the babies grew older, Kooky and Golliwog in particular would pick up morsels and taunt the babies with it, forcing them to give chase for the food. For us, this was a perfect arrangement: the baby kookaburras could be raised in the aviary with minimal human contact, fed solely by their three foster-parents. This made us confident that on release, the babies would have a much-improved chance of survival in the wild. I would not, however, have liked to have tried explaining this to one of those inspectors. You can’t write detailed and subtle arguments on forms in triplicate.
Baby magpies make a noise which is quite definitely more objectionable than that made by human babies. Worse still, they make it regardless of whether they are hungry or not, just to ensure that they are at the centre of attention. For creatures as selfless as kookaburras, this is the height of rudeness, and one day, a baby magpie having been introduced into the aviary, Golliwog decided to teach it a lesson. The magpie was fully sated, and still vociferating, when Golliwog climbed laboriously down from her perch, waddling on her gammy leg, picked up a large feather from the floor of the aviary, climbed back up, and rammed the feather down the magpie’s throat. The other kookaburras looked on and, if my memory serves me correctly, laughed uproariously.
It is impossible to underestimate the lasting effect these three birds had on me. They were three of the most individual personalities I have ever known. Kooky was a calm, thoughtful individual with more than a touch of Zen to her personality. Had Poofter been a human being, he would have been the sporty one, for he was forever leaping from perch to perch, and his laugh rose to a higher pitch, like the call of an overexcited racetrack commentator. Golliwog was not at all unlike my maternal grandmother: meeting a disability that others might have found utterly depressing (in my grandmother’s case it was a crippling arthritis) with a purse-billed resilience and a dogged persistence that never quite concealed her mischievous sense of h
I love my Shanny Poo[Day289]*
Also, she’s going to some wet t-shirt contest [she’s my age – Shannon is 23] without her parents approval [or rather, the church] so he put a letter in the mailbox with the date, time and location.
Yup, don’t ask why he wanted me sharing this, but there! Useless information.
[If you know me well enough, you can smell the irony — I hate talking on the phone!]
why is there blood in my poo