Received: from [192.3.203.204] (port=60656 helo=nowrinklesatall.com) by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with esmtp (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1canMp-00073P-W2 for lojban@lojban.org; Mon, 06 Feb 2017 09:46:24 -0800 Date: Mon, 06 Feb 2017 10:45:03 -0700 From: "Jenny Sims" Mime-Version: 1 Message-ID: <8c2c7e55fbfda4353ca10c7b6e541eeed8215343695fn9415663-lojban@lojban.orgi-x> Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Subject: This grandma takes it off n (3) photos: Looks 45 again Content-Type: text/html; charset=us-ascii To: X-Spam-Score: 2.9 (++) X-Spam_score: 2.9 X-Spam_score_int: 29 X-Spam_bar: ++ X-Spam-Report: Spam detection software, running on the system "stodi.digitalkingdom.org", has NOT identified this incoming email as spam. The original message has been attached to this so you can view it or label similar future email. If you have any questions, see the administrator of that system for details. Content preview: overall do the job This Grandma looks unbelievable (3) photos that show she looks 45 now [...] Content analysis details: (2.9 points, 5.0 required) pts rule name description ---- ---------------------- -------------------------------------------------- 0.0 URIBL_BLOCKED ADMINISTRATOR NOTICE: The query to URIBL was blocked. See http://wiki.apache.org/spamassassin/DnsBlocklists#dnsbl-block for more information. [URIs: nowrinklesatall.com] -0.0 SPF_PASS SPF: sender matches SPF record -0.0 SPF_HELO_PASS SPF: HELO matches SPF record 0.0 HTML_FONT_LOW_CONTRAST BODY: HTML font color similar or identical to background 0.7 MIME_HTML_ONLY BODY: Message only has text/html MIME parts -1.9 BAYES_00 BODY: Bayes spam probability is 0 to 1% [score: 0.0000] 0.0 HTML_MESSAGE BODY: HTML included in message 1.9 RAZOR2_CF_RANGE_E8_51_100 Razor2 gives engine 8 confidence level above 50% [cf: 100] 0.5 RAZOR2_CF_RANGE_51_100 Razor2 gives confidence level above 50% [cf: 100] 0.9 RAZOR2_CHECK Listed in Razor2 (http://razor.sf.net/) 0.8 RDNS_NONE Delivered to internal network by a host with no rDNS overall do the job This Grandma looks unbelievable


(3) photos that show she looks 45 now

Look Now →

 can do it

What is she doing?

Overnight, she went from looking 88 to a yound-45. The transformation is amazing

You no longer have to look your age.

Learn More → There was once a kindly old wizard who used his magic generously and wisely for the benefit of his neighbours. Rather than reveal the true source of his power, he pretended that his potions, charms and antidotes sprang readymade from the little cauldron he called his lucky cooking pot. From miles around people came to him with their troubles, and the wizard was pleased to give his pot a stir and put things right. This wellbeloved wizard lived to a goodly age, then died, leaving all his chattels to his only son. This son was of a very different disposition to his gentle father. Those who could not work magic were, to the sons mind, worthless, and he had often quarrelled with his fathers habit of dispensing magical aid to their neighbours. Upon the fathers death, the son found hidden inside the old cooking pot a small package bearing his name. He opened it, hoping for gold, but found instead a soft, thick slipper, much too small to wear, and with no pair. A fragment of parchment within the slipper bore the words In the fond hope, my son, that you will never need it. The son cursed his fathers agesoftened mind, then threw the slipper back into the cauldron, resolving to use it henceforth as a rubbish pail. That very night a peasant woman knocked on the front door. My granddaughter is afflicted by a crop of warts, sir, she told him. Your father used to mix a special poultice in that old cooking pot Begone cried the son. What care I for your brats warts And he slammed the door in the old womans face. At once there came a loud clanging and banging from his kitchen. The wizard lit his wand and opened the door, and there, to his amazement, he saw his fathers old cooking pot: it had sprouted a single foot of brass, and was hopping on the spot, in the middle of the floor, making a fearful noise upon the flagstones. The wizard approached it in wonder, but fell back hurriedly when he saw that the whole of the pots surface was covered in warts. Disgusting object he cried, and he tried firstly to Vanish the pot, then to clean it by magic, and finally to force it out of the house. None of his spells worked, however, and he was unable to prevent the pot hopping after him out of the kitchen, and then following him up to bed, clanging and banging loudly on every wooden stair. The wizard could not sleep all night for the banging of the warty old pot by his bedside, and next morning the pot insisted upon hopping after him to the breakfast table. Clang, clang, clang, went the brassfooted pot, and the wizard had not even started his porridge when there came another knock on the door. An old man stood on the doorstep. Tis my old donkey, sir, he explained. Lost, she is, or stolen, and without her I cannot take my wares to market, and my family will go hungry tonight. And I am hungry now roared the wizard, and he slammed the door upon the old man. Clang, clang, clang, went the cooking pots single brass foot upon the floor, but now its clamour was mixed with the brays of a donkey and human groans of hunger, echoing from the depths of the pot. Be still. Be silent shrieked the wizard, but not all his magical powers could quieten the warty pot, which hopped at his heels all day, braying and groaning and clanging, no matter where he went or what he did. That evening there came a third knock upon the door, and there on the threshold stood a young woman sobbing as though her heart would break. My baby is grievously ill, she said. Wont you please help us Your father bade me come if troubled But the wizard slammed the door on her. And now the tormenting pot filled to the brim with salt water, and slopped tears all over the floor as it hopped, and brayed, and groaned, and sprouted more warts. Though no more villagers came to seek help at the wizards cottage for the rest of the week, the pot kept him informed of their many ills. Within a few days, it was not only braying and groaning and slopping and hopping and sprouting warts, it was also choking and retching, crying like a baby, whining like a dog, and spewing out bad cheese and sour milk and a plague of hungry slugs. The wizard could not sleep or eat with the pot beside him, but the pot refused to leave, and he could not silence it or force it to be still. At last the wizard could bear it no more. Bring me all your problems, all your troubles and your woes he screamed, fleeing into the night, with the pot hopping behind him along the road into the village. Come Let me cure you, mend you and comfort you I have my fathers cooking pot, and I shall make you well And with the foul pot still bounding along behind him, he ran up the street, casting spells in every direction. Inside one house the little girls warts vanished as she slept; the lost donkey was Summoned from a distant briar patch and set down softly in its stable; the sick baby was doused in dittany and woke, well and rosy. At every house of sickness and sorrow, the wizard did his best, and gradually the cooking pot beside him stopped groaning and retching, and became quiet, shiny and clean. Well, Pot asked the trembling wizard, as the sun began to rise. The pot burped out the single slipper he had thrown into it, and permitted him to fit it on to the brass foot. Together, they set off back to the wizards house, the pots footstep muffled at last. But from that day forward, the wizard helped the villagers like his father before him, lest the pot cast off its slipper, and begin to hop once more. Albus Dumbledore on "The Wizard and the Hopping Pot" A kind old wizard decides to teach his hardhearted son a lesson by giving him a taste of the local Muggles misery. The young wizards conscience awakes, and he agrees to use his magic for the benefit of his nonmagical neighbours. A simple and heartwarming fable, one might think in which case, one would reveal oneself to be an innocent nincompoop. A proMuggle story showing a Muggleloving father as superior in magic to a Mugglehating son It is nothing short of amazing that any copies of the original version of this tale survived the flames to which they were so often consigned. Beedle was somewhat out of step with his times in preaching a message of brotherly love for Muggles. The persecution of witches and wizards was gathering pace all over Europe in the early fifteenth century. Many in the magical community felt, and with good reason, that offering to cast a spell on the Mugglenextdoors sickly pig was tantamount to volunteering to fetch the firewood for ones own funeral pyre.1 Let the Muggles manage without us was the cry, as the wizards drew further and further apart from their nonmagical brethren, culminating with the institution of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy in 1689, when wizardkind voluntarily went underground. Children being children, however, the grotesque Hopping Pot had taken hold of their imaginations. The solution was to jettison the proMuggle moral but keep the warty cauldron, so by the middle of the sixteenth century a different version of the tale was in wide circulation among wizarding families. In the revised story, the Hopping Pot protects an innocent wizard from his torchbearing, pitchforktoting neighbours by chasing them away from the wizards cottage, catching them and swallowing them whole. At the end of the story, by which time the Pot has consumed most of his neighbours, the wizard gains a promise from the few remaining villagers that he will be left in peace to practise magic. In return, he instructs the Pot to render up its victims, who are duly burped out of its depths, slightly mangled. To this day, some wizarding children are only told the revised version of the story by their (generally antiMuggle) parents, and the original, if and when they ever read it, comes as a great surprise. As I have already hinted, however, its proMuggle sentiment was not the only reason that The Wizard and the Hopping Pot attracted anger. As the witchhunts grew ever fiercer, wizarding families began to live double lives, using charms of concealment to protect themselves and their families. By the seventeenth century, any witch or wizard who chose to fraternise with Muggles became suspect, even an outcast in his or her own community. Among the many insults hurled at proMuggle witches and wizards (such fruity epithets as Mudwallower, Dunglicker and Scumsucker date from this period), was the charge of having weak or inferior magic. Influential wizards of the day, such as Brutus Malfoy, editor of Warlock at War, an antiMuggle periodical, perpetuated the stereotype that a Mugglelover was about as magical as a Squib.2 In 1675, Brutus wrote: This we may state with certainty: any wizard who shows fondness for the society of Muggles is of low intelligence, with magic so feeble and pitiful that he can only feel himself superior if surrounded by Muggle pigmen. Nothing is a surer sign of weak magic than a weakness for nonmagical company. This prejudice eventually died out in the face of overwhelming evidence that some of the worlds most brilliant wizards3 were, to use the common phrase, Mugglelovers. The final objection to The Wizard and the Hopping Pot remains alive in certain quarters today. It was summed up best, perhaps, by Beatrix Bloxam (17941910), author of the infamous Toadstool Tales. Mrs Bloxam believed that The Tales of Beedle the Bard were damaging to children because of what she called their unhealthy preoccupation with the most horrid subjects, such as death, disease, bloodshed, wicked magic, unwholesome characters and bodily effusions and eruptions of the most disgusting kind. Mrs Bloxam took a variety of old stories, including several of Beedles, and rewrote them according to her ideals, which she expressed as filling the pure minds of our little angels with healthy, happy thoughts, keeping their sweet slumber free of wicked dreams and protecting the precious flower of their innocence. The final paragraph of Mrs Bloxams pure and precious reworking of The Wizard and the Hopping Pot reads: Then the little golden pot danced with delight hoppitty hoppitty hop on its tiny rosy toes Wee Willykins had cured all the dollies of their poorly tumtums, and the little pot was so happy that it filled up with sweeties for Wee Willykins and the dollies But dont forget to brush your teethypegs cried the pot. And Wee Willykins kissed and huggled the hoppitty pot and promised always to help the dollies and never to be an old grumpywumpkins again. Mrs Bloxams tale has met the same response from generations of wizarding children: uncontrollable retching, followed by an immediate demand to have the book taken from them and mashed into pulp.
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