Posted on 07/27/2018 7:22:03 AM PDT by Heartlander
How soon will they become registered Democrats?
41,700 years sounds like a lot, but is still less time than the continuous habitation by a single tribe of humans of North Sentinal Island in the Andaman Sea.
This might portend the development of human hibernation. Though for most part humans, with the exception of the MSM and the DC Swamp, are not worms.
Wait till you ahs bring a bacteria back to life that wipes out a nation.
They will still continue to vote Dem.
So, the next question is, whether or not Life can survive frozen on some asteriod, meteor or other space debris, for millions of years, until its host falls to a “habitable” planet?
IF - and it’s a big if - that is possible, it would likely include a space debris large enough that a sizeable chunk survives intact and is not incenerated in the fall; leaving “something” protected inside of it, but no longer frozen.
Cryo me a river.
Nathan Lane cleans up well I see.
Sounds like Hillary might have another chance at running for POTUS... Just freeze her for a few thousand years.
This won’t end well. Mutant worms are trouble.
I will be impressed if they can reproduce.
Probably
Betcha Hillary could kill them permanently.
X Files 1-8
Since science is filled with phonies these days, I have to ask how we know that they didn’t just substitute some modern day nematodes?
I was posting this---->
42,000 years.....Riiiiiiight. {Dr Evil face}
The Conqueror Worm
By Edgar Allan Poe
Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
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