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Post by Spock on Apr 3, 2012 12:54:52 GMT -6
A Christmas Tale by Ken Walton
In the early years of the 14th Century, it became traditional to hold a large Winter Fair in the fields outside London, on the days between Christmas and the New Year. Originally, the Fair had been a gathering of peasants to pay the quarterly rents to their landlords, but it had grown over the years until it included many things; side-show stalls, sellers of roast chestnuts and mulled ale, braziers to keep away the cold of the snowy fields, a horse fair - but the thing which really drew the crowds were the martial competitions. People would come from miles around to take part in them, or bet on the outcome. There were archery and quarterstaff contests for the peasants, jousting and sword-fighting for the nobility. But the most popular events of the weeks were those huge and lethal melees known as Slays. The first was the Commoners' Slay, for the peasants. This was followed by the Knights' Slay, for the nobles. But on the last day of the festival was the one everyone waited for, the Open Slay, in which anyone could take part, noble or peasant. The only proviso on the Open Slay was that only one member of each team was allowed to ride a horse.
The Open Slay took place all over the fields in a shallow, snowy valley to one side of the site of the Fair. Four teams of twenty-five contestants would battle it out for the prize of 100 - a huge sum in those days. The winning team was the one which had the most members still alive and standing at the end of the contest. The Slay was very bloody, with many deaths, and was often ruthless too - sometimes when a team was winning, its members would turn on each other in an attempt to increase their own share of the prize money.
The Archbishop of Canterbury and many of the clergy condemned the Slay as un-Christian, but the king loved it, so it continued for many years.
Due to the large prize money involved, people would travel vast distances to take part. One such was the undoubted champion of the Slay, a Danish warrior called Jengel Bls (His name has been Anglicised in recent years but I use the Danish original here). He was a huge man, six foot four in height, with bulging muscles and a torso like a barrel. Every year, he would travel from Denmark with his gang of fanatically dedicated warriors, to join the Slay. And for seven years he was the undisputed champion.
Jengel was a frightning figure to meet in battle, because he used to laugh as he killed people. Also, he rode on a huge black warhorse, an evil-tempered stallion, who would kill with his hooves and teeth on a command from his owner. Jengel and the horse had been brought up together, and were utterly devoted to each other. Jengel was given the horse when it was new-born and he was four years old. They had learned to ride and fight together, and were unstoppable. Unfortunately, when Jengel was young he had given the warhorse the name Bobtail. People used to find this amusing, but never more than once, since if Jengel heard them laughing he would kill them with his bare hands. Before he went into battle, Jengel would decorate Bobtail with bells made from the knucklebones of his defeated enemies. The sound of these bells, together with Jengel's sinister laughter, was enough to drive any enemy to distraction (though the Dane's followers found their spirits lifted by the sound).
But worse than the laughter of Jengel, worse even than the ringing of Bobtail's bells, was the song which Jengel's warriors sang as they charged into battle. I give it here in a contemporary rendition:
Jengel Bls, Jengel Bls, Jengel alle thee waye Oh whatte fonne et es to ride Inn thee One Horse Opene Slay (Repeate)
Dashinge through the snowe In a One Horse Opene Slay O'er the fieldes wee goe Laughinge alle thee waye Belles on Bobtail ringe Makinge spirites brighte Oh whatte fonne et es to singe A slayinge songe tonighte
(Repeate choruse)
-- Ken Walton
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Post by Spock on Apr 3, 2012 12:55:39 GMT -6
Jungle warfare
Deep in the interior of an African jungle, there arose a territorial dispute over a shaded resting area. On one side were some cheetahs, a few monkeys and a den of lions. On the other, were some parrots, a few leopards and a troop of gorillas.
Each camp had drawn a line where their domain and the disputed territory met. They knew not to cross the line without a companion for it would mean certain death.
Both camps would taunt each other. One monkey in particular, would howl at dawn causing the gorillas to respond with ferocious chest beatings. This met with the approval of his friends ... until the monkey began to howl earlier in the morning, late at night and many times in between. The big cats in his camp were getting annoyed and one sleepless lion warned him several times to howl only at dawn.
The monkey continued to howl whenever he chose. The lion became so angry he devoured the monkey.
An investigation was held. One of the cheetahs remarked, "He was warned several times. It's his fault. He would still be alive if he had not crossed the lion." (By Donna Eaker)
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Post by Spock on Apr 3, 2012 12:56:38 GMT -6
The Kurds
The people of Kurdistan continue their struggles for a unified nation. And human rights for Kurds in neighboring countries, such as Turkey, Iran, Syria and Russia, remain important issues. One young Kurd, Massoud Atroushi, has been a vocal supporter of Kurdistan unification and the rights of his fellow countrymen living abroad.
Because of his involvement in the politics of his country, Massoud has had to travel a great deal. This has upset his girl friend, Shirien. She loves him, but his continuous travels has dampened her feelings for him. While Massoud was away, Shirien became involved in various women's movements and learned to become an independent person. Suddenly, she fell in love with another man, Jalal Kamil.
One day when Massoud was away, Shirien decided to leave her former lover and live with Jalal. So she left Massoud a note. When Massoud returned from his travels with his friends, he found the note, read it and started wailing and swearing and tearing at his clothes.
"What's wrong?" asked one of his friends.
Another looked at the note and realized that the situation wasn't very serious. The friend explained to the others, "He's only a Kurd in a jilted rage." (By Bob Levi)
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Post by Spock on Apr 3, 2012 12:57:57 GMT -6
The Love Potion
A very lovely young lady smote a young man. Unfortunately she did, not return the feeling. In desperation he went and visited a group of witches searching for a love potion. They informed him that they no longer provided such an item. It was highly unethical to administer a potion to someone without her permission.
They did have an alternate solution. They sold him a bottle of small white pellets. He was to bury one in her yard every night at midnight for a month.
He returned to the witches six weeks later excited and thankful. He and the young lady were to wed in a month.
The witch told him, ..."Nothin' says lovin' like something from a coven, and pills buried say it best."
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Post by Spock on Apr 3, 2012 12:58:53 GMT -6
Education the Easy Way
A somewhat advanced society has figured how to package basic knowledge in pill form.
A student, needing some learning, goes to the pharmacy and asks what kind of knowledge pills are available. The pharmacist says "Here's a pill for English literature." The student takes the pill and swallows it and has new knowledge about English literature!
"What else do you have?" asks the student.
"Well, I have pills for art history, biology, and world history," replies the pharmacist.
The student asks for these, and swallows them and has new knowledge about those subjects.
Then the student asks, "Do you have a pill for math?"
The pharmacist says "Wait just a moment", and goes back into the storeroom and brings back a whopper of a pill and plunks it on the counter.
"I have to take that huge pill for math?" inquires the student.
The pharmacist replied "Well, you know ... math always was a little hard to swallow." (By Stan Kegel)
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Post by Spock on Apr 3, 2012 12:59:44 GMT -6
Metaphysics
So we were lying on our backs on the grass in the park next to our hamburger wrappers, my 14-year-old son and I, watching the clouds loiter overhead, when he asked me, "Dad, why are we here?"
And this is what I said.
"I've thought a lot about it, son, and I don't think it's all that complicated. I think maybe we're here just to teach a kid how to bunt, turn two and eat sunflower seeds without using his hands."
"We're here to pound the steering wheel and scream as we listen to the game on the radio, 20 minutes after we pulled into the garage. We're here to look all over, give up and then find the ball in the hole."
"We're here to watch, at least once, as the pocket collapses around John Elway, and it's fourth-and-never. Or as the count goes to 3 and 1 on Mark McGwire with bases loaded, and the pitcher begins wishing he'd gone on to med school. Or as a little hole you couldn't get a skateboard through suddenly opens in front of Jeff Gordon with a lap to go."
"We're here to wear our favorite sweat-soaked Boston Red Sox cap, torn Slippery Rock sweatshirt and the Converses we lettered in, on a Saturday morning with nowhere we have to go and no one special we have to be."
"We're here to rake on a jack-high nothin' hand and have nobody know it but us. Or get in at least one really good brawl, get a nice shiner and end up throwing an arm around the guy who gave it to us."
"We're here to shoot a six-point elk and finally get the f-stop right, or to tie the perfect fly, make the perfect cast, catch absolutely nothing and still call it a perfect morning."
"We're here to nail a yield sign with an apple core from half a block away. We're here to make our dog bite on the same lame fake throw for the gazillionth time. We're here to win the stuffed bear or go broke trying."
"I don't think the meaning of life is gnashing our bicuspids over what comes after death but tasting all the tiny moments that come before it. We're here to be the coach when Wendell, the one whose glasses always fog up, finally makes the only perfect backdoor pass all season. We're here to be there when our kid has three goals and an assist. And especially when he doesn't."
"We're here to see the Great One setting up behind the net, tying some poor goaltender's neck into a Windsor knot. We're here to watch the Rocket peer in for the sign, two out, bases loaded, bottom of the career. We're here to witness Tiger's lining up the 22-foot double breaker to win and not need his autograph afterward to prove it."
"We're here to be able to do a one-and-a-half for our grandkids. Or to stand at the top of our favorite double-black on a double-blue morning and overhear those five wonderful words: 'Highway's closed. Too much snow.'"
"We're here to get the Frisbee to do things that would have caused medieval clergymen to burn us at the stake."
"I don't think we're here to make SportsCenter. The really good stuff never does. Like leaving Wrigley at 4:15 on a perfect summer afternoon and walking straight into Murphy's with half of section 503. Or finding ourselves with a free afternoon, a little red 327 fuel-injected 1962 Corvette convertible and an unopened map of Vermont's backroads."
"We're here to get the triple-Dagwood sandwich made and the football kicked off at the very second your sister begins tying up the phone until Tuesday."
"None of us are going to find ourselves on our deathbeds saying, 'Dang, I wish I'd spent more time on the Hibbings account.' We're going to say, 'That scar? I got that scar stealing a home run from Consolidated Plumbers!'"
"See, grown-ups spend so much time doggedly slaving toward the better car, the perfect house, the big day that will finally make them happy when happy just walked by wearing a bicycle helmet two sizes too big for him. We're not here to find a way to heaven. The way is heaven. Does that answer your question, son?"
And he said, "Not really, Dad."
And I said, "No?"
And he said, "No, what I meant is, why are we here when Mom said to pick her up 40 minutes ago?"
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Post by Spock on Apr 3, 2012 13:01:17 GMT -6
Mining the Moon
The astronauts in the Sea of Tranquility were amazed to discover that the moon actually did contain large underground deposits of cheese. Once outside the LEM, they climbed into the LTV and drove across the lunar surface to obtain samples.
In one location they discovered a large deposit of brie and collected 25 pounds to bring back to earth. They drove to a second location and collected 50 pounds of camembert. In a third location they hit a vein of cheddar and collected another 50 pounds of samples.
Mission Control crackled through their headsets that it would not be satisfied unless they brought back at least another 25 pounds of brie. The astronauts turned their LTV around and proceeded to the first location where they collected another 25 pounds of the cheese.
The astronauts were almost back to the LEM when Mission Control radioed that it wanted another 25 pounds of brie.
Disgruntled, one of the astronauts sarcastically snapped into his microphone, "Have you ever seen such a site in your life as brie mined thrice?"
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Post by Spock on Apr 3, 2012 13:04:29 GMT -6
I am. is the shortest sentence in the English language. ( I do. doesn't count as it usually leads to a Life sentence) If the population of China walked past you in single file the line would never end because of reproduction. Women blink nearly twice as much as men. This could be why they crash so much. In Texas it is illegal to put graffitti on someone else's cow. Everyday more money is printed for Monopoly than the US Treasury. The number of possible ways the first four moves can be made in chess is 318,979,564,000. It is possible to lead a cow upstairs but not downstairs. A Saudi Arabian woman can get a divorce if her husband doesn't give her coffee. Did you hear about the blonde couple that froze to death at the drive-in movie theatre? They went to see "closed for the season". Another Pick Up Line: You Say: Do you have mirrors in your pockets? They Say: No, why? You Say: Because I can see myself in your pants! DOS Tip #17: Add DEVICE=FNGRCROS.SYS to CONFIG.SYS (FiNGeRCROSs) Programmers don't die, they just GOSUB without RETURN. You're having a bad day when You put both contact lenses in the same eye. EBONICS word #11: DISAPPOINTMENT...My parole officer tol me if I miss disappointment they gonna send me back to the big house. "People need to be made more aware of the need to work at learning how to live because life is so quick and sometimes it goes away too quickly." I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, "Where's the self-help section?" She said if she told me, it would defeat the purpose. Captured bowmen in...(1100's?) used to get their middle fingers cut off as a sign of surrender/defeat, so they couldn't shoot more arrows. The uncaptured ones would show the finger to the King's men and say "Pluck Yew", yew being the wood the bows were made of... -Sign that you are too drunk- At AA meetings you begin: "Hi, my name is... uh..." "Losing a wife can be hard. In my case it was darn near impossible." Organ Transplant League motto: "We de-liver" Why did Cleopatra take milk baths? She couldn't find a cow tall enough for a shower. <BorgBlob> What's the difference between an oral thermometer and a rectal thermometer? The taste. <BorgBlob> Things that you should not say: When the officers say "Gee son.....Your eyes look red, have you been drinking?" You probably shouldn't respond with. "Gee, Officer, your eyes look glazed. Have you been eating doughnuts?" <Prozac420> Things you should not say:I can't reach my license unless you hold my beer. (OK in Texas) <mouse^> [Computers jokes] shift key/ never heard of it1111 <_Jeremy> [Computers jokes] If Old McDonald had a computer, would it use Eee-aye-eee I/O? [Computers jokes] REALITY.SYS corrupted. Reboot UNIVERSE [Y/n]? [Computers jokes] Do bl Sp ce is a v ry saf me hod of driv compr s ion. [Computers jokes] The Original Multitasker: Two PCs and a chair with wheels! [Computers jokes] Access denied--nah nah na nah nah nah! [Blondes jokes] Why don't blondes like to breast feed? It hurts to boil the nipples! The Lone Ranger and Tonto are riding across the plains when Tonto suddenly stops, climbs down off his horse and puts his ear to the ground. The Lone Ranger waits a few seconds before asking Tonto, "What is it?" "Buffalo come," Tonto replied. "How can you tell?" "Ear sticky." <JahDW> (Ways to take care of your disks): If your diskette is full and you need more storage space, remove the disk from the drive and shake it strongly for two minutes. This will pack the data enough (Data Compression) to allow for more storage. Be sure to cover all the openings with scotch tape to prevent loss of data. <^nobody^> (Fun with pizza orders): Ask what their phone number is. Hang up, call them, and ask again. Repeat this as many times as possible. <^nobody^> "To retain the best employess, whittle at their confidence until they believe no one else would ever hire them." <AngelicFlutterby> "I've got some good news, and some bad news", the doctor said. "Oh dear, well I'll have the bad news", I said. "Well, you've got AIDS, and you're gonna die on Friday." "Oh no, that's tragic, what's the good news?", I asked. "Well, you've got altzeihmers disease, and by the time you get home, you'll have forgotten all about it." <@fuzzywolf> When NASA first started sending up astronauts, they quickly discovered that ballpoint pens would not work in zero gravity. To combat the problem, NASA scientists spent a decade and $12 Billion to develop a pen that writes in zero gravity, upside down, underwater, on almost any surface including glass and at temperatures ranging from below freezing to 300C. The Russians used a pencil. <Quizzical> The shortest distance between two points is under construction. <Noelie Altito> I considered atheism but there weren't enough holidays. <Unknown> Cats regard people as warmblooded furniture. <Jacquelyn Mitchard> www.netpluscom.com/help/virus/w95mtx.htmlwww.securityportal.com/articles/mtxremoval20010216.html
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Post by Spock on Apr 3, 2012 13:06:42 GMT -6
Don't blame me. Today is Tuesday.
Down the local. Today I am going to talk about a pub known, appropriately enough, as the Dumb Post Inn. Now I will fully understand it if you just reject the idea that this place exists, but it does. It is in Bremhill, near Calne in the West of England, which is a delightful little place, surrounded by fields and countryside and wildlife and all the things that make an area attractive and pleasant to enjoy your real ale in.
A few years ago the owner of this pub got up to open up the pub on a new day, a Wednesday, as I remember it. This particular day the sun was shining, the air was clear, and it was a crisp winter morning. They hadn't even yet started building the huge road bypass which would eventually carve up their little community. All seemed right with the world; in fact it all seemed a little more beautiful and sparkling and special than usual, as indeed it was.
The day was a relatively quiet day; only the usuals came in, the farmers and the owner of the post office and so on. A few jokes were told by the old men, lined with age and hard work, and indeed, some of them were funny. Old Mr. Makepeace told this one:
"Arrrrr. What be brown, and sticky?"
"Oi don't knaaaaaoow."
"A stick. Harr harr."
"Thaaaat was drrreeeadfulll. Now get orrrfff moi laaaaarnd!"
And others were told, and many laughed, and all enjoyed their local brewed bitter, for in this pub no lagers were sold, for there was no demand for sophisticated drinks like that from the simple living yokels who enjoyed the landlord's hospitality (and indeed that of his wife from time to time). It was an idyllic spot in the center of a fast paced world, where people took planes to Scotland, and tractors were a thing of the past, as far as private transport was concerned.
As the landlord closed for the afternoon, he was struck by an idea. He was just about to throw away that morning's leftover bread (because he liked his bread only an hour or three old) when he thought, "Why not make it into toast? And put cheese between two slices of this toast, and call it a Toastie?" He was not aware if this idea had been thought of before, living as he did in an isolated rural community, but he thought it would be a damn sight more warming than a floppy salad sandwich.
He decided that when he opened up for business that evening, he would offer the 'Toastie' as a special offer to warm up the laborers and farm hands that had been working out doors in the cold since three hours before daybreak that morning.
He called out to his wife to get out of bed and do some work, and when she did, he told her that as of today she would be on kitchen duty, in charge of making Toasties for the customers. He immediately found an old blackboard and chalked up an enticing sign offering the "New Cheese 'Toastie' - only 50p."
Back in those days you could buy a pint of beer for a pound and still have change enough for the bus ride home, and for a round of ammo for the old Winchester and still have change enough for a pair of cinema tickets for you and your sweetheart. And then you could sit in your outside toilet and think about how you fought in both world wars, and how your pension isn't enough and how in my day you could leave your front door open, and how the kids would give you some respect, and how we had proper music in them days and not this racket the kids seem to like now, and how all the family used to gather round the wireless in the evening and listen to the World Service talking about all other places around the world, places that only existed in descriptions by Kipling, and how we used to have a proper head on the beer that we bought but that's beside the point.
With the sign finished, the owner of the pub stood back and sighed, thinking about old times, and how his father would never have put up with change like this. To him it was an abomination of nature if the brewery wanted you to stock a new beer. Still, you couldn't drag your feet in times like this, he thought.
He went outside and looked for a suitably prominent place to hoist the sign. Finally he found one that couldn't be missed from the street, directly over the road signs to Bristol. Having positioned and secured his ticket to a new realm of wealth (he dreamed, and he wasn't far wrong) he retired inside, only to remark that she really should oil the bedsprings if it was going to make a noise like that.
The afternoon passed, and the landlord spent it perfecting his recipe for Toasties. He found that if he popped down to the local cheese monger and got some extra matured cheddar it made for a more poignant Toastie, as did dashes of lemon juice and Worcestershire sauce.
His upstart daughter informed him that she would never eat any of his Toasties as long as they had Worcestershire sauce in them, as it contained anchovies. He replied that she was a stupid little cow who could sod off as far eating any of his creations was concerned.
By about half past five he figured he had gotten his technique sorted out. This much cheese, that many splashes of juice and a touch of sauce to make sure that that sodding little brat would keep her greedy vegetarian mitts off of his prized creations. He wrote all this down on a piece of sackcloth and gave it to his wife.
Meanwhile he went back to the cheese monger to buy considerable quantities of cheese. He came back with a barrel ul of cheddar cheese, and some stilton to help his bad dreams. He believed that Stilton was the home of witches and warlocks, and that cheese from Stilton had the power to relieve the consumer of nightmares.
At 6 o'clock he opened the Inn to the public, and they came in dribs and drabs, but no one bought his new delicacy. He was quite disappointed, and his wife was equally elated, something new to carp at him about; a new fresh wound to open at any time in the future for easy point scoring in an argument, for theirs was a loveless marriage. If he had been more careful they would never have needed to marry. Also they would never have needed to marry if her father had not been so aggressive, and had not wielded the 12 bore with such alarming promise.
The evening drew on, and the man thought that the day's early promise had nought but faded away into a cold night's disappointment. Outside it had started to snow lightly, and the wind was whipping up, but inside it was as cozy as a litter of kittens. The pub started to fill up with drinkers, and being the middle of the week, most of them felt that they had something to celebrate. Tomorrow they would have to celebrate something else, but today was the middle of the week, and that was what counted.
A warm convivial atmosphere grew around the nodding heads of those listening to the story tellers like myself, and everyone there was ensconced in the feeling that there was nowhere on earth as blissful as the Dumb Post Inn. In the corner the old grandfather clock chimed eight times, and then settled off to sleep again.
Suddenly there was a weak tapping on the door, and only Old Man Payne heard it. At fifty-five he was the youngest of the old men, and he still had his hearing. He signaled over to young Davies to open the door. As the door swung open a flurry of snow flew in, and everyone turned to scold the youngster who had introduced the cold to the pub.
The youth looked down and spotted what had caused the noise. He bent down, picked it up and shut the door, looking rather sheepish under the glare of the old-timers. He placed it on the bar, and it shook itself off.
It was a rabbit. It looked straight up at the barman and said, "I'm freezing. What have ya got that'll warm me up? A shot o' whisky?"
To which the barman, ignoring the cries of, "A talking rabbit!" and, "Aliens Exist!" immediately saw an opportunity to get his snack off the ground. First he had to get something straight between him and the rabbit.
"First answer two questions. One: you are not a bloody veggie are you? Two: I don't know what you call them but you haven't got any of those rabbit diseases have you?"
The rabbit looked relieved and said, "No 'n' no. What d'ya reckon?"
The barman said I think you need a pint of ale and a cheese Toastie. That'll see you right. He served up a pint of Smiles Exhibition (one of the finest ales you will ever drink) and went off to go and get his wife to make up a Toastie.
He went into the kitchen, but couldn't find his wife. So he got out the cheese and bread and so on and made the Toastie of his life for the rabbit. He lovingly selected the perfect proportion of ingredients, and combined them into the perfect Toastie, in fact, Toastie scholars are in agreement that the finest cheese Toastie ever produced was made by Mr Linden (the barman and owner) on that cold winter's night, for the world's only known talking rabbit.
He came back out to the bar carrying this icon of perfection on a platter in front of him. The whole pub (apart from Old Man Payne, who had lost his sense of smell in the war) turned to see what that heavenly scent was. If you could have bottled that smell and sold it, you could have become a millionaire overnight, it was so good.
The rabbit too was not immune to the allures of the cheese Toastie. He was in fact possessed of a highly sensitive set of olfactory glands. He greedily devoured the Toastie and said, "My man, that was a fine Toas'ie there. You sho must-a worked darn hard to get it that right."
The barman, pleased immensely with the compliment and recognition of his effort simply nodded, and the two of them got chatting over their beer about this and that, and how a rabbit came to be buying toasted cheese sandwiches at a bar in Bremhill.
It turned out that the rabbit was from nearby Bristol, and hence had a more urban accent than most of the denizens of this area. The fact that he could talk at all was ascribed to his being raised by parrots in an animal shelter. The parrots taught him to say things like, "Who's a pretty boy, then?" and, "Answer the bloody phone!" and so on, and soon when he was talked to by the managers of the shelter he found he could string a sensible reply together.
Soon he learned to pick locks, and he escaped to the wild, or the St Pauls area of Bristol. There he learned to street talk, as your life depended on knowing the language of the streets, sometimes. This was how he came to be a talking rabbit, and why he dropped consonants from time to time.
At about nine thirty the rabbit got up and said, "Well, I'm off now, and thanks fo' the hospi-tality. See you 'round." He then proceeded to hop off home.
Everyone in the pub talked about it for hours afterwards, indeed the oak panels reverberated to the sound of queries and questions and speculation and supposition. The regulars were quizzing the barman vigorously about the newcomer, and whether he would be allowed credit, or allowed to drink beer from the special tap that only the inner circle of the Dumb Post clientele could drink from.
This tap had never been cleaned, for fear of disturbing the unknown culture that lived just south of the valve. This culture, made up of a specially resilient form of bacteria and fungus gave a certain edge to any draught ale pumped through it, although the best results were obtained from a combination of the aforementioned Smiles Exhibition for three days and then Uncle Igor's Falling Down Water for a day. Having correctly fed the culture in this way the barman then needed only to switch barrels to whatever beer he chose, and that beer would taste phenomenally good for three days, with the best results after 22 hours. These and many other questions were put to the barman that night, but the only answer he gave to any of them was, "We'll have to wait and see..."
Night passed, and the next day was a cold overcast west-country day. The day passed as might a usual working day for a small village of farmers and one electrical repair man. The only topic of conversation that day in Bremhill was the incredible smart talkin' city rabbit, with a penchant for Toasties. Every man there swore that he too liked Toasties, and had in fact had them on a number of occasions, and so could personally describe their taste and texture. Each and everyone in the village wondered if the rabbit would return that night.
Night fell, and the Inn opened up and it was packed with every man and his wife/dog/mistress in the village. All night the pub did a roaring trade in Toasties and alcohol, as everyone wanted to try the miraculous Toastie (which they had of course tried many times before...) and share the experience with their friends.
Only young Davies (who always had to be different) professed not to like the Toastie. He said it was too popular, and that the Inn had sold out. He was widely castigated for his idiotic viewpoint.
They all went home disappointed, however as the rabbit failed to show.
The same happened the next night, and the barman took more in those two nights than he had in the whole previous month. After that, however, the inhabitants of this little community got tired waiting for a rabbit to turn up at a pub, so they went about their normal business.
The next few days passed in a similar manner with the attendance at the pub slowly declining until once again it was Wednesday, the middle of the week, and the inhabitants of Bremhill (near Calne) could celebrate the week being half over. The pub filled up, and many people ordered Toasties of many varieties, and everyone enjoyed his or her evening.
With his new found profits the landlord had driven into Bristol and bought one of those new digital watches. It had an alarm which beeped every hour, and he was showing it off to the regulars at the Dumb Post Inn. All present were astonished at the facility with which one could tell the hour from this astounding timepiece.
Some, like Old Man Payne, propounded the theory that this watch would make idiots of us all, and that the digital nature of the display had simply been invented to keep the population soft in the head, so they would accept communist rule when it came. He was gently humored.
At 7:58 p. m. the landlord called everyone round and hushed them up, so that all could hear the gentle beep of the new hour. 7:59 and 40 seconds, and the countdown was on. 7:58 and 50 seconds, ten seconds to go, five, four, three, two, one and ...
There was a loud report as the door flew open, completely drowning the quiet pulse of sound from the watch. Everyone groaned and turned to see who had created this untimely disturbance. Zounds! It was the rabbit, back again, and he was as sassy as ever.
The barman cried, "Thank you, Lord!" and then, "Quiet everyone, now we can have two good things instead of the one, I'll wind my watch back and we can hear the beep, in the company of the rabbit."
"Call me Melvin, man," the rabbit interjected.
"In the company of Melvin, the rabbit."
"Who's Melvin?" the pub asked.
"The rabbit, man!" the barman replied.
"Who's this Rabbit Man?" The clientele demanded, angrily.
"MELVIN IS THE RABBIT!" the landlord screamed.
"HOW DO YOU KNOW?" shouted back the pub.
"BECAUSE HE JUST BLOODY WELL TOLD ME!" the irate owner yelled.
"THEN WHO THE HELL IS THE RABBIT MAN?" they roared.
"THERE IS NO RABBIT MAN!" he replied, less than calmly, "Hey, chill, I'm the rabbit, man."
In the words of Craig Arthur Hurst, 'Clearly CLEAR OFF!'"
"I'll have a cheese Toastie, man. No, make that two cheese Toasties, as they're sooo darn fine!" said the rabbit, in an attempt to defuse the situation.
"Comin' up!" replied the barman, regaining his cool.
The rest of the pub were still highly confused as to the identity of the furry four legged, floppy eared, friendly customer. He turned to the pub and explained the situation, and all was well. He also explained to the barman that he would be returning every Wednesday at eight o'clock, because it was such a lively pub, and everyone was very friendly to him. In fact, the people of Bremhill soon adopted the little rabbit as their unofficial mascot.
After a few weeks had passed, and with them a few more visits from Melvin, the landlord saw an opportunity for more money making. He telephoned the BBC and told them that every Wednesday at eight o'clock a talking rabbit (called Melvin) came in and ordered the same snack every time. The man on the other end of the phone didn't believe him, but they sent a reporter down anyway.
Soon they had national newspaper coverage and live television broadcasts and the whole of this small community was swamped by journalists and speculators and zoologists and scientist and so forth. The little town was very unhappy, although they were getting rich from it. The barman alone was charging 500 pounds an interview, which is what he used to get in a whole working week before the rabbit incident.
The rabbit himself used to hop in on a Wednesday and buy his two cheese Toasties and then hop back into the undergrowth, and he never talked to the interviewers. He confided in the barman that there were some people in Bristol who might just like to come down and pay a visit to the village, and particularly the rabbit, if they saw his face on television.
The landlord nodded, knowingly, (although he didn't have a clue what Mel was chattin' about,) and said, "Wise, man. Very wise."
And so the affair passed. The TV crews didn't hang around for very long, and there were only so many column inches that could be extracted from a talking rabbit with a desire for cheese Toasties, and so little by little, village life returned to normal. Slowly the extra Bed and Breakfasts closed down, the farmers returned to work, and the post office sacked the extra workers it had taken on to deal with all the telegrams and so on.
Melvin still came and ate his Toasties on a Wednesday at eight o'clock precisely (one day he came in just after eight, and the landlord commented on his tardiness, until Mel went over and rang the speaking clock, which showed him that it was in fact the landlord's watch which was out) and he was generally an asset to the community, although he do anything apart from buy two cheese Toasties and occasionally a drop of bitter.
Week in, week out, Melvin was always at the Dumb Post Inn on Wednesdays at eight in the evening, and he always bought two cheese Toasties. No one knew where he kept his cash, or indeed where he got his cash from (although rumors abounded) but he was always on time, and he never asked for credit.
And so the years passed, until one Wednesday Mel hopped in at eight o'clock and said, "Y'know, man, I feel like a change. I ain't eaten nothin' but cheese Toasties on a Wednesday for the last three years. I's gettin' bored, man. I is gonna eat summin different, man. Y'know what I'm sayin'?"
The shocked barman just gawped at him for a minute.
The rabbit said, "Eeurgh! You've got _ bad _ teeth, man."
But the barman, stung, replied, "I'll give you something to get your teeth into: a cheese and ham Toasty!"
The rabbit just replied, "Lay one on me, my man."
The barman turned round and went into the kitchen, determined to do this one himself. This was a job too important for the wife, he thought to himself as he chopped up the ham into chunky but manageable bits. He sliced the vintage mature cheddar lovingly, and buttered the outside of the Toastie with the greatest care and attention, so as to prevent any parts sticking to the machine he had purchased for the facilitation of the Toastie making process. He carefully arranged the cheese and ham, so that every bite would contain just enough ham to compliment the cheese perfectly, and that every new bite would release a fresh torrent of molten cheese into the waiting mouth of the expectant rabbit.
He returned after a few minutes with one cheese Toastie (ready made, in expectation) and one cheese and ham Toastie, a new creation from the culinarily-inclined landlord. The rabbit quietly ate the two Toasties, remarking on the delight with which he encountered a new taste experience.
They chatted for a while, and then the rabbit wondered off to chat with the locals. At nine-thirty however he was off, back to his rabbit warren, presumably.
The next week something strange happened. The rabbit didn't turn up! Everyone was amazed, and saddened. A search party was instigated, in order to scour the nearby roads for signs of road kill, and every farmer was to check his threshing machine for tell-tale signs of blood/fur/gristle.
After many days of searching, nothing was found and the inhabitants started getting themselves accustomed to the prospect of a future without the rabbit called Melvin. Rabbits would cease to be fantastic creatures possessed of speech and sensibility, and would return to their former image of dull but prolific breeding machines.
After three years of excitement it seemed as though village life were truly to return tonormal. The Dumb Post Inn returned to its usual life of catering for a dozen or so locals each night, and maybe fifteen on weekends.
The years passed, and the rabbit became a popular legend. The number of people who claimed to have been in the pub when Melvin first turned up would have filled Wembley Arena! In fact, he was so popular that other villages nearby also claimed to have been visited by the rabbit, although these claims were almost always shown to be false, by their being unable to appropriately imitate the rabbit's pseudo-street talk.
Many years passed, and the landlord of the pub grew frail and died, leaving the pub to his daughter, who intended to have it turned into a nightclub for the villages youth (all nine of them).
However, in heaven, where the rest of the action of this story takes place, things were happening. Because the barman had been a good Christian all his life, and had always followed the teachings of the One True Lord, he had been allowed into heaven. And because the Christian had been a good barman for most of his life, and had always followed the instructions of the One True Brewery, he was allowed by God to open heaven's first pub, serving a select few beers on tap.
On the opening night of his new pub, which he decided to call, in honour of that missing, mourned Melvin, 'The Talking Rabbit', who should hop in, but Melvin himself! Melvin, who had snowy-white fur, in line with Heaven's standard guidelines on dress, hopped right up to the bar and said, "I've learned my lesson. I'll have two cheese Toasties, hold the ham."
The barman was only too pleased to oblige, and he questioned the rabbit as to his whereabouts after the famous cheese and ham Toastie incident. The rabbit replied that he had in fact got ill and died shortly afterwards, and that he hadn't died from anything other than his own stupidity.
"Why? What are you talking about?" asked the landlord?
"Well," answered Melvin, the talking rabbit, "I shoulda known that if I was gonna die of anything it would be of mixin' ma Toasties!"
(This joke makes much more sense when you know that Myxomatosis is the name of the lethal viral disease of rabbits intentionally introduced into Great Britain and Australia by the governments to reduce the rabbit populations that were destroying their crops. S. K.)
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Post by Spock on Apr 3, 2012 13:07:16 GMT -6
A Modern Opera
CLINTON TRAGEDIO AMERICANO
(Program notes translated by Rodgers Wood)
Cast of Characters Bill Clinton, tenor - philandering President of the United States Hilary Rodham Clinton, soprano - his long-suffering wife Monica Lewinsky, soprano - a conniving little White House intern Ken Starr, basso - puritanical special prosecutor Henry Hyde, basso - a true believer congressman Linda Tripp, contralto - double-crossing friend of Monica's Paula Jones, contralto - a wild woman from Arkansas Sam Donaldson, baritone - a television news reporter
The Basso Cabal Richard Mellon Scaife - radical right-wing newspaper publisher Newt Gingrich - a foot-in-mouth specialist Pat Robertson - fundamentalist minister Bill McCollum - another true believer congressman Tom DeLay - a third true believer Congressman Trent Lott - Senate Majority leader
The Media Chorus The Chorus of Lawyers
Act I
Bill Clinton has been elected President of the United States by an overwhelming margin. The Republicans are angry and are trying to regain power.
As the curtain rises, the Basso Cabal is meeting with Ken Starr with the object of finding a way to remove Bill Clinton from the Presidency.
The opening chorale "We Must Find a Way" (Creato Grandissimo Flooza Scandala) is sung as a sextet. In an impressive recitative, Scaife sings "Where Will We Find a Helper?" (Dredgi Uppa Un Grande Bimbo). The six exit.
Paula Jones enters stage right, holding a mirror, and begins singing the plaintive, "Why Can't I Find a Man?" (Mi Schnozze Es Humongo).
Tom Delay and Newt Gingrich enter from stage left. They see Paula and sing the duet, "Why Not Her?" (La Flooza Perfecto). They meet and invite Paula to a small cafe where they hatch their plot in hushed tones.
Paula tells them of her meeting with Clinton in a hotel years earlier and how her fortunes have collapsed since then. Delay and Gingrich offer to help. They sing the aria "Your Luck Has Changed" (Nose Jobbo e Molto Rewardo).
Act II
The Cabal reconvenes with the news of Paula's revelations. They sing in jubilation, "We Must Tell the World" (Phono E Tabloido). The rear curtain raises to reveal the Chorus of Media who sing the chorale, "Tell Us More, But Only the Truth" (Sexua Scandala Hypo Per Sweepi).
Gingrich enters with Pat Robertson. They sing the duet "He Must Go" (Hypocritti Pious Crappola). Robertson offers to donate time on his television program to expose the charges. At the Cabal's suggestion, Paula initiates a lawsuit.
The Jones scandal becomes the topic of conversation throughout the country.
The Chorus of Lawyers enters from the right to sing the jubilant grand chorale, "We Must Do Our Duty" (Multi, Multi Grande Moola). Ken Starr meets with the Basso Cabal to plan the next steps. They sing the aria, "We Will Save the Country" (Sleazi Connivo). Starr promises to convene a grand jury which will send charges to the Congress. He sings "The Truth Will Be Known" (Whitewater Non Starto, Probo La Flooza Epidemico). The Chorus of Lawyers sings a reprise of "We Must Do Our Duty" as the act ends.
Act III
Linda Tripp enters the stage arm in arm with Ken Starr. She is wearing a headset. She is singing "Monica Is My Dearest Friend" (Mi Es La WickedoWitchini Occidenta). She tells Starr about the secret tapes that she has made of conversations with Monica Lewinsky.
Starr takes them from her and sings, "We've Got Him Now" (Presidente Droppo Pantalone).
Starr hurries off to the Grand Jury to call Monica as a witness. Monica enters the grand jury room where the Chorus of Lawyers ask her questions. They sing the recitative, "How did it happen?" (Panti Thongo, La Flasha?). Monica replies in the long passionate aria, "We Were Meant For Each Other" (Non Smoko El Producto, Phalli Symbolo).
In the third scene, Hilary and Bill are sitting in the Lincoln Bedroom discussing the revelations about Monica. Hilary sings, "I Will Stand By You" (Su Jerchino Estupido, Mi Removo Su Equipmento). Bill replies with "She Was the Only One" (Non Counti Gennifer, Paula, Plusi Multi Bimbo Forgetto). They embrace.
Act IV
Sam Donaldson is interviewing Henry Hyde in the Capitol Building. The Chorus of Lawyers hum in the background. Hyde sings the aria, "We Believe in Something" (Impeacho Hippi Bastardo). Donaldson sings a recitative in answer, "We Only Want the Truth" (Toupee Eslippo).
The great trial begins in the Senate. Trent Lott reacts to public opinion polls showing that the president has 76% approval ratings. He sings the poignant aria, "What is Right is Not Popular" (Parta Republico Committi Suicidio). The Chorus of Lawyers sings the chorale, "Principles Come First" (Mi Adulteri Non Counto). With great flourish, Henry Hyde, Bill McCollum and Tom Delay stand before the Senate to present their case. They sing the somber trio, "How Can You Not Convict? (Evidensi Multi Flimsioso).
Finally in a moving chorale, the Chorus of Lawyers sings "For the Good of the Nation, We Must Acquit" (Senatori Non Stupido). After the vote is announced, Henry Hyde, Tom Delay, Trent Lott and Bill McCollum leave the Senate Chamber singing the grand quartet "We Still Know the Truth" (Wasto Multi Millioni) as the act ends.
Epilogue
The president sings the contrite aria, "I Am Very Sorry" (Revengo Futurini) as the Chorus of Media circles him shouting their questions. They sing, "Who Will Now Believe Us?" (Publico Disgusto Con Medio).
Monica Lewinski crosses the stage with her new literary agent, Ken Starr.
They sing, "It is Still Not Over" (Publishe Grande Bookino, Getti Richino) as the curtain falls.
Ron McCullochio (Ecolinto XCCVIV penso)
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Post by Phalon on Apr 4, 2012 6:39:29 GMT -6
I don't have time this morning to read all of those, but of the ones I did read, a few of them made me chuckle aloud.
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Post by Spock on Apr 4, 2012 10:26:50 GMT -6
I don't have time this morning to read all of those, ... Sorry, I will try to remember not to post quite so many at once ...
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Post by Phalon on Apr 6, 2012 6:05:29 GMT -6
Oh no, don't base your punning on my time constraints. You know what they say, 'Have puns will travel'...or something like that. I dunno I'm running late again, and don't have time to think of anything better.
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Post by Spock on Apr 6, 2012 11:41:48 GMT -6
I just feel a little guilty. I came here looking for specific information and got it but I haven't contributed anything significant to your forum.
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Post by Phalon on Apr 7, 2012 4:36:51 GMT -6
No? I'd say you've contributed quite a lot here, Spock, in a very short time. So continue with your guilt-free punning; it's got zero calories, is low in cholesterol, and is recommended by 9 out of 10 dentists for a nice smile.
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Post by Spock on Apr 7, 2012 11:55:10 GMT -6
In that case: NASA I remember getting a newspaper clipping from Spider Robinson which showed a NASA drawing of the design for a toilet to he used under zero gravity conditions in the Skylab satellite. (NASA has problems that thee and me can't even guess at.) The cutaway drawing of this engineering marvel showed that there was a rotating blade inside the toilet bowl, to "separate the liquid from the solid wastes," as NASA's engineers euphemistically put it. Spider, in his scrawly handwriting, had scribbled across the top of the clipping a brief note, followed by an arrow that pointed unerringly to the bowl and the separator blade. The note said, "Ben: Near as I can figure, the shit is supposed to hit the fan!" (By Ben Bova) Not many people realize that this radical new toilet design came about as a result of a misunderstood NASA memo. The director was worried about possible budget cuts and asked the research department if they could find "some way to cut down waste?" (By Gary Hallock)
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Post by Spock on Apr 7, 2012 11:56:13 GMT -6
The New Dog
A guy gets a new dog and he can't wait to show him off to his neighbor so when the neighbor comes over, the guy calls the dog into the house, bragging about how smart the critter is. The dog quickly comes running and stands looking up at his master, tail wagging furiously, mouth opening classic doggie-smile position, eyes bright with anticipation.
The guy points to the newspaper on the couch and commands, "Fetch!" Immediately, the dog sits down, the tail wagging stops, the doggie-smile disappears; he hangs his head, looks balefully up at his master and says in a whiney voice, "Oy! My tail hurts from wagging so much and that dog food you're feeding me tastes absolutely terrible. Also I can't remember the last time you took me out for a walk..."
The neighbor looks puzzled. "Oh", explains the dog owner, "he thought I said 'Kvetch!"
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Post by Spock on Apr 7, 2012 11:57:44 GMT -6
NoFault
When I was a teenager, I used to take my girlfriend to a drive-in movie theater. When the lights went down, it seemed like there were couples from one end of that big parking lot to the other, engaged in very heavy petting in their autos. It was so heavy that you could hear people all over, wailing and moaning with pleasure. That drive-in was quite exceptional, in that it had what only the more upscale walk-in theaters have: wail to wail car petting.
Last year when the big quake hit the L.A. area, part of the damage included the totaling of a car belonging to a tourist who had driven in from out of state.
When he put in the claim to his insurance company, they rejected it. When asked why the claim was not covered, the Insurance company said it was because the tourist had ... a no-fault policy.
After losing out this way, the policyholder tried to start a citizen's organization to fight this kind of rip-off from happening again. He called it the San Andreas Fund. However nothing came of it, hardly anyone contributed to aid the fund in its efforts. The general feeling was that charity is one thing, ... but this was being generous to a fault.
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Post by Spock on Apr 7, 2012 12:01:18 GMT -6
Nuts
So there I was, Saturday night and I didn't have a date. I called up my old buddy Joe. He said he knew a girl from the husk of the underworld named Hazel. I said, "Hazel? Nuts. She already knows me."
Looked like it was gonna be a long night. The office door opened. In walked a doll that was all curves. Her meat was all in the right places. Her legumes were up to here. But her best asset was the nuts on her chest. Beauty may be only shell deep, but in this racket the shell was as deep as I cared to go. "Well, my little pistachio, what can I do for you?" I queried. As soon as she opened her mouth I had her pegged as a real nut case. She lit a cigarette, inhaled sharply then blew the smoke into my face. I could tell she was no macademician. Probably never even finished high school. "Are you Al Mond?" she asked. I nodded in answer. "We can't talk here." she whispered, blowing more smoke at me, "Let's go to a little place I know about." I locked the door behind us and she led the way to a little hole in the walnut cafe. We ordered coffee and the waiter brought us picante sauce with chips. "I'm sorry," she said, "I should have come to you from the start, I just didn't know what to do. Now it may be too late!" A tear fell from her eye when she said this. I almost felt sorry for her, but I'd seen her type and was too hardened to fall for this ploy. She continued her story. It seemed a peanut from Brazil had run away from home because she hated her parents. She had quickly gotten mixed up in the underworld and was soon turning tricks for a Madame in a brothel. Since the Madame was also quite famous for her gardening, her 'girls' were known as "Planter's Peanuts." In short, the runaway peanut had become a sordid nut. The doll in the red dress thought I should go rescue the little peanut. Seems the peanut was the sister of this red pistachio. I saw right through her. "Look, doll," I told her, "you didn't come here to talk about peanuts. What's really on your mind?" She silently lit another cigarette while the heat in the joint was going up. The air conditioner must have broken; I was roasting! Beads of sweat trickled down into my eyes blurring my vision; or was it the sweat? I was feeling a little dizzy, too. "Just this, Al." Red dress said, tossing her hair in a saucy way, "You stepped on too many toes in your career, made too many enemies. No place is safe for you any longer. If I were you, I'd start praline to whatever God you have that your enemies don't decide to move against you. I'd hate to see you assaulted." It was the most words she'd spoken to me all night. Then I realized where I'd seen her before. "Cashew!" I said, the cafe spinning faster by the second. "Bless you!" she smiled, blowing more smoke at me. "You're Cashew. The main squeeze of the notorious Phil Bert, of the Spanish Peanut gang!" I said. "That's right, honey!" she answered, "The man you put into the slammer last month. He ordered a hit on you and I thought it appropriate that I should be the one who did the job. Guess you won't be needing this any longer!" With that she took my wallet from my jacket pocket, and my gun. I realized then that the coffee had bean poisoned and my career had just come to an abrupt end. She crushed her cigarette out on the table, then got up and walked out of the joint, wobbling slightly on the spiked heels she was wearing. My boys were waiting for her, and I got the pleasure of watching them grab her just as I passed out. My boys got me to the hospital in time for me to be able to tell you this tale. The case of the Ravishing Chestnut was closed. Another escape for me, Al Mond, the Nutcracker. (By Clynch Varnadore)
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Post by Spock on Apr 7, 2012 12:03:33 GMT -6
Obituaries:
Dr. Vincent Beraid, an expert in designer genes, specialized in creating large animals for meat production.
Dr. Beraid's death occurred during the development of a hog weighing over two tons. Dr. Beraid used almost eighty gorilla clones trained to carry out the mundane daily tasks of caring for this brute, who looked remarkably like Jabba the Hut.
One of the complicating factors in caring for this beast was his terrible bad breath. After feeding, It was necessary for several of the apes to force over 100 Chloret mints down his throat before anyone could go into the lab.
On the day of the doctor's death, one of the gorillas spilled the breath freshener tablets onto the floor.
The doctor became enraged and began beating the poor ape. His brothers rioted and pandemonium ensued.
It was four days before the police could enter the area with hermetically sealed Caterpillar bulldozers. Portions of Dr. Beraid's remains were DNA fingerprinted from wall and ceiling residue.
The apes were genetically reprogrammed and farmed out to area hotels for bell-hop duties. Hormel and Tyson have submitted bids for the hog.
The police report summarizing the event states, ... "Seventy-six strong clones fed the pig Beraid with a hundred and ten Chorets close at hand."
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Post by stepper on Jul 23, 2012 22:16:17 GMT -6
There was a Scottish painter named Smokey MacGregor who was very interested in making a penny where he could, so he often thinned down his paint to make it go a wee bit further. As it happened, he got away with this for some time. Eventually the local church decided to do a big restoration job on the outside of one of their biggest buildings. Smokey put in a bid and because his price was so low, he got the job. So he set about erecting the scaffolding and setting up the planks, and buying the paint and, yes, I am sorry to say, thinning it down with turpentine.
Well, Smokey was up on the scaffolding, painting away, the job nearly completed, when suddenly there was a horrendous clap of thunder, the sky opened, and the rain poured down, washing the thinned paint from all over the church building and knocking Smokey clear off the scaffold to land on the lawn among the gravestones, surrounded by telltale puddles of the thinned and useless paint. Smokey was no fool. He knew this was a judgment from the Almighty, so he got down on his knees and cried, "Oh, God, Oh, God, forgive me. What should I do? And from the thunder, a mighty voice spoke, "Repaint! And thin no more!"
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Post by stepper on Nov 27, 2012 19:41:53 GMT -6
Ty Cobb, after his illustrious baseball career, had a lot of trouble finding work. In desperation, he applied for a position as a chef at a retirement home, even though he was not trained as a chef. Throughout the interview, he was asked several times if he was really a master chef, and he lied each time, feeling more and more guilty about his cowardly deceit. In the end, however, he got the job.
The first day of work, he was assigned to make baked brie for his elderly clients. Not knowing a thing about cooking, he threw the cheese in the oven and left it there for two hours while he took a nap.
The cheese got all brown, burnt, inedible, and Ty was awaked by the yelling manager, angrily pointing to the burned lump of cheese. "I thought you said you were a chef!" he shouted.
Ty began to stammer. "Oh! I lied sir, I lied! I was just so very scared of being broke and unemployed!"
"Well, look what your lies did!" stormed the manager angrily ... "Ty, your yellow fibbin' browned the old folks' brie!"
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Post by Spock on Nov 27, 2012 22:42:09 GMT -6
Seems to me I started posting a lot of Puns in a topic around here somewhere when I first joined. I stopped because some of them weren't complete and I didn't feel right about bumping my post count with material that was only two thirds of a Pun.
[Added] Oh wait, this is the topic I was posting to! Now I must go back to my old main system so I can access the rest of the puns I was in the process of posting.
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Post by Spock on Dec 15, 2012 2:47:55 GMT -6
If nobody cared about a Pachyderm, would it be considered irrelephant?
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Post by Phalon on Dec 15, 2012 6:55:40 GMT -6
HA!
Then the poor guy would pach up his trunk, and move away.
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Post by stepper on Jan 14, 2013 23:54:22 GMT -6
The church called in a carpenter to put up a bulletin board in the vestry. Since the walls were marble, he tried to glue it rather than nail it. He ran into problems until he tried making a frame for the bulletin board out of burr oak. That adhered quite successfully.
The moral of this story: "If it ain't burr oak, don't affix it!"
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Post by Phalon on Jan 15, 2013 7:01:36 GMT -6
Ha! I love burr oaks, but they're a hard sell at the nursery. I'll have to use this one on customers.
Not now though; in spring, when the nursery reopens.
If a bad tree pun is uttered and no one is around to hear it, does it make a groan?
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Post by stepper on Jan 15, 2013 17:32:19 GMT -6
You could go practice on the furs. I'm sure they're nice and warm and won't mind listening.
Yes, if there's a breeze. I'm sure you've heard them whispering to each other.
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Post by scamp on Jan 27, 2013 23:06:53 GMT -6
You've heard of a pride of lions, an exaltation of larks, a conspiracy of ravens, a parliament of owls, and a charm of finches. How about these?
a magnum of hit-men, a quarrel of lawyers, a shortage of dwarves, a sulk of teenagers, a treachery of spies. a thrombosis of heart specialists. a minuscule of sub-atomic particles. a conflagration of arsonists/pyromaniacs. an incantation of witches/wizards/warlocks. an obfuscation of philosophers/politicians/economists. a clutch of mechanics. a phile of lovers. a spider of webmasters. a clique of computer mice. a plurality of collectives. an enterprise of trekkies. a brace of orthodontists. a clique of photographers. a barf of bulimics. a surfeit of spammers. a blather of bloggers a flight of runaway brides. a pinch of shoplifters. a stupor of television viewers. a remora of lawyers. -- (if you're not familiar, look up 'remora' - it's worth it).
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Post by stepper on Jan 28, 2013 21:16:28 GMT -6
Be kind to your dentist because even a dentist has fillings.
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