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Author
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Topic: Miscellaneous - Don't Know Where to Put It.
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Bob Maar
(Maar stands for Maartini)
Posts: 28608
From: New York City & Newport, RI
Registered: Feb 2001
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posted 11-27-2002 12:01 PM
Rated G ![[Smile]](smile.gif) Lori in CT
What Hallmark Doesn'tPrint:
My tire was thumping,
I thought it was flat.
When I looked at the tire
I noticed your cat. Sorry!
So your daughter's a hooker,
and it spoiled your day.
Look at the bright side,
it's really good pay.
You had your bladder removed
and you're on the mend.
Here's a bouquet of flowers
... and a box of Depends.
Heard your wife left you,
how upset you must be.
But don't fret about it...
She moved in with me!
Looking back over the years
that we've been together,
I can't help but wonder...
What the hell was I thinking!
Congratulations on your wedding day.
Too bad no one likes your husband.
How could two people as beautiful as you...
have such an ugly baby?
I've always wanted to have someone to hold, someone to love.
After having met you...I've changed my mind.
I must admit, you brought Religion into my life.
I never believed in Hell 'till I met you.
As the days go by, I think of how lucky I am...
that you're not here to ruin it for me.
Before you go...would you like to take this knife out of back?
You'll probably need it again.
Someday I hope to get married...but not to you.
Happy Birthday! You look great for your age...
Almost lifelike!
When we were together you always said you'd die for me.
Now that we've broken up, I think it's time you kept your promise!
We have been friends for a very long time...I say we stop!
I'm so miserable without you...it's almost like you're here.
Congratulations on your new bundle of joy!
Did you ever find out who the father was?
Your friends and I wanted to do something special for your birthday.
So we're having you put to sleep.
Happy Birthday Uncle Dad!
(Available only in Tennessee, Kentucky, Alabama and West Virginia} ![[Big Grin]](biggrin.gif)
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Bob Maar
(Maar stands for Maartini)
Posts: 28608
From: New York City & Newport, RI
Registered: Feb 2001
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posted 11-27-2002 02:04 PM
Rated G
Andy Rooney says, "As I grow in age, I value older women most of all. Here are just a few reasons why."
An older woman will never wake you in the middle of the night to ask,"What are you thinking?" She doesn't care what you think.
An older woman knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants and from whom.
Few women past the age of 40 give a damn what you might think about her. The last thing she needs in her life is another dopey, clingy, whiny, dependent lover!
Older women are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you if they think they can get away with it.
Most older women cook well.They care about cleanliness and are generous with praise, often undeserved.
An older woman has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends.
A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn't trust the guy with other women. Older women couldn't care less.
Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to an older woman. They always know.
An older woman looks good wearing bright red lipstick. This is not true of younger women or drag queens.
Once you get past a wrinkle or two, an older woman is far sexier than her younger counterpart. Her libido's stronger, her fear of pregnancy gone.
Older women are forthright and honest. They'll tell you right off you are a jerk if you are acting like one.
Yes, we praise older women for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, ! well-coifed babe of 50 there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year old
waitress.
Ladies, I apologize for all of us. ![[Cool]](cool.gif)
--Andy Rooney
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Bob Maar
(Maar stands for Maartini)
Posts: 28608
From: New York City & Newport, RI
Registered: Feb 2001
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posted 12-03-2002 01:02 PM
Rated G Sue Bee
When young Jose, newly arrived in the United States, made his first trip to Yankee Stadium, there were no tickets left for sale.
Touched by his disappointment, a friendly ticket salesman found him a perch near the American flag.
Later, Jose wrote home enthusiastically about his experience. "And
the Americans, they are so friendly!" he concluded. "Before the
game started, they all stood up and looked at me and asked, 'Jose, can you see?'"
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Bob Maar
(Maar stands for Maartini)
Posts: 28608
From: New York City & Newport, RI
Registered: Feb 2001
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posted 12-03-2002 06:02 PM
Rated G
In recent years, this sounds more and more the norm !!
Dakota Indians
The tribal wisdom of the Dakota Indians, passed on from generation to generation, says that when you discover that you are riding a dead horse, the best strategy is to dismount.
In modern education and government, however, a whole range of far more advanced strategies are often employed, such as:
1. Buying a stronger whip.
2. Changing riders.
3. Threatening the horse with termination.
4. Appointing a committee to study the horse.
5. Arranging to visit other countries to see how others ride dead horses.
6. Lowering the standards so that dead horses can be included.
7. Reclassifying the dead horse as "living-impaired!"
8. Hiring outside consultants to ride the dead horse.
9. Harnessing several dead horses together to increase the speed.
10. Providing additional funding and/or training to increase the dead horse's performance.
11. Doing a productivity study to see if lighter riders would improve the dead horse's performance.
12. Declaring that as the dead horse does not have to be fed, it is less costly, carries lower overhead, and therefore contributes substantially more to the bottom line of the economy than do some other horses.
13. Rewriting, thus lowering, the expected performance requirements for all horses.
14. Promoting the dead horse to a supervisory position.
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Bob Maar
(Maar stands for Maartini)
Posts: 28608
From: New York City & Newport, RI
Registered: Feb 2001
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posted 12-03-2002 06:25 PM
Rated PG
BAD DAYS:
Sometimes, it seems like some people are just plain *doomed*. If you don't believe it, consider these weird deaths:
A fierce gust of wind blew 45-year-old Vittorio Luise's car into a river near Naples, Italy, in 1983. He managed to break a window, climb out and swim to shore -- where a tree blew over and killed him.
Mike Stewart, 31, of Dallas was filming a movie in 1983 on the dangers of low-level bridges when the truck he was standing on passed under a low-level bridge -- killing him.
Walter Hallas, a 26-year-old store clerk in Leeds, England, was so afraid of dentists that in 1979 he asked a fellow worker to try to cure his toothache by punching him in the jaw. The punch caused Hallas to fall down, hitting his head, and he died of a fractured skull.
George Schwartz, owner of a factory in Providence, R.I., narrowly escaped death when a 1983 blast flattened his factory except for one wall. After treatment for minor injuries, he returned to the scene to search for files. The remaining wall then collapsed on him, killing him.
Depressed since he could not find a job, 42-year-old Romolo Ribolla sat in his kitchen near Pisa, Italy, with a gun in his hand threatening to kill himself in 1981. His wife pleaded for him not to do it, and after about an hour he burst into tears and threw the gun to the floor. It went off and killed his wife.
In 1983, a Mrs. Carson of Lake Kushaqua, N.Y., was laid out in her coffin, presumed dead of heart disease. As mourners watched, she suddenly sat up. Her daughter dropped dead of fright.
A man hit by a car in New York in 1977 got up uninjured, but lay back down in front of the car when a bystander told him to pretend he was hurt so he could collect insurance money. The car rolled forward and crushed him to death.
Surprised while burgling a house in Antwerp, Belgium, a thief fled out the back door, clambered over a nine-foot wall, dropped down and found himself in the city prison.
In 1976 a twenty-two-year-old Irishman, Bob Finnegan, was crossing the busy Falls Road in Belfast, when he was struck by a taxi and flung over its roof. The taxi drove away and, as Finnegan lay stunned in the road, another car ran into him, rolling him into the gutter. It too drove on. As a knot of gawkers gathered to
examine the magnetic Irishman, a delivery van plowed through the crowd, leaving in its wake three injured bystanders and an even more battered Bob Finnegan. When a fourth vehicle came along, the crowd wisely scattered and only oneperson was hit-Bob Finnegan. In the space of two minutes Finnegan suffered a fractured skull, broken pelvis, broken leg, and other assorted injuries. Hospital
officials said he would recover.
While motorcycling through the Hungarian countryside, Cristo Falatti came up to a railway line just as the crossing gates were coming down. While he sat idling, he was joined by a farmer with a goat, which the farmer tethered to the crossing gate. A few moments later a horse and cart drew up behind Falatti, followed in short order by a man in a sports car. When the train roared through the crossing, the horse startled and bit Falatti on the arm. Not a man to be trifled with, Falatti responded by punching the horse in the head. In consequence the horse's owner jumped down from his cart and began scuffling with the motorcyclist. The horse, which was not up to this sort of excitement, backed away briskly, smashing
the cart into the sports- car. At this, the sports-car driver leaped out of his car and joined the fray. The farmer came forward to try to pacify the three flailing men. As he did so, the crossing gates rose and his goat was strangled. At last report, the insurance companies were still trying to sort out the claims.
Two West German motorists had an all-too-literal head-on collision in heavy fog near the small town of Guetersloh. Each was guiding his car at a snail's pace near the center of the road. At the moment of impact their heads were both out of the windows when they smacked together. Both men were hospitalized with severe head injuries. Their cars weren't scratched.
In a classic case of one thing leading to another, seven men aged eighteen to twenty-nine received jail sentences of three to four years in Kingston-on-Thames, England, in 1979 after a fight that started when one of the men threw a french fry at another while they stood waiting for a train.
Hitting on the novel idea that he could end his wife's incessant nagging by giving her a good scare, Hungarian Jake Fen built an elaborate harness to make it look as if he had hanged himself. When his wife came home and saw him she fainted. Hearing a disturbance a neighbor came over and, finding what she thought were two corpses, seized the opportunity to loot the place. As she was leaving the room, her arms laden, the outraged and suspended Mr. Fen kicked her stoutly in the backside. This so surprised the lady that she dropped dead of a heart attack. Happily, Mr. Fen was acquitted of manslaughter and he and his wife were reconciled.
An unidentified English woman, according to the London Sunday Express was climbing into the bathtub one afternoon when she remembered she had left some muffins in the oven. Naked, she dashed downstairs and was removing the muffins when she heard a noise at the door. Thinking it was the baker, and knowing he would come in and leave a loaf of bread on the kitchen table if she didn't answer his knock, the woman darted into the broom cupboard. A few moments later she heard the back door open and, to her eternal mortification, the sound of footsteps coming toward the cupboard. It was the man from the gas company, come to read the meter. "Oh," stammered the woman, "I was expecting the baker." The gas man blinked, excused himself and departed.
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Bob Maar
(Maar stands for Maartini)
Posts: 28608
From: New York City & Newport, RI
Registered: Feb 2001
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posted 12-06-2002 01:59 PM
Rated R
CHRISTMAS EVE - ITALIAN STYLE
This is classic... I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parents' house on Christmas Eve. I thought it would be interesting for a non-Italian girl to see how an Italian family spends the holidays. I thought my mother and my date would hit it off like partridges and pear trees.....I was wrong!
I had only known Karen for three weeks when I extended the invitation. "I know these family things can be a little weird," I told her, "but my folks are great, and we always have a lot of fun on Christmas Eve."
"Sounds fine to me," Karen said.
I told my mother I'd be bringing Karen with me. "She's a very nice girl and she's really looking forward to meeting all of you."
"Sounds fine to me," my mother said. And that was that.
Two telephone calls. Two sounds-fine-to-me. What more could I want? I should point out, I suppose, that in Italian households, Christmas Eve is the social event of the season -- an Italian woman's reason for living. She cleans. She cooks. She bakes. She orchestrates every minute of the entire evening. Christmas Eve is what Italian women live for. I should also point out, I suppose, that when it comes to the kind of women that make Italian men go nuts, Karen is it. She doesn't clean. She doesn't cook. She doesn't bake. And she has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being. I brought her anyway.
7 p.m. -- we arrive. Karen and I walk in and putter around for half an hour waiting for the other guests to show up. During that half hour, my mother grills Karen like cheeseburger on the barbecue determines that Karen does not clean, cook, or bake. My father is equally observant. He pulls me into the living room and notes, "She has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being."
7:30 p.m. - Others arrive. Zio Giovanni walks in with my Zia Maria, assorted kids, assorted gifts. We sit around the dining room table for antipasto, a symmetrically composed platter of lettuce, roasted peppers, black olives, anchovies and cheese....no meat of course. When I offer to make Karen's plate she says, "No Thank you." She points to the anchovies with a look of disgust.... "You don't like anchovies?" I ask. "I don't like fish," Karen announces to one and all as 67 other varieties of seafood are baking, broiling and simmering in the next room. My mother makes the sign of the cross. Things are getting uncomfortable. Zia Maria asks Karen what her family eats on Christmas Eve. Karen says, "Knockwurst." My father, who is still staring in a daze, at Karen's chest, temporarily snaps out of it to murmur, "Knockers?" My mother kicks him so hard he gets a blood clot. None of this is turning out the way I'd hoped.
8:00 p.m. - Second course. The spaghetti and crab sauce is on the way to the table. Karen declines the crab sauce and says she'll make her own with butter and ketchup. My mother asks me to join her in the kitchen. I take my "Merry Christmas" napkin from my lap, place it on the "Merry Christmas" tablecloth and walk into the kitchen. "I don't want to start any trouble," my mother says calmly, clutching a bottle of ketchup in her hands. "But if she pours this on my pasta, I'm going to throw acid in her face." "Come on," I tell her. "It's Christmas. Let her eat what she wants." My mother considers the situation, then nods. As I turn to walk back into the dining room, she grabs my shoulder. "Tell me the truth," she says, "are you serious with this tramp?" "She's not a tramp," I reply. "And I've only known her for three weeks." "Well, it's your life," she tells me, "but if you marry her, she'll poison you."
8:30 p.m. - More fish. My stomach is knotted like one of those macramé plant hangers that are always three times larger than the plants they hold. All the women get up to clear away the spaghetti dishes, except for Karen, who, instead, lights a cigarette. "Why don't you give them a little hand?" I politely suggest. Karen makes a face and walks into the kitchen carrying three forks. "Dear, you don't have to do that," my mother tells her, smiling painfully. "Oh, okay," Karen says, putting the forks on the sink. As she reenters the dining room, a wine glass flies over her head, and smashes against the wall. From the kitchen, my mother says, "Whoops." More fish comes out. After some goading, Karen tries a piece of scungilli, which she describes as "slimy, like worms." My mother winces, bites her hand and pounds her chest like one of those old women you always see in the sixth row of a funeral home. Zia Maria does the same. Karen, believing that this is something that!
all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, bites her hand and pounds her chest. My Zio Giovanni doesn't know what to make of it. My father's dentures fall out and chew a six-inch gash in the tablecloth.
10:00 p.m. - Coffee, dessert. Espresso all around. A little anisette. A curl of lemon peel. When Karen asks for milk, my mother finally slaps her in the face with a cannoli. I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Karen, believing that this is something that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, picks up a cannoli and slaps my mother with it. "This is fun," Karen says. Time passes and believe it or not everyone is laughing and smiling and filled with good cheer -- even my mother, who grabs me by the shoulder, laughs and says, "Get this bitch out of my house." Sounds fine to me.
THE END
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