Opposite attracts laughter

The secret in comedy writing is association. Let's see how this technique of association generates hilarious result. By association, means by pairing or combining thoughts, images or even words together. The most popular and obvious form of association in comedy is INCONGRUITY; by pairing of opposites or contrasts. Like fat and thin, black and white, new and ancient and the list goes on. By juxtapositing two opposites it creates incongruity. This premise can whip up endless potential humorous ideas. Examples like a tall reek-thin man standing beside his rotund wife, a caveman using a handphone, a smart-talking donkey with a dumb owl or a devil having a friendly round of poker with an angel. As I've said before "anything goes".

But of course not all incongruities will produce funny result. Another obvious source of incongruity is the OXYMORON. Oxymoron is a figure of speech in which two seemingly contradictory words are combined. Examples like: open secret, good grief, original copies, small crowd or alone together. Similarly to the technique of incongruity, is the REVERT.

Here you take a normal situation and reverse it into its opposite. The most popular example is the bride carrying her groom into the room. Just take any ordinary situation and turn it around and see whether it can engender laughter. Like instead of having a bird in a cage, have a man in a bird cage, with the bird watching outside.

"Anything goes"! Use the association technique to light up your creative fuse and set it ablaze with ideas. Spur your brain to make new connection or new associations with opposities that will attract laughter.

Jimmy hoffa continues to evade fbi

As the FBI, operating on a tip from a prisoner who reported witnessing suspicious activity on the night of Jimmy Hoffa’s disappearance, continued to search for the former teamster leader, he was somehow still able to evade capture. Although Mr. Hoffa disappeared over fifty years ago, no sign of him or his remains have been detected, despite numerous tips of either’s possible whereabouts. Given the run-ins the teamster boss had with the FBI during the period when he was definitely alive, some observes say it is no wonder he refuses to be located. This week, the cement floor of the oldest barn on the property where the teamster boss of yore may be hiding out was dug up and, while at a certain depth a color change was noted in the soil, there was, at the end of the dig, still no sign of Jimmy. The small town near the farm where the search is ongoing has begun to deal with the excavation by treating it lightly. A local bakery has created a new hit, which it calls Jimmy Hoffa cupcakes.

They consist of an earth-chocolate cupcake with a green hand reaching out of it and, according to the owners of the bakery, the new creation has become their hottest-selling item. Despite his obvious skill at evasion, Mr. Hoffa has not yet dared appear at the bakery to purchase one. Meanwhile, back at the farm, despite the efforts of diggers with heavy equipment, forensic experts, and search dogs, there was, at week’s end, still no sign of Mr. Hoffa. A forensic expert on the scene noted, "You'd think we'd find him. He was born in February of 1913, so by now he should have slowed down quite a lot." He added, "But, since he disappeared way back in 1975, you'd think the authorities would decide it's finally time to put the lid on the search.” However, as you know, the FBI always gets its man – a policy that should serve as a warning to Osama Bin Laden and his associates of evil. They may have evaded capture till now, but, with the feds on their trail, they should know that no cave is too deep, no mountain too high. The FBI never gives up, even after you’re out of circulation, one way or another.

Mexico solves immigration problem becomes part of china

In a startling announcement, President Vicente Fox of Mexico revealed that his nation has solved its immigration problem with the U. S. by requesting annexation as a province of China. As a result of its new status, a plentitude of domestic jobs will be available. He made the surprise announcement, not during his recent visit to America, but immediately upon returning to Mexico. Mexicans by the millions cheered the decision, throwing fiestas nationwide, with shouts of “Viva Mexico!” “Viva China!” And the air rang out with the triumphant neologism, “MexiChina, Ole!” In his address to the Mexican nation, President Fox stated, " Today, I announce that our nation has become a proud province of China. As a result, we will have more than enough jobs to keep our hard-working people employed at home – and in much better jobs than they find as migrant workers in the U. S.” He went on to explain, “Now, it is time for American companies to invest in Mexico to the same extent that they invest in the rest of China. Finally, it is time for them to take advantage of all the cheap labor right next door. Finally, it is time for Mexico to have countless new factories and, in time, as big a trade imbalance with America as the rest of China. Finally, the label “Made in Mexico” will come to stand for everything from knives and forks to Nikes.” The Chinese were delighted by the Mexican offer, noting, “Acquiring Mexico as a province is even better than conquering Taiwan. There’s more cheap labor there, and since it’s right in America’s backyard, we’ll be able to save on shipping charges. So we’ll be able to manufacture and deliver goods even more cost effectively than we’ve been able to with our own cheap labor.” As expected, U. S. companies immediately reacted to the possibility of outsourcing production to Mexico. As the CEO of an American company that was an early entrant into China stated, “It’s absolutely wonderful to know there’s so much cheap labor so close to home. I never realized it until Mexico became part of China. You can be sure production orders from us will soon be heading down Mexico way!” President Fox, when pressed by a reporter about how he thinks Mexican workers can compare with Chinese workers in terms of their willingness to work long hours for low pay, he replied, “What do you think the entire immigration problem proves? We’ve got millions of workers who are so dedicated they risk their lives to earn a relative pittance north of the border.” The response from Washington was clearly negative. President Bush stated, “Mexico is in this hemisphere and has no business being part of China. In addition, we were well along the way to solving the border problem with fences and the National Guard.” A reporter questioned if the fence and the presence of the National Guard might have helped push Mexico toward China. “Of course, not,” Mr. Bush contended. “We all know the fence is not an impediment to Mexican-American relations. It would only keep out the people who aren’t fast climbers, and that’s just a small minority.” Then, quoting poetry, as he often does, he continued, “And, just like Robert Frost said, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’” Democrats were quick to castigate the President and Republicans everywhere. Senator Edward Kennedy exclaimed, “I can’t tell you how upset I am about this. If we had had wiser guidance from the White House, we would have thought to advise our corporations a long time ago that they didn’t have to export jobs clear to China, when they could find inexpensive labor right across the border in Mexico.” Senator Charles Schumer, always prescient, noted, “I knew that fence would not be good for Mexican-American relations. As I said during the Senatorial debates on immigration, the fence is really just like the pistol permit laws. Criminals don’t line up for them. They just go get a gun. And Mexicans intent on becoming illegal immigrants will find a way to scamper over the wall and slip past the Guard.” Republican John McCain, straight from his clamorous reception at New York’s New School, said, “I think the fact that Mexico has become a province of China is probably not a good thing for the long term and I’m not sure it’s even good in the short-term. Of course, we wouldn’t want Mexico to become part of America, either, which, given the level of illegal immigration we have, is actually kind of what is happening.” Dick Cheney was solidly against the annexation, stating, “This change in nationhood is unacceptable. And, once something like this gets going, there’s no telling where it will stop. Next thing you know Venezuela, Peru, and Cuba will be flying the Chinese flag. We must prevail upon the Mexican government to recant. If the President asks, I’ll fly down there and tell President Fox these things myself.” President Bush did not immediately comment on the Cheney offer, perhaps recalling the diplomatic disturbance the feisty Vice President created during his trip through Eastern European nations, when he overtly castigated Russian President Vladimir Putin for backsliding on democracy. Meanwhile, illegal immigrants in the United States began to stream back to Mexico, so they could be among the first to line up for the many new factory jobs that will soon be available. In a last-ditch effort to mollify the Mexican government, President Bush seemed to indicate that he might cancel construction of America’s walled answer to the immigration problem. Since the wall is no longer necessary, there was some chance that the modification would meet with Senate approval. An American who was opposed to immigration cheered the change. “The Mexicans are leaving town as soon as they can get their things together. What do I care if Mexico had to become part of China to get them back into their own country?” Another American, however, had a different take. “I think it’s a shame we didn’t think of exporting jobs to Mexico while it was still the land of tacos and enchiladas, not egg rolls, too.”

Circus clowns without skill laughter turns into disaster

We all love clowning around and playing the idiot bringing laughter to those around us but sometimes our antics seen as bit of fun can turn laughter into disaster. Circus Clowns are similar to that of the jester in many ways in how they entertained crowds of people with performances which included daft tricks and funny doings like face pulling even throwing buckets of water over fellow Circus Clowns. As funny and hilarious as the clowns pranks are, what you have to remember is, these funny folk are well rehearsed in their profession - it takes years of training to perfect what they do. The Circus Clowns performance may entail death defying stunts which have had to be carefully supervised and pieced together because of the risks taken to claim laughs and giggles. Displays from the Circus Clown can consist of acrobatics where the clown now becomes a stunt man - for example knowing how to break a fall or tumble without causing injury to himself or to other clowns in on the act. A travelling circus show that come to town will no doubt highlight the main event of entertainment with classic performances from the Circus Clowns. It is quite common for the clown to ask for audience involvement in their circus act where the clown gets a little naughty with the onlookers. Just the mention of the circus is coming to town is enough to start a riot among the happy customers queuing for tickets. Besides all the circus animals like the elephants - lion taming acts and dancing dogs - it is without doubt that it is the Circus Clowns that draw the crowds. The clown entertains in many different ways, some acts may just be floor shows but others may include bareback horse riding - and it is because of this that any clowning you may have in mind for a friend or friends at a party needs to be well thought through. Clowns take risks but are trained to do so and you are not - so think twice before engaging on any dangerous mission you have planned just to get a laugh. Fancy funny displays from Circus Clowns are no doubt hilarious just like that of their funny costumes and disguises - but take away the disguise - the ginger wig and cosmetic make up and we have a very serious person that takes their profession just as serious. Clowns are very skilled people. If you are having a party then consider calling in the skilled to provide the entertainment for you. Warning if you are not skilled then dont take any chances because laughter can turn to disaster which is no laughing matter.

How to get even with starbucks

I am not a patient man. Nor am I overly devious. So although I haven't personally experienced the following hijinx, I have watched a guy I know go through this ritual, several times. Plus, I hate Starbucks coffee. It's way too "acidy" and expensive for me. It's not that I'm a cheapskate, not by a longshot -- I just struggle with paying $3 bucks a cup for bad coffee. I'm much more of a "Dunkin' Donuts" kind of guy. Anyway, there are 2 proven ways of "beating" Starbucks out of your daily cup of coffee. Today I'm going to tell you one of them. And like I said, I haven't seen this done HUNDREDS of times, but I have seen it done at least twice, and my buddy's reassured me he's pulled this stunt, at least 25 or 30 times. What you do is, you go into Starbucks and order your coffee or your latte or whatever else it is you like to drink -- preferably earlier on in the morning -- and you pay for it using a $100 Dollar bill. Most of the time, they either will not be able to make change for you, or they simply aren't allowed to take large bills, and what'll happen is... Your coffee will be free! Not a marketing tip, but judging from the lines I see at literally every single Starbucks I pass... A valuable... piece of information... nonetheless! Now go sell something, Craig Garber http:// KingOfCopy. com P. S. Check out all the prior archives you've been missing, right here at: http:// kingofcopy. com/tips/tiparchives. html P. P.S. If you know someone who could benefit from this tip, then do the right thing and forward this tip on to them, right NOW!

It became an all night serenade crusade

I’m at the age when sleep, especially during the night, is a very fragile commodity. The least little noise arouses my body to full consciousness. I say my body, because I’m not sure my brain is ever conscious. Too much evidence exists to make one believe there aren’t any conscious gray cells in my cranium. At least, that is the opinion of the Gracious Mistress of the Parsonage, which she has expressed on more than one occasion.

The confusing thing about all of this is I have no trouble falling asleep during the day. Just let me sit down with a book in hand, and in no time I am in the world of Slumber-ella. To make matters even worse, the world could explode around me and I would never hear it. This brings me back to my nocturnal sleeping habits. Why I can sleep during the day no matter what noise is buzzing around me and why I cannot sleep at night when even the slightest noise arouses me is beyond my comprehension. I’ve tried all the remedies and still find myself unable to get a good night’s sleep. I once tried a nice hot cup of cocoa right before going to sleep, but I ended up spilling it on myself just when I dozed, which had the effect of reawakening me and alarming my wife. Someone suggested once I try some light reading in bed just before going to sleep. I’m not sure why I’ve never thought of this before, but much to my delight it has worked. I can’t tell you how delighted I have been to overcome my sleeping problem. There is nothing better than waking up in the morning refreshed from proper sleep during the night. Then, my nocturnal world came to a crashing, chirping halt. Three weeks ago come next Thurs - day, an incident happened to reverse all of the progress I made to date. Just as I was putting my book away and snuggling under the covers for a good night’s rest, my wife bolted straight up in the bed and exclaimed, “What’s that noise?” We listened intently and sure enough, there was a foreign noise in the night. Whispering, for what reason I don’t know, my wife confided to me, “there is a cricket in our bedroom.” We both held our breath and listened. Chirp … chirp … chirp. ”It sure sounds like a cricket to me,” I agreed. Then she said those ominous words that began a nightmare of almost three weeks. “Find that cricket and get rid of it.” I got up, as any dutiful husband would, and tried locating where the noise was coming from. After 15 minutes of diligent searching I came to the conclusion that there was no cricket in our bedroom and that the noise was coming from outside. I carefully opened the window, so as to not disturb whatever was out there making that noise. Listening carefully it dawned on me that a new neighbor had moved in to our backyard, precisely the tree right outside our bedroom window. Chirp … chirp … chirp. Our new neighbor turned out to be a tree frog. I want it known right here and now that I have nothing against tree frogs. I love animals and critters of all kinds. And normally I’m a congenial, easy-to-get-along-with fellow. I harbor no animosity toward my fellow man, fellow frog, or any of God’s creatures. I do have one exception to this rule. Every rule has its exception. What would a rule be if it didn’t? The exception is the tree frog in the tree outside my bedroom window. I’ve tried reasoning with this creature, even issuing an ultimatum. But as to this date nothing has convinced this devilish creature to keep quiet during the night. All night long — chirp … chirp … chirp. I’m not sure exactly when it begins, this nocturnal serenade, but every morning at 6:11 he quits while it is still dark so I cannot locate him. I think this is a despicable trick. For almost three weeks this nightly noise has gone continuously without a break. Chirp … chirp … chirp. Along about Wednesday night I was finally getting accustomed to this irritating chirp and was finally able to fall asleep. Then the despicable monster changed his tactics. He chirp … chirp … chirped as usual and then paused. That silence was like a shotgun blast in the night and my eyes snapped open in full alert position. As suddenly as he stopped he began chirping again. He chirped long enough to lull me into a false sense of security and just as I was about to doze off again the little rascal stopped in mid-chirp, causing me to come to full alertness again. He now knows he has a captive audience for his chirp-chirp serenades and there is nothing I can do about it. Sleep, as I once knew it, has become but a fond memory. As usual, I turned to the Bible for some consolation. By chance I stumbled onto Psalms 127:1-2 (KJV.) “Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it: except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain. It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows: for so he giveth his beloved sleep.” Although many things can keep us awake, there is one sure way to a peaceful night’s sleep … resting in the Lord who promises to give “his beloved sleep.”

Oil exploration update u s to play catch up with cuba

Startlingly enough, it looks as if the time will soon arrive when the USA will have to play catch-up with Cuba in oil exploration. The diminutive and destitute communist enclave that serves as Fidel Castro’s personal cigar plantation now realizes that it has enough oil reserves under its coastal waters to prop up its no-go economy for decades and, incapable of assembling the capacity to out the oil itself, the island nation has begun to license drilling rights to other countries, including China, the prospect of which alarms us, and Spain, the idea of which invites us to think of tapas. In wisdom wrought from its neediness, the resourceful islet has also offered to license American oil companies. Expectedly enough, the very prospect of Cuba scooping oil out of the ocean floor while America has outlawed it for decades has enkindled hot debate in Congress about the present wisdom of our self-imposed interdiction. The debate has rapidly blossomed into a gusher partly because America has even more proven oil reserves in its coastal waters, no doubt principally because it has even more coastal waters. Persuasively enough in these oil-dear times, there seems to be enough of the black gold there to meet all of our energy needs for about 18 years, or long enough for all the leaders in the Middle East who we aren’t getting along with these days to go the way of leaders everywhere who, we determine, are irredeemably misguided. Naturally, conservation societies have been galvanized into opposition by the mere prospect of an oil bit chomping into the emerald waters of our abundantly fishy coastlines in search of the liquid treasure below the reefs. As the debate bubbles on, we can only consider a worst-case, best-case scenario. Worst case: we do nothing while foreign companies who don’t exactly have the most reverential reputations in ecological propriety drill away and, as time allows, send oil spills slithering onto our beaches.

Best case: we race to catch up with Cuba and maybe even preempt the ill-advised entanglements that might otherwise drill down into our hemisphere. Since we’re actually talking about drilling in our own backyard pond, we might also, one hopes, do it in ways that are less likely to lead to the shameful oil blights that fill us all with remorse and send fish and fowl off to tarry death – derelictions that strange countries in a strange land might less assiduously labor to avoid.

The girl of friday

A centuries-old mystery has crossed my path again ... I mentioned in a recent article that there was a dispute in many academic quarters regarding the actual Viking deity being honored by the name, 'Friday.' The cold, hard fact is that unless someone unearths a runic stone that confirms the issue --- and that's not likely --- only a preponderance of circumstantial evidence is going to carry the day in any such debate. So, while others while away their time contemplating world peace, I've returned to the search for Friday's inspiration. If you'll recall, four of the seven days of the week are named after Norse gods: - Tuesday is for Tyr, the god of truth and war, - Wednesday is for Odin, the Allfather of Viking gods, - Thursday is for Thor, the god of thunder, - Friday, however is cloaked in ambiguity. I'd always heard the day's name-origin came from Frigg, Odin's elder wife --- he had more than one --- and this is supported by the most scholarly of English references, such as the Oxford dictionary. Others say it was for either Frey or Freja, who were brother and sister in the Vanir clan. Frey was the god of fertility, so it was considered essential to keep him happy; Freja was the goddess of love and beauty, so it didn't hurt to keep on her good side, either. Frigg's duties were to be the goddess of the sky. It was a subtle job, but someone had to do it. Turning to cyberspace for resolution, I happened on an excellent guide in Norse matters, The Viking Answer Lady. She is so meticulous in her material that I felt the possibility of her bringing light to the issue was quite good. So, I contacted her. To say she did her research is an understatement. Here's her reply to me: "Since Western Europe all originally derived from Indo-European tribes, we find that there were a lot of correspondences between the various branches --- not exact, one-for-one identity, but concepts are clearly related. So it's no real surprise to find that the naming and symbolism of the days of the week, and the number of days in a week, might be pretty much the same in all the descendants of the Indo-Europeans. "You can see the day-name correspondences in other languages that descend from Indo-European: "Ancient Greek has: hemera selenes (moon day), hemera Areos (Ares' day), hemera Hermu (Hermes' day), hemera Dios (Zeus' day), hemera Aphrodites (Aphrodite's day), hemera Khronu (Chronos' day), hemera heliou (sun day) "Latin: Lunae dies (Moon-day, Monday), Martis dies (Mars-Day, Tuesday), Mercurii dies (Mercury's day, Wednesday), Jovis dies (Jove's day, Thursday), Veneris dies (Venus' day, Friday), Saturni dies (Saturn's day, Saturday) or alternatively Christian Sabbatum or Sabbati dies (Sabbath day), Solis dies (Sunday)or alternatively Christian Dominicus dies (Lord's day) "Unsurprisingly, the Romance languages clearly derive their day names from Latin, except for Portugese, which numbers the days: "Italian: lunedi, martedi, mercoledi, giovedi, venerdi, sabato, domenica "Spanish: lunes, martes, miйrcoles, jueves, viernes, sбbado, domingo "French: lundi, mardi, mercredi, jeudi, vendredi, samedi, dimanche "Romanian: luni, marti, miercuri, joi, vineri, sоmbata, duminica "Portugese: Segunda-Feira (2nd day, Monday); Terзa-Feira (3rd day, Tuesday); Quarta-Feira (4th day, Wednesday); Quinta-Feira (5th day, Thursday); Sexta-Feira (6th day, Friday); Sбbado (Sabbath, Saturday); Domingo (Lord's Day, Sunday) "The Celtic languages have taken and preserved the Latin names of the days, and also borrowed heavily from Christian concepts: "Welsh: Dydd Llun (moon/Luna day), Dydd Mawrth (Mars' day), Dydd Mercher (Mercury's day), Dydd Iau (Jove's day), Dydd Gwener (Venus's day), Dydd Sadwrn (Saturn's day), Dydd Sul (sun day) "Gaelic: Di-luain (moon day); Di-mбirt (Mars's day); Di-ciaduinn or Di-ciadaoin (day of the first fast of the week - Friday being the second fast); Diardaoin (the day between the two fasts of Wednesday and Friday); Di-haoine or Dia-aoine (day of the fast) Di-sathuirn (Saturn day); Di-dуmhnuich (Lord's day) "Irish: Dй Luan (moon/Luna day); Dй Mairt (Mars' day); Dй Cйadaoin (day of the first fast of the week); Dйardaoin; Dй h-Aoine (the day between the two fasts of Wednesday and Friday); Dй Sathairn (Saturn's day); Dй Domhnaigh (Lord's day) "The Germanic languages, however, are also related. Ares/Mars was equated with Tэr as a warrior god. Zeus/Jupiter was equated with Thуrr as the god who hurled lightnings. Mercury was equated with Урinn, since both had a role as psychompomps, the one who leads the dead to their afterlife. Aphrodite/Venus was equated with Frigga and Freyja. "German: Montag (moon day), Dienstag (Tэr's day), Mittwoch (Mid-week), Donnerstag (Donner's/Thуrr's day), Freitag (Freyja/Frigga's day), Samstag (derived ultimately from Latin Sabbatum), Sonntag (sun day) "Dutch: maandag (moon day), dinsdag, woensdag (Woden's/Урinn's day), donderda (Donner's/Thуrr's day), vrijdag (Freyja/Frigga's day), zaterdag (Saturn day), zondag (sun day) "Norwegian and Danish: mandag (moon day), tirsdag (Tэr's day), onsdag (Урinn's day), torsdag (Thуrr's day), fredag (Freyja's/Frigga's day), lшrdag (washing day), sшndag (sun day) "Swedish: mеndag (moon day), tisdag (Tэr's day), onsdag (Урinn's day), torsdag (Thrr's day), fredag (Freyja/Frigga's day), lцrdag (wash day), sцndag (sun day) "Old English: mondжg or monandжg (moon day); tiwesdжg (Tiw's day, Tэr's day); wodnesdжg (Wotan's/Урinn's day); thunresdжg (Thуrr's day); frigedжg (Frigga's/Freya's day); sжterdжg or sжternesdжg (Saturn's day); sunnandжg (sun day) "Middle English: monday, moneday, or monenday (moon day); tiwesday or tewesday (Tiw's day, Tэr's day); wodnesday, wednesday, or wednesdai (Wotan's/Урinn's day); thursday or thuresday (Thуrr's day); fridai (Frigga's/Freya's day); saterday (Saturn's day); soneday, sonenday, sunday, sunnenday (sun day) "North Frisian: monnendei (moon-day); Tirsdei (Tэr's-day); Winsdei (Wotan's/Урinn's day); Tьrsdei (Thуrr's day); Fridei (Frigga's/Freyja's day); sennin (sun-evening); sennedei (sun day) "Etymologically, it's impossible to tell for certain whether the 'Friday' words derive from Frigga or Freyja (at least so I am told, I am not a philologist or linguistics expert). We can tell by the cognates that the name is from a goddess equated with Venus and Aphrodite. "We get into further problems in that 'Freyja' is derived from roots meaning simply 'lady' while 'Frigga' comes from roots related to 'beloved.' There have been several scholars who insist that Frigga and Freyja are just different titles for the same goddess. "None the less, undoubtedly 'Friday' comes from the name of one of these two goddesses, and not from the name of the god Freyr." Now, that's the sort of studied thoroughness that can achieve Masters degrees. It's a preponderance of evidence that can carry the day in a court of law. Even though she only eliminated one of the three contenders to the title of Friday's Namesake, the Viking Answer Lady has gone above and beyond the call of duty to provide me with the information I requested. I'm sure glad I didn't tell her I was just trying to win a bar bet.

Classic television on dvd bring late night s carson back to fans

Who could forget the smooth sound of Ed McMahon’s voice announcing with practiced timbre, “Heeeeeeeeere’s Johnny!” each night to millions of Americans as they sat up in their living rooms ready to watch another round of Johnny Carson giving his low-key monologue with the hard-to-resist deadpan delivery that we all came to know and love. Even today in the new millennium, thanks to classic TV DVDs, we are still able to see the comedic genius at work, albeit it doesn’t have to be in the wee hours of the morning. Johnny Carson’s primary claim to fame was as America's late night king of comedy. For thirty years he hosted NBC television's Tonight Show, and because of his up-to-the-minute monologues, flippant characters and lighthearted sketches he entered more homes via the television than any other performer had ever done before. His late night set provided the launching pad for many budding stars and starlets, gave widespread publicity for hundreds of books, movies and gadgets and never failed to offer a laugh (or two or three) to the millions of viewers tuned in. Carson was well known as getting his start in the world of magic at a very young age in his hometown of Norfolk, Nebraska. Performing feats of prestidigitation was his first love, but that was interrupted by World War II and a couple of years in the US Navy. After the war, Carson decided to attend college and chose the field of radio as his major. This proved to be a good choice for a young guy who had no idea of the impact that entertainment, particularly television, was about to have on the world at large as well has his home soil. After graduation he started a job as a radio deejay, but shortly thereafter the advent of TV began to take the country by storm. Starting out with television at its inception must have been an exciting time. Johnny Carson got in on the true ground floor and never left until his retirement some 40 years later. What a mark he left on the industry. His first stint on the visual air was hosting an afternoon program broadcast out of Omaha, Nebraska, called The Squirrel’s Nest. He pretty much had the run of that show doing local interviews, practicing his vast array of characters by performing skits and sketches and learning how to perfect his inimitable timing in the delivery of jokes and stories. Today some of his earliest works can be seen on classic TV DVD selections where a young Carson displays the same endearing grin he charmed audiences with decades later. Johnny Carson decided to try television in a big way when he made the decision to move to Hollywood in the 1950s. During his fledgling years in Hollywood, Carson hosted a gamut of television shows ranging from such titles as Carson’s Cellar, two different versions of the Johnny Carson Show, and two quiz shows called Earn Your Vacation and Who Do You Trust? During this time he also worked as a writer for the Red Skelton Show. All of this was merely practice for what many say is his greatest achievement - replacing the retiring Jack Paar and hosting the Tonight Show. It was in the Fall of 1962 that Carson took the seat behind the famous desk that was to be his for the next 30 years. Even though he had a completely opposite style from Paar, Carson did not need long to win over his audience. Before a half year had passed, the Tonight Show ratings were exceeding Paar’s by almost 500,000 viewers. It was an unprecedented event when within a decade and a half on the air, the Tonight Show doubled its audience numbers. Johnny Carson had left his mark on the world and became an icon of classic television. Film critic, David Edelstein, put it so well when he wrote Carson was the “naughty genius of late night”. Johnny Carson was an entertainer who drew viewers in night after night with his droll expressions, edgy comedic sketches and compelling, humorous interviews. His comedy was as timeless as his slim, dapper, boyish good looks. Through the emergence of classic television on DVD, Johnny Carson’s comedy is being relived by his fans and seen for the first time by a new generation. ~Ben Anton, 2007

U s ends oil dependency turns b s into fuel

While America is experiencing a gasoline shortage, the nation’s dependence on foreign oil is about to end. A researcher at The Department of Energy, from which breakthrough ideas emanate on a regular basis, noticed that Americans, along with most people who ever lived, have a virtually unlimited and renewable supply of B. S. He wondered if it might be turned into fuel. The hypothesis proved so promising that his work produced a marvelous result in as short a time as it took to record some B. S. from a wonderfully fertile colleague and wire it to a refinery. He calls the new potion Bio-Super. “It’s the most concentrated fuel in history,” he tells us, “with an octane rating of 99.9. I figure we’ve got enough of a supply to meet our total energy needs for the foreseeable future. All we have to do is keep B. S.-ing the way we do, and we’ll have all the Bio-Super we and our children need.” The product is ready for mass production. The technique calls for the collection of B. S. from all over the country by having the most irrepressible exponents of it talk into microphones. The B. S. is then broadcast to the closest refinery. Bio-Super also has an advantage over other fuels in terms of pollution, because the process actually takes a lot of it out of the air. Since the B. S. is so highly concentrated to begin with, the production of Bio-Super is quite a lot more efficient than the manufacture of biofuel from corn or woodchips. Just a hundred words of good old American B. S., particularly from people who like to hang out at bars after work and talk their heads off, can produce enough to fill up the gasoline tank on a Hummer. The only negative aspect is the product’s exceptional volatility. Once you pump it into your tank, you have to slam the gas cap shut instantly or it will all evaporate. Motorists are also advised only to remove the cap when the gauge is nearly on empty and to stand aside; otherwise, there is the risk of being knocked out with a force that scientists have calculated is equivalent to six airbags.

Just say no to sex

(Extended spoof, presented In 10 installments of 4 pages each. This is the second installment; previous ones are included on this site, in case you miss one.) "They all seem impressively genuine in their intentions," Dr. Coburn replied. "As young people are prone to do, they actually want to do their part to help save the world – and now they see a practical way to proceed.” “We shall see. But, even if you are able to inculcate your linguistic nonsense, how long do you expect they'll abstain before their fulminating libidos overwhelm your flimsy barricades?” “Until they are comfortably and safely married. I also assume that the most diligent students will continue to maintain a commendable degree of procreative moderation in wedlock.” “Please, they’d all be much safer simply using condoms.” “Condoms? Oh, don't even mention the word. How unnatural, how risky, how–“ “– About waiting for time to reveal the answer?” she interrupted, and then, sighing, said, “Dear me, the greatest liability a bright person can have today is the lack of a solid scientific background. Your well-intentioned mind simply does not have the knowledge required to innovate credibly in the field you have chosen. It is infested with so many cobwebs you simply can’t extricate yourself from them.” “Cobwebs to you, Prissy. Compassionate conservatism to me!” “Yes, out with the new, in with the old! Let us champion antiquated ideas, trotted out as innovations. Luddites of the world, unite!” “I admit it proudly! Antiquated ideas are my favorite kind. They have withstood the test of time and, therefore, their merit is self-evident.” Then he leaned forward and issued, what was to her, a particularly disheartening admonition. “Prepare yourself, Priscilla. The worldwide adoption of my method will actually make the need for your misguided educational programs and medical research superfluous.” “Doctor Coburn, you are – in the field in which you are dabbling – a most ignorant, insensitive, and dangerous man.” “Ignorant! Insensitive! And dangerous? Ah, now I know well the ridicule innovators have had to deal with from time immemorial. I can, at this juncture, even sympathize with the early plight of my arch-nemesis, Freud. What courage he had to persist against the Victorian tide. I shall borrow a page from him, however, not in terms of his erroneous unearthing of the sex drive, but in admirable doggedness.” “Please, don’t confound yourself with Freud. Your approach is not only unrealistic; it’s the most cockamamie – “ “– Dr. Ernst, if you please. One of my all-time least favorite words is ‘cockamamie.’ What a regrettable morass of mortifying associations.” “Excuse me, Richard. Sometimes your prudery is revelatory. I shall simply call it runaway ignorance.” “I think I have now endured enough of the slings of professional jealousy. Do you think I don’t know the medical school is beside itself because this historic advance in sexual behavior-modification has come from the sociology department?” “Not at all, Doctor. The truth, like it or not, is that at the medical school we must be entirely realistic every moment. Lives depend on the pragmatic orderliness of our procedures. Above all, we know we must deal with humanity as we find it – fragile and excitable humanity. We also know that at this particular time in history, due to the plethora of unwanted pregnancies, burgeoning overpopulation, and widespread STDs, Mother Nature has us, like it or not, by the balls!” “Shame on you, Priscilla! What language – and for a woman of your distinction.” “Oh, fiddlesticks! Would you be happier if I said it has us by the ovaries?” “Don’t make light of the dire situation we find ourselves in. You have forgotten one very important aspect of my method. It is a new reality, not a method of contraception that has proved inadequate to our overheated desires or the gleam in a frantic researcher’s eye. No, no, mine is a pragmatic approach that is available for immediate implementation.” “Oh, Dickie – “ “– Priscilla, please. You know how I feel about that alternate appellation.” “Yes, dear,” she replied with a trace of sympathy. “Sorry.” “About what?” “Calling you ‘dear.’” “Oh. I didn’t notice.” “Of course,” she said, resigning herself to his hurtful indifference and moving forward with her argument. “But somewhere beneath your self-assured surface, certainly you suspect the eternal inclinations of man and woman. How can you possibly think that your so-called method can moderate the tidal wave of sexual desire that sweeps through the world at every moment? How can it restrain the young, whose entire physical being throbs with sexual eagerness? Or the poor, who have precious few other pleasures? Or the wealthy, who perpetually court indulgence?” “My dear Dr. Ernst, what you obviously fail to understand is that I don't merely ask people just to say no to sex. I provide, in a series of one hundred compelling and self-evidently true axioms the resources the human will requires to be victorious – axioms that will one day no doubt be viewed as the Euclidean geometry of sexual resistance.” “Sorry, I remain unimpressed.” “Why? Because you’ve been dethroned. While you and your realistic colleagues have trusted to sexual propriety in the heat of desire and the far horizon of medical research, I have had the insight to see the gold at my feet.” “Fool's gold, I'm afraid!” “On the contrary, a solid gold chain every link of which consists of irrefutable logic – a step-by-step approach in which every statement follows the other as relentlessly as one moment follows its antecedent! Take, for example, Coburn's First Axiom of Abstinence. I dare you to find a flaw in it,” he challenged, and took the book from the coffee table. He opened it and held it toward her, as he recited, ‘Sex leads to pregnancy. Pregnancy leads to overpopulation. Therefore, sex must be avoided.’ Argue with that, if you dare!” “Richard, the argument is not with your self-evident nonsense but with your hopes for compliance. How on earth do you expect such a flimsy train of premises and conclusions to compel the world’s billions to adhere to sexual abstinence?” “Mock me if you must, Priscilla! Nevertheless, my hopes are being confirmed as more and more conscientious students sign up for my truly enlightened method.” “To learn what? To say no to sex, despite every natural proclivity and temptation, say no despite drunkenness or drugs? Sorry, Richard. I much prefer condoms to Coburn.” “Oh, Dr. Ernst, the effrontery even to mention my name in apposition to that sine qua non of imperfect prophylaxis.” At that moment, the doorbell rang. Doctor Coburn looked at his watch. “Ah, ha,” he announced, “that must be my new star applicant, Dan Fox.” “Fox? He wants to sign up?” “Correct. He called to apply right before you arrived. Naturally, I invited him to come over right away, lest the legendary stud have second thoughts.” “I can't believe his interest is at all genuine.” “Then it’s a fine fortuity that he has arrived while you’re still here.” “If by some chance you are able to exert even modest restraints on him, how many young girls’ hopes you’ll shatter. It’s preposterous to think you can control him, given the number of girls who’d tear their own clothes off to hop into the sack with him.” Just then Melanie entered the room, and said, “Didn't I hear the doorbell ring?” “Yes, dear. I think it's Dan Fox.” Melanie seemed unusually upset. “Dan Fox? What's he doing here?” “He wants to enroll in my course.” “Daddy, come on. He's the last guy in the world –“ “– Now, now, Mel, don’t prejudge him.” He noticed her hesitation. “Please, just get the door.” “Sure,” she consented, with a bit of teeth grinding. He stood proudly while Melanie walked there. She took a deep breath and pulled it open. “What are you doing here?” she asked the handsome athlete. “Hi, Melanie,” he replied. “I want to sign up for you dad’s course.” “Sure, you do,” she said, indicating she suspected him of harboring an unspoken motive. “Let him in, Mel,” Doctor Coburn called. “All right,” she agreed, and stood aside. “Thanks,” he told her. “Dan, my boy, come right in,” Coburn called. “Thank you!” he replied, with as much transparent enthusiasm as he could muster. Melanie closed the door and observed as her father put out his hand. “Welcome, Fox.” “Glad to be here,” he said, glancing at the skeptical observer beside his new-found mentor. “You know Dr. Ernst?” Coburn asked. “Yes, I do,” Dan said. “Hi, Dr. Ernst.” “Hello, Mr. Fox,” she replied distantly. “I'm delighted you made the big decision to study with me, Dan,” Dr. Coburn said. “Thanks,” he replied. “I'm convinced it's the responsible thing to do – I mean, with all the problems sex can cause.” “Good, Dan!” Dr. Coburn exclaimed. “I see that, besides brawn, you've got brains.” “Thank you, sir. My ideal is, like the ancient Greeks said, ‘a sound mind in a sound body.’” “In a very sound body,” Dr. Ernst commented. “The girls tell me you're quite irresistible.” “Thanks. But it’s not my fault. I was born this way.” “But you can rise above it, I assure you,” Dr. Coburn advised him. “That’s my goal,” Dan said. “I need to save my energy for football.” “Tell me, Dan,” Dr. Ernst inquired, “what makes you believe Doctor Coburn’s method can work for you? Have you read his new book?” “Not yet,” Dan admitted, “but I've heard a lot about it. From what I can tell, it appeals to the mind – and I like that. Mind over body – the same thing you need in the fourth quarter when you're behind and you have to do a lot more than you think you can.” Dr. Coburn turned to Dr. Ernst, and told her, “I have great faith in this young man.” Then he eyed Dan critically. “My hope is that you’ll become one of my star pupils.” Somehow, this comment cut Melanie to the quick, and she said, “Dad, I need to speak with you.” “Later, dear. In the meantime, please, escort Mr. Fox to my study and get him signed up.” She looked at Dan with condescension. “I cannot believe this! Come on.” “Thanks, Melanie,” he said, and followed her. “What do you think?” Dr. Coburn asked. “Me? Oh, I also have great faith in him,” she replied wryly. “Did you notice the way he looked at your daughter?” “No, I didn’t. It all seemed rather usual to me.” “Really?” she asked. “And why do you think Melanie seemed so uneasy? Could she by any chance be infatuated with him?” “Mel? Oh, please, she’s far too well trained for such an indiscretion.” “Richard, sometimes you are a blind ass. Fox obviously has something on his mind other than learning how to say no to sex.” “You suspect he's only here because he’s interested in Melanie? Little Melanie, with all the voluptuous women who are at his beck and call?” “I have a proposition.” “You mean, a proposal?” “Whatever. You teach him your method as best you can. Then you arrange for him and Melanie to be alone for an evening.” “Alone?” “Yes, and Melanie must be given instructions that she is to try every wile she can manage to break down his willpower. If he maintains his indifference to her advances, I will leave you to proselytize as extensively as you can. On the other hand, if by some chance he cannot resist her charms and succumbs, you will admit defeat and cease to promulgate your method.” “But poor Melanie – to subject her to such an excruciating experience.” “Don’t tell me you suspect she might be in any sort of danger? Richard, if your method is half as good as you say it is, she’ll be faced with an insurmountable, and therefore an entirely risk-free, task.” “But to ask her to do something so contrary to her lifelong training–“ “Yes, but think of the possible benefits if you succeed with Dan. Your triumph will resonate throughout the campus. I’ll withdraw all my objections and recommend that the medical school withdraw its. Then you'll have a free hand on campus and on to the welcoming arms of a desperate world!” “Do you I have your word on that?” “Absolutely. Now, how long do you need to indoctrinate Mr. Fox?” “That depends on how much time he’s willing to give me. But in no event will I require more than one month.” “Then you've got a deal,” she said, and put out her hand. “Deal, Priscilla!” he affirmed, and gave her hand a hearty shake. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.” “My pleasure, Richard.” “Don’t forget your gift,” he told her, and picked up the autographed copy of his book from the coffee table. She accepted it. As he walked her to the door, she said, “Good luck. You'll need it.” “Thank you, Priscilla,” he replied, “but not nearly as much luck as you’ll need.” She gave him a peck on the cheek, and his face flushed to a degree that slightly embarrassed him. “Till then,” she said, and went out the door. End of Second Installment

A revised history of pasta

While Marco Polo, a Venetian, is generally given credit for discovering noodles in China, recent research suggests that Italian pasta in all its glorious varieties was actually discovered in Rome nearly a century earlier, and quite by accident, by a remarkably unlikely epicurean named Julius Amplonius, with the able assistance of an invading barbarian named Klunk, The Great. The momentous event occurred one afternoon when this portly patrician was dining at a chic restaurant just off the Roman Forum. He was savoring a sip of red wine from Tuscany when a group of alarmed citizens came running by, screeching, “The barbarians are coming! The barbarians are coming!” Amplonius had witnessed their arrival before, and by now he had made peace with the ancient wisdom, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may be out of food and wine.” It was by such Stoicism that the wise were able to witness the destruction of the Roman Empire while preserving a somewhat peaceful life. So, with a knowing smile, Julius simply raised his glass toward the fleeing crowd. “What are you going to do, Julie, just sit there and eat?” a citizen who knew him quite well asked. “Why not?” he replied. “I’m thirsty. Not to mention hungry.” With that, he indulged in another taste of the Tuscan red. “You’re crazy!” a speeding friend called. “Run, Julie! Run!” Just then a waitress who doubled as a temptress arrived with Julie’s lunch, which might be described as a plate of proto-pasta. It consisted of a flat, round piece of dough that hung just a bit over the margins of the plate. It had a baked tomato sitting in the middle of it, with a single chunk of parmesan cheese next to it, and around both was a wreath of fragrant basil leaves. “Enjoy your plano,” she said, putting down the dish, for that is the name the proto-pasta was known by. “Thank you, gorgeous,” Julius told her, and gave her a pinch. “Oh, you silly man,” she replied, and, looking about, seemed nervous. “Can you do me a favor, love, and close out your bill now?” “No problem, you sex kitten,” he said, and reached for his purse. He took out enough Roman coinage to include a generous tip. “Keep the change,” he told her, and pursed his lips expectantly. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said, and gave him a luscious but ever-so-brief kiss. Then she hurried off after the other fleeing citizens. Julius calmly picked up a knife and fork and began to eat his proto-pasta. Just as he cut off and savored his first bite, in rushed a huge, fur-covered barbarian, with a leather shield and the fateful sword with which he would help Julius discover pasta in many of the varieties we enjoy to this day, from lasagna to angel hair. “Uh!” he grunted, and raised his sword. Julius continued to dine. “Uh! Uh!” the barbarian raged, for the sound “uh” comprised much of the everyday range of his proto-language. To attract the attention of the unperturbed diner, he swung his sword in a circle and just happened to whack off the head of a statue of the great Augustus. It crashed to the marble floor. Julius couldn’t help but notice the decapitation and, placing a leaf of basil on his tongue, said, “That wasn’t very nice. I kind of liked that statue.” The barbarian could not, of course, understand a word. In an effort to establish a bit of good will, at least long enough to allow him to finish his meal, Julius held up his bottle of wine. “Like some vino?” “Huh-Uh!” the barbarian managed to say. “Suit yourself,” Julie told him. “Got a name?” The barbarian stared at him without comprehension. “Name?” Julius repeated, pointing to himself and then at the barbarian to illustrate the point of his question. “Klunk,” the barbarian said. “I might have guessed,” Julius commented. “Klunk, The Great,” the barbarian continued, with some intellectual effort. “Good for you,” Julius told him, and put out his hand. “I’m Julius, The Roman, also known as Julie, The Ample. Have a seat.” “Huh-uh! I am conqueror – conqueror of Rome!” Klunk managed to say. “Good for you!” Julie told him, and couldn’t resist asking the most challenging question. “Are you sure you can afford the upkeep? It’s an expensive city to maintain.” “What is upkeep?” Klunk wanted to know. “You’ll find out,” Julius advised him. “Now, come on. Have a seat. You’ve had a hard day.” Then he pointed to his dish and indicated a reluctant willingness to share some of his food. “And enjoy some plano.” Klunk looked down at the plate, and asked, “What is plano?” “You don't know?” Julie inquired. “Where have you been?” “Other side of the Alps,” Klunk managed to get out. “Oh, no wonder,” Julie replied, and decided to educate the deprived soul. “See. This is a plate. Ever hear of a plate?” “Plate?” “Instead of eating off the table, or the ground, you eat off of a plate.” “Uh,” Klunk said, with apparent understanding. “Now, on the plate we put a flat piece of boiled dough, called plano,” Julius continued, lifting up the edge with his fork to demonstrate. “Then we put all kinds of goodies on top of it. In this case, a tomato, a piece of cheese, and basil leaves.” “Uh-huh.” Klunk acknowledged. “All you do is take a knife and fork,” Julius explained, picking the utensils up slowly, so Klunk wouldn’t mistake his intentions and send his head rolling the way of the great Augustus’s marble head. “Then you cut off a piece.” He went through the process and took a bite. “Ah, delicious! Sure you won’t have any?” “Uh-huh,” Klunk said, holding his ground, and repeated with some effort, “Plano.” “Excellent!” Julius exclaimed. “You'll be a true Roman in no time!” “Klunk – a Roman?” the barbarian responded, visibly insulted, and raised his sword high above Julius. Then, unexpectedly, he brought the sword down on the plate and cut the plano right in half. “Now, what do you call it?” he was somehow able to ask. Julius looked down at the two half-moons, and said, “I think I’ll call that one big agnolotti.” Then he took another sip of wine and smiled at Klunk. Incensed at his inability to frighten Julius, he raised his sword again and whacked the plate three or four times. “What do you call it now?” Julius examined it, and said, “This I’ll call lasagne.” With that, he took a bite and savored it. Now furious, Klunk attacked the plate repeatedly, and demanded, “What do you call it now?” Julius, despite his indifference to fate, was a bit shaken by all the clatter, and said, “I will name it linguine.” Needless to say, Klunk swung his sword at the plate with an unprecedented volley of strokes. “What is it now?” Julius examined the mishmash on his plate. By now, the plano was cut into thin strips, the tomato was diced, and the cheese was grated. After some deliberation, Julius announced, “You made what I will call spaghetti.” Still remaining remarkably calm, at least on the exterior, Julius took his fork and wound some spaghetti around it. Then he took a bite. “Delicious! And fun, too,” he told Klunk. Enraged at his seemingly imperturbable true Roman, the barbarian now slashed at the contents of the plate until his arms were a veritable blur. Then, short of breath, he sighed, “Tell me what you name that.” Julius looked closely at the mayhem in his plate. Now, the pasta was as thin as he could imagine it, and the tomato sauce, cheese, and basil were all mixed together. “It is so thin I think I will name it angel hair.” Klunk became unexpectedly curious and bent toward Julius. “Angel hair? What for? You no angel. You fat Roman.” Considering how finely the plano was now sliced, Julius could not imagine how much longer it could invite the attentions of Klunk and imagined that his own neck might well be the next object of the barbarian’s fury. Ever the clever Roman, he noticed that, as a result of Klunk’s exertion, his tummy was showing a bit. Julie was, of course, also aware of the legendary weakness of the barbarian shield, as opposed to the metal shield that accounted for much of the impenetrability of the storied Roman phalanx. So he pretended to move his knife toward the last remaining decent-size piece of tomato, saying, “No, my friend, I am not an angel.” With that, he quickly stabbed the somewhat exhausted Klunk, and added, “But you’re about to become one.” Klunk looked down at his sudden, fatal wound with shock and fell to the ground with a thud. His head knocked the table and, if Julius’s hands weren’t so quick, the movement would have upset his glass of wine. Leaning back and enjoying a sip, he said, “I think I’m gonna call all these things I discovered after my beautiful girlfriend, Pastina.” Then he rolled a bit on his fork and indulged in another mouthful, musing, “I just love Pastina.” All the names Julius invented that day, with the undoubted help of the ill-fated barbarian Klunk, have come down through the centuries without alteration, except for the categorical appellation, which usage would eventually abbreviate to the more familiar word “pasta.”

A lawyers favorite lawyer jokes

Lawyer Jokes Q: How does a pregnant woman know she is carrying a future lawyer? A: She has an extreme craving for baloney. Q: What is the legal definition of “Appeal”? A: Something a person slips on in a grocery store. Q: Why did God make snakes just before lawyers? A: To practice. Q: What do you call a lawyer with an IQ of 12? A: Your Honor. Q: What’s the difference between a lawyer and a herd of buffalo? A: The lawyer charges more. Q: What do you call a smiling, sober, courteous person at a bar association convention? A: The caterer. Q: Why are lawyers like nuclear weapons? A: If one side has one, the other side has to get one. Q: What do you get when you cross the Godfather with a lawyer? A: An offer you can't understand. Q: What do you call a lawyer gone bad? A: Senator Q: Did you hear they just released a new Barbie doll called "Divorced Barbie"? A: It comes with half of Ken's things and alimony. Q: What's the difference between an attorney and a pit bull? A: Jewelry. Q: What's the definition of mixed emotions? A: Watching your attorney drive over a cliff in your new Ferrari. Q: What’s the difference between lawyers and accountants? A: At least accountants know they’re boring. Stories: 1. A man who had been caught embezzling millions went to a lawyer. His lawyer told him, "Don’t worry. You’ll never go to jail with all that money? In fact, when the man was sent to prison, he didn’t have a dime. 2. As the lawyer awoke from surgery, he asked, "Why are all the blinds drawn?" The nurse answered, "There's a fire across the street, and we didn't want you to think you had died." 3. God decided to take the devil to court and settle their differences once and for all. Satan heard this, laughed and said, "And where do you think you're going to find a lawyer?" 4. A lawyer is sitting at the desk in his new office. He hears someone coming to the door. To impress his first potential client, he picks up the phone as the door opens and says, "I demand one million and not a penny less." As he hangs up, the man now standing in his office says, "I'm here to hook up your phone." And finally: You Might Be A Lawyer If.... You are charging someone to read these jokes.

Stand up comedienne gagging for a joke

What type of person sees the funny side of a joke or gag told by a stand up comedienne, what type of person doubles over with laughter after the punch line of a joke has been delivered? What kind of person is more prone to giggle when watching someone play the fool? Well the answer to that is simple? A person one who wants to laugh. Laughter represents happiness. Celebration parties will always include some form of entertainment - whether it is in the form of a musical band - solo singer or magician etc. But the most popular performer of all invited along to entertain is a stand up comedienne and the reason for that is because they can accommodate their act to suit the mood.

Stand up comics have a mission to accomplish each time they perform their act and that is to make people laugh with their funny jokes - some funny folk amuse party guests in other ways with hilarious foolish antics or silly mime games. Depending on the event or occasion the comedy performance may be structured around the parties theme e. g. a child`s party may have characters like a clown or if it is an all male wild stag night gathering - then expect the stand up comedienne to deliver the goods in the way of naughty blue jokes. Jokes and gags come clean or dirty - this is your party therefore the choice of entertainment is entirely up to you. The best thing for you to do if you are to host an event which involves a stand up comedienne - is to do a little research, check out what you feel will go down well with your party guests. An atmosphere where laughter holds a strong presence tells you that the party is definitely a success. Sometimes it is the host that takes on the role as the funny performer (stand up comedienne) if this is your intention then ask a few close friends for help in rounding up a few party gags - by doing this you have guaranteed laughs because those who shared their jokes with you will always find them funny. Stand up comedienne jokes and gag material can be found online. If you are finding it a struggle to get your act together then why not listen to or watch a video on stand up comediennes to gather tips. Online entertainment sites provide all you need to know on funny folk, so if you are gagging for a good joke then go online. Another good idea is to practice acting out your stage show in the mirror - this is a great way to make sure you look the part and that part is the star attraction at the event.

Bill clinton in secret talks with hillary agrees to run for vice president

Former President Bill Clinton has been holding secret talks with his wife and wannabe President Hillary and has, the rumor mill informs us, agreed to be her Vice Presidential candidate. In an exclusive interview, he confided, “Even though I want to help Hillary in every way I can, it wasn't an easy decision. After all, if you remember, I was the President. But, since I’ll be back in the White House, I decided I would rather have more to keep myself busy than just being America’s First Man." So, as 2008 draws nigh and the inevitable blizzard of questions to her on who she hopes to name as her running mate go discreetly unanswered, just remember you heard it here first that the resourceful husband and wife team plan to make another run for the White House. Given the current state of America’s feelings about the comeuppances of the Republican tenure, there is actually a very high likelihood that the dedicated duo could once again be frolicking in the realms of Presidential empowerment. Only this time we would, of course, have President Hillary Clinton and Vice President Bill Clinton. While Democrats cheer, Republicans may double over with wails of dread, while they reach out with hopeful hands for the now-flirtatious Rudy or the ever-coy Jeb.

Senior ticked for walking too slow others try roller skates

An 82-year-old woman was recently issued a ticket in California for crossing a street too slowly. A police officer, who arrived on a motorcycle, told her she was obstructing traffic – and issued her a summons for $114. Responding to the uproar caused by the curious traffic ticket, the municipality has begun to wonder if it should work out ways to help seniors cross streets without fear of incurring a penalty. It is, of course, much too optimistic to hope that the municipality and the nation at large will speed to their rescue with such startling innovations as walk signs that last longer. As a result, seniors, alarmed by the pricy citation, particularly those who are living on social security, are taking steps of their own, as they frantically search for ways to hurry along. Of course, electric wheelchairs have long been an option. But many simply don’t see themselves in the undeniably helpful items, at least, not until they encounter accidents due to the other resources they’ve been turning to, for instance, roller skates. We also understand that bicycles have been selling briskly, particularly near retirement communities. Of course, those who are fortunate enough to live with more able partners have the luxury of looking into other options, such as little red wagons and, in rural areas, wheelbarrows. In a nutshell, seniors are turning to every possible mode of expedition they can think of, which generally means they’re equipped with the age-old facilitation of wheels. While these alternative modes of transportation might offer suitable answers during balmier times, there is some concern about what to do when snow and ice cover the ground. Among the more daring sorts, there is talk of skis, while others are considering ice skates. Until then, we can at least be glad that the dear recipient of the instigating ticket was not also issued points. Enough of those, and she’d have to be concerned about losing her walking license.

Timothy ward s great coloring book rebirth

I bought a coloring book yesterday from Wal-Mart. I hadn't colored in years and I got the strange urge to out of the blue. I also bought a 24-pack of Crayola crayons. The box says they are non-toxic which is a relief. I just wonder who sells the toxic crayons and how they compare in price to the crayons I bought. Some people may consider having a radioactive glow about them the same color as the crayon they justed used to be a great feature for which they would gladly pay extra. The coloring book I bought is called Justice League to the Rescue and it contains colorable pictures of all the Justice League heroes like Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, and The Flash. My favorite is Batman. I've always admired the darkness that hangs about him. Other superheroes seem to happy and cheerful (even when supervillains are totally destroying their towns) but not Batman - you can hear the depression in his voice. I would vote Batman the 'CrimeFighter You Would Most Likely Run Into At Your Shrink's Office.

I'm willing to bet that Batman has a few anti-depressants tucked away in one of thse pouches on his BatBelt. Since Batman is my favorite member of the Justice League I started my coloring book rebirth with one of his pictures. I colored his suit blue, his gloves and boots red, and the underside of his cape indigo. I would have called it purple but the side of the crayon said 'Indigo, Indigo, Indigo', apparently because indigo is spelled the same way in English, Spanish and, I believe, French. I'va always wondered why Crayola listed the crayon colors on the side of their crayons in three different languages.

As I child it was very confusing to me because I didn't know which listing was English and so up until about 10 years old I pronounced most of my colors in the Spanish tongue. I still blame this for most of my academic failures in life, that and the fact that all through middle and high school I refused to take more than one book home at a time. Even if I had homework in 4 classes I would only take one book home. Taking more than one book home made you look like a complete loser nerd, or in my case, more of a complete losernerd. I colored Batman's eyes and face yellow-green (verde amarillo, vert-jaune) because I thought it would give him that money green aura that I'm sure a gazillionaire like Bruce Wayne has about him. Turns out I probably should have went with green-yellow (amarillo verde, jaune-vert) because instead of 'money green' the aura I got was 'ready-to-puke' which is probably the way he really looks most of the time when you factor in all the tall buildings Batman is constantly leaping from.

I was so satified with my picture when I finished coloring in that I signed and dated it. Who knows, years from now when I become a household name that picture may be worth a fortune. You may see it on ebay going for thousands of dollars. Don't despair if you can't afford to buy it-I've got a whole coloring book here and a lot more crayons, I'm sure I can color something in your price range. Tell you what, just for you, I'll even get rid of the Crayola crayons and color a picture with a box of those regular ol' toxic crayons. Then you'll not only get a Timothy Ward original colored picture but you also get that great radioactive glow... [ Submitted with ArticleSubmitter Pro - http:// proxylate. com/article_submitter_pro.

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I live in a hundred years old house

“It’s been over a century now since the time the construction of this house was begun. There were so many people who lived here, many of them died here…. The walls of this house have seen so many things, and recorded them in a form you and I may never know. But record them, it has. And in some strange and inexplicable moments does this house convey fragments of the past to the inhabitants, in what eventually turns out to be something bizarre… “Grandpa, there is no way you can get me to sleep with another of your ghost stories… I am not really scared of them anymore.

And it’s not like you could scare anyone to sleep anyway.” “O, okay! Just go to bed before your mom and dad are back. And, by the way, these stories are not made up, you know. Did I tell you that your great grandmother walked out of this very bedroom for an evening walk, and she never returned? They never found her again. Yet sometimes, when the moon is a sickle and the curtains billow in the cool breeze of the night, they say you can hear a soft, gentle voice, humming her favourite song.” “Goodnight, grandpa.” The night was cold and dark. And outside the little window, the boy could hardly see the flicker of light from a distant lamp. Electricity was a scarcity in these areas – there had been no electricity in the grand, old house for an hour. The burning taper rose and fell in the socket. The boy’s room was engulfed in darkness, and the howling wind sent a shiver down his spine. He got up to close the window, and then jumped right back into bed. He slept, and he dreamt horrible dreams. It was only a matter of hours before the sun reached for the sky, whispering into everybody’s ears, “You can wake up now. It was only a dream.” Sitting up on his ancient bed, the boy wondered what his dream was all about. “Was it because grandpa told me those things last night?” Whatever it was, the boy decided that he was fed up of those stupid old stories. There were no such things as ghosts anyway! It was evening by the time he got back from the play field. He took the stairs, and as he walked in through the door of his room, he felt something crawling up his back. “Probably an insect,” he said to himself, and grabbed it. He let out a blood curdling scream when he realised that it was a large bat in his hand. He let go, lost his balance and banged into his study table. His mother came running in. “What happened… are you alright?!” “Nothing… nothing, mom. It was just a bat.” “Well, you ought to be more careful. You know there are bats and owls flying all over the place at night.” “I know I know, mom.” His mother got busy with her work. He pulled his study table back to its original place. It was then that he noticed something strange. The walls of the house were not made of brick. They were made of something else, and had several layers of plaster over them. The table had created a small crack on the wall, revealing tiny shreds of dark blue plaster. He cleaned up and put his table in front of the crack so no one would notice it. “So you little devil, did you have a nightmare last night,” asked his grandfather to the little boy as he walked into the dining room for tea. “Will it pleasure you if I said I did, grandpa?” “He, he… so you are afraid of my stories aren’t you?” At that very moment, a brilliant idea struck the little boy. He looked at his grandfather with a solemn expression on his face and said, “Say grandpa, have you ever been to a place for the first time and felt like you’ve been there before?” “What are you talking about my boy?” “It’s the strangest feeling that I’ve had. It’s like I have faint recollections of seeing this house the way it was before I was born.” “That nightmare really had you bad, didn’t it?” “No grandpa. Tell me, weren’t the walls a dark blue before?” “They were! My god, they were!! However did you know?” “I told you grandpa, it’s like I’ve been here before I was born.” “It was a long time ago… my grandfather had the walls painted dark blue. We didn’t even have cameras then: you couldn’t have seen it on a photograph.” “Duh, if you did have cameras, they would’ve been black and white.” “What else do you remember?” “Uh… uh, there was pond right… right next to the gate?” “Amazing! This is truly amazing!” (“Phew! That was a close one!!”) “What else? What else?!” “Grandpa, did I mention I had faint recollections? It was more like a dream. Here comes mom now with the pancakes.” The old man stared at the boy in bewilderment for quite some time. He concluded that he was a reincarnation of someone who had lived in this house before. “Dad, what’s on your mind?” “It’s the most amazing thing! Your son, here, is actually a reincarnation of someone who had lived here before.” “What?! Are you feeling alright, dad?” “Ask him… tell her grandson.” The boy was in a fix. He knew it. He pulled on a confused look and said, “Uh… mom, it’s nothing… uh… I think grandpa isn’t feeling very well.” “Oh, I am feeling fine. The boy needs help, I tell you. There is a fakir in town for a day or two. Tell him to come and see us… your little son is possessed I am afraid. He’s been saying weird things… as if he knew this place before he was born. And now he looks so confused, like he didn’t know what he was saying.” After the much deliberation and hours of discussion, and taking into consideration that the boy kept saying his grandfather was in over his head, it was decided that the fakir be called to the house. The lady of the house was away visiting her parents the night the fakir was to show up. The old man was asleep, and the boy was at the gate patiently waiting for him. When he did show up, he politely introduced himself, and told him that his mother would be with him shortly. “It’s my grandfather, sir. My father used to come back from work late in the evening. A few years ago his car met with an accident… and he never returned. I still remember the way he used to hum ‘Raindrops keep falling on my head’ when he walked in through that door… always a spring in his step.” A tear ran down the boy’s cheek as he continued with his story. “My grandfather always waits for him to come back… hoping that he would rise from the dead one day and come to see his father.” Just then, the old man, awoken by the sound of voices, remembered that he was to expect the fakir. He washed up and came downstairs to find his grandson and the fakir in the sitting room. “Ah, we’ve been expecting you. I see you’ve already met my grandson. His father should be here any moment now. We will talk then. In the meantime, let me fix you a cup of tea.” The fakir looked at the boy. “I see what you mean little boy. Perhaps you could give me and your grandfather a moment.” “Sure. I’ll just go to my room.” The old man came in with a tray. “My son should be here just about now,” he said to the fakir. Just then, the back door clicked, and a man walked in humming ‘Raindrops keep falling on my head.’ He was cheerful, and his clothes were dirty from a hard day’s labour. The fakir jumped up in his place and looked at him in horror, and in a split moment he was out the front door, running like the wind. “And what’s wrong with him, dad? He looked like he’d seen a ghost. I told you it wasn’t a good idea to call that fakir here. There’s nothing wrong with a little boy’s imagination running wild anyway, is there?” “I believe you’re right. I did overreact a little.”

Bat ejection techniques country survival course 27

People lie! They lie about the bliss of rural relocation. They lie about the size of fish they catch. They lie about being there for you. But, mostly, they lie about bats! Such a silly thing, yet no one can admit the ugly truth. “Bats only come into your house. It never happens to me,” friends say. Liars!

Evidence to the contrary exists. Bat visitations have occurred regularly in all three of my country homes. Each was a different style house, in a different town with different surroundings. No way am I the only person this is happening to! I’ll believe the annual summer bat inundation isn’t a part of normal life when butter is fat free and Smucky’s Electric gets back to me with that wiring estimate they promised just prior to the Mammoth die off. One of my sisters in particular gets a kick out of telling people I am a witch attracting bats to my home like anorexics migrating to the Cannes Film Festival. She does it to be ornery – a competitive sport in my family. Of course, I could get even by pointing out right here in my very public essay that she is my OLDER sister by a DECADE. However, I am too peaceable and well centered for such adolescent behavior. Besides, you are here to learn another fine country skill – the Bat Ejection Technique (BET). Lesson 1 – Why BET Rural dwellers should all master BETs. Realtors will never admit to the Coloptera inundation plaguing the West. Property values would tumble! Amidst all this denial, a seamy cover-up has formed. Copies of Bat Removal for Dummies are burned at country BBQs and members of the Society of the Dead Elk deliver bat traps to farms under cover of darkness. As my town’s resident City Idiot, I chose to break ranks. If Cidiots are not taught to deal properly with winged rodentia, both will suffer. Bats will be ‘baseballed’ into walls with brooms. If not, Cidiot homes will overflow with wiggling blankets of screeching critters. Folks will be driven back to the burbs in droves. Quite selfishly - I need newbies to stay in the country. Please don’t leave me alone out here! Take notes. Lesson 2 - History of the BET For whatever reasons bats enter homes in pairs. My hypothesis is; one holds the dog door open while the other flies through and vise versa. Attempts to document this behavior have been hampered by the presence of innumerable dogs kissing my eyes shut when I stake out the laundry room floor. Nonetheless, like bats to Noah’s ark, they arrive by twos. Throughout history Novice Bat Ejectors dispelled unwanted intruders with the pacifistic Zero Interference Technique (ZIT). For a true ZIT open all windows and doors and cower on the floor waiting for the bats to fly back out. I researched the effectiveness of this method at my first country home. There are three problems with this technique: Bats never leave as easily as they enter. A person could learn Arabic before the ZIT clears matters up. Heat leaves houses quite quickly resulting in cold ZITs. Bats tend to turn up in the middle of the night. Sleep deprivation is a direct side effect of ZITs. Lesson 3 – Modernization Athletic newbies frequently combine the open window/door approach of a ZIT with a more proactive approach. They jump around with a blanket in an attempt to herd bats outside. This is the Comforter Herding Ejection Technique (CHET). A good CHET take two people. Even then CHETs are hard. Bats do not know they shouldn’t fly around the blanket. The technique is rendered totally ineffective when your husband, who is suppose to hold the opposite side of the blanket, does a “stop, drop and roll” every time he spots a bat from thirty yards away. At night neighbors can see you, but not the bat. So there you are running amuck in your PJs. The doors and windows are wide open as you spiraling over furniture with your flag-like fabric in tow. Meanwhile your underwear-clad man is having what is apparently some version of repeating epileptic seizures. And you, you cold-hearted bitch, you just keep on dancing. Lesson 4 – BET Evolution Bat invasion number three of year number two was a turning point for me. For some bizarre reason I was washing the morning dishes. We must have been out of coffee. Obviously I was not quick-witted enough to get out of dish duty. Suddenly, I heard the high-pitched chatter of a bat straight over my head. The space over my cabinets is where all my gigantic jelly-making kettles are poised. Grabbing the step stool, I hovered near and listened. Something was in my stoneware – dark, like a cave, the crafty little bugger. Please, don’t let it get airborne. I have to go to town this morning, I thought. There was no time for the traditional CHET dance. My cerebral light bulb clicked on. Hey, It’s easier to catch bats when they aren’t moving. A Nobel Prize for would be mine. Apparently washing dishes has some net value after all. I slid a plate over the stoneware rim and took my captive out side. Plate removed, an upside-down shake and plop. The bat was on the ground. I watched for a moment making sure my son’s devil cat did not turn up. Finally, the bat orientated itself and flew off with chatter. Dam, I’m good, I mused. Then I turned and took two steps towards the door. Gasp! Leap! Curse! Something bad hit my bare foot. Reflexes took over. I went for a field goal. Another bat had been in the jar. Curse! Hebbie Jebies! Will I never learn? Twos, always twos! Scratches, tiny claws on my foot - it was all to early. First dishes, then this. The traumatized bat landed several feet away. It took a good five minutes before the winged menace recovered enough to fly off. Headed for town, I left a note for my son. “Finish the dishes.” Lesson 5 – BET Mastery I learned two things that morning. First, generic dish soap sucks. Second, a motionless bat is the best bat to catch. Chasing them in flight is a fool’s game. In retrospect Samuel, my Great Pyrenees, had attempted to point this out earlier that spring. Hearing one of the midnight riots, I ordered all my dogs out. There was no need to look for the cause. I knew by then what the combination of barking and a synchronized chase meant at 1 a. m. Ho hum, more bats in the house. The other dogs complied. Sam however stood there looking sleepy, stubborn, sad and guilty. Anyone who owns a Pyrenees knows this is their natural state. Just as I demanded, “Samuel, go!” I spotted the diminutive little wing sticking out from under his massive front paw. Here Mom, a motionless bat is the best bat to catch. He is a genius! BET Summary Grab a teacup or the aquarium net and a saucer Wait for a landing Cup/net over the Bat Saucer or magazine carefully slid under Out the door it goes Hee Haw! With practice you’ll be back in bed before the underwear-clad epileptic knows your gone. You can BET on it.

Bin laden releases another audiotape hideout too dark for video

Apparently, unable to contain his enthusiasm for bumming out the relatively nice and unsuspecting folks who make up much of the Western World, the misinformed medievalist has released another drearily threatening audiotape. Since the combined political, military, and intelligence resources of the civilized world cannot locate the potato head, we suggest the audiotape be taken as an opportunity to arrest him. Here's how. Somebody buys the resourceful recluse a video camera and battery-powered lights. Since he long delighted to display his narcissistic self and give voice to his lamentable disjunction with informed thought, we assume that either he is not currently in possession of a video camera or that he is hunkered down in a hideout that is too dark to shoot anything but firearms. It cannot be that he is afraid a video will reveal his location, because he always has the option of hanging the same kind of chintzy curtain behind him that his original second in medieval misguidance, Aman al-Zawahiri, uses when he comes out of the cave long enough for his eyes to adjust to the light to make an inflammatory video, with, we’ve noticed, production values that are on about the same level as a commercial for a discount chain that’s struggling to get foothold in a Mexican border town. The only condition is, upon receipt of the equipment, OBL has to agree to make a video about directions to his hideout. To prolong his short-lived celebrity, he can even deliver it in installments. The media will be wild for it. We do not know why he will not accept this opportunity for the worldwide display of his long-cramped ego, because, at last report, he only had four wives, and, if he believes his own deadly dumb preachments, after he goes to the paradise of his overheated and woefully misguided imagination, he can have twenty-seven virgins. Of course, we must interject that any man with four wives who would contemplate having twenty-seven virgins as a good time has done very little reflection on what it’s really like to have four mates and has exceedingly little experience with virgins. He needn’t be excessively concerned about these impossible complications, however, because, as linguistic analysis has sometime ago revealed, the Arabic word for virgin may also mean grape, depending on whether or not it occurs with a grave. It appears that, in the particular context in which he has applied it to assure the ready suicide of fellow but somewhat more imbecilic emanations from The Dark Ages, the meaning is 27 grapes. So the mad, mad Muslims slammed into our World Trade Center – which was, in fact, a mutual treasure of the human race, erected to facilitate worldwide economic competence and development – and incinerated nearly three thousand of our beloved, hard-working and comparatively normal people did it to reap imaginary rewards they could have picked up at a fruit market. Meanwhile, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, his lackey who’s not an Iraqi, did his boss in absentia one better. Spiffily attired in black as a cool enemy of humanity, he rattled on with the same ill-informed drivel he and his mentor have both become wanted for, even by their own people. Ah, what a toll we must pay for the deadly duo of ignorance and backwardness! Witness the unconscionable bombing in the Egyptian resort of Dahab, apparently timed to follow OBL’s latest audio-only pontification. How do people who have no feeling for their fellow human beings expect anyone to do anything but excoriate and execute them? Somebody ought to tell them that fellow-feeling is actually the major sentiment that makes the human race worthy of its own continuance upon this blessed but blighted earth. As for OBL, when will some real-life Indiana Jones find out where he is hiding, so we can finally give the misguided pest his overdue rest?

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