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    A deep look into soap operas

     

    You have got to love soap operas. From the intricate plots and finely woven webs of deceit, to the depths of schemes, they were, are and always will be classics. They are timeless. I wrote this article as my take on them back in 1970 when filling white space for our high school paper. Watch a few soap operas for the next few days and see for yourself how closely they resemble soap operas 36 years ago… And now for that thought provoking question that plagues men’s souls unceasingly through the bright shining of the day and through the untold dark depths of the night: Why did Peter, who in reality is actually Superman, fake that he stubbed his toe on the 17th stone on the sidewalk starting at 4th and Grand instead of the 16th stone, which was bigger and more logically the victim of that invulnerable toe and why did Marlys take Sam’s advice to buy the yellow tulip instead of the red and green carnation, while all the time Rodregus knew that the curvaceous young Pandora was at the moment buying the last purple, double-breasted, duck-billed, warbling giraffe in the world for her dear departed Phillip disguised as a lowly second mate on the Queen Mary, which was under attack by the tyrant Cedric because of the terrible beating he had suffered at the hands of Radcliff whose ex-wife Natalie was actually Percival’s long lost great-great-uncle Maximillian in disguise who knew that Zigmond was fond of un-pitted olives stuffed into green grapefruit filled graciously with Granny and Gretchen’s goulash, which was gradually getting gooey and who also knew of Jennifer’s contact Louella in the deep Congo, seized at the time by the dread Gardenia, the 7th cousin of Guenivere, in hopes of receiving the eight-ounce bottle of Elmer’s Glue stored in the vast files in the cortex of Courtney’s colossal computer complex carefully compiled to correct the current curling, commonly crusading as the contagious, communicable, crystalline, cucumber crud, carried on cue sticks by crying cuckoo clock birds continuously to conform with the cunning Cornelius’ cumbersome plot to corrupt the currency and continue the crisis of the Cormandel Coast Cult, complicated by the coroner Cort’s corny connotation to conceal his consecutive coronary contractions constantly crippling his conscious efforts to contradict congenial counterparts’ careful counterfeit correspondence with Corwyn, the cosmic cosmetician? Was it because Bill had green eyes or was it because Melissa meddled menacingly and meticulously in Maude’s plans to read the calendar to see what year she had been sent to by her superiors in the future? Tune in tomorrow for the exciting climax created by another deep question.

         
    A funny joke and the man without humor

     

    April fool’s day is a favorite day for some, because there are many funny jokes that can be played. But when you are working for ‘The Man’ humor can be unacceptable. The workplace has become a controversial place for funny jokes, because what is funny to one person can be considered an attack by another. Finding humor at another person’s expense can cause many stressful days at work or even many lawsuits. Many companies hold informational meeting on not practicing office humor, because they don’t want any of there workers to be offended. However, at time companies can cross the line on what is acceptable and not acceptable. Part of the problem with telling a person that funny jokes or humor is not acceptable is that if a person can not enjoy themselves at work the workplace will become uninviting and the workers unhappy. ‘Night Court’ was a sitcom that came out quite a few years ago. The judge on the show was always having fun, but playing practical jokes occasionally got him in trouble. However, most of the time the judge’s antics allowed him to see a larger scope of the people he met and he was able to help them to better their lives. A saying that many companies need to learn is the ‘a little levity never hurt’. Allowing personnel the opportunity to send jokes through email and find humor in some of the bad things that may happen in the office can help to handle stress and bring a better camaraderie between the workers. Where the line needs to be drawn on funny jokes and humor is if the joke shows a racial or gender bias or if the joke is intended to harm another or cause a person to be made to look bad (especially in the eyes of their superiors). Harmful jokes or humor should never be acceptable in the workplace. Every individual should be responsible for their actions and take steps to know what is acceptable and will be found as a funny joke. If a joke is questionable the individual should recognize that that type of humor should be refrained from. A company does have the responsibility to uphold its reputation and should educate its employees on acceptable humor and what would be considered a not so funny joke. However, companies should also take steps to allow their employees a fun work place. Part of this may include allowing a worker to use email to send jokes to people they know. One suggestion for the workplace may be to have a ‘no joke’ list and if people do not want to receive jokes through email they can place themselves on the list. Humor and jokes should be allowed in the work place to allow a happier and more jovial work environment. A funny joke can cheer up a person’s day and a little humor can relieve stress. If an individual is responsible to not offend a person and the company encourages their work force to be happy working for ‘The Man’ wouldn’t be so bad.

         
    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.

         
    A life of lorenzo da ponte talent flies practical reason walks

     

    Among the world’s favorite operas, we find three of them with a libretto penned by Lorenzo Da Ponte and music by none other than the astonishingly delightful Viennese ear-confectioner Mozart. The list is a delight in itself: The Marriage of Figaro, Don Giovann, and Cosм Fan Tutte. We learn in the new book, The Librettist of Venice, by Rodney Bolt, that Da Ponte grew so close with the unequalled Mozart – both of whom, we learn, were not only talented but vain, insecure and ambitious – that while writing Don Giovanni, they worked in adjoining lodges and shouted to each other through their windows. Da Ponte even dared to contend with Mozart, who believed the text should be subservient to the music, while Da Ponte was certain that the words should be primary, in fact, that without his poetry even Mighty Mo’s music would be nothing. Yet how Da Ponte tumbled from the heights. Hard as it may be to imagine, he wound up in New York, running, at one time, a grocery store on the Bowery. Brilliant as an artist, he was apparently, in his personal life, a managerial moron. Or, said another way, while talent flies, practical reason just plods along, like a relative moron. Da Ponte, born Jewish, was, as a result of his father’s having decided the family should become Catholic for the easement of a life of trade, ordained a priest. But his real vocation was married women. His exploits, we learn, rivaled Casanova, who became his pal and, if we believe such a thing is possible in the category at hand, his mentor. Da Ponte himself admitted a shortcoming in comparison with his rival for insincere relationships: he didn’t have Casanova’s purported talent for fleecing the women he falsely wooed. In fact, Da Ponte claims he actually loved the ones he made out with. He also considered himself adroit politically, but his moves were disastrous. He upset the successors of Joseph II so much he was exiled from Vienna. Now, still technically a priest he was married to a younger but more wisely practical woman named Nancy Grahl, but even she was unable to keep the man out of bankruptcy in London and again in America, where they moved in 1805, because her family had settled here. He attempted to establish Italian opera companies when English-speaking audiences had little interest in them. To add onions to opera, the grocery business failed. He finally became a teacher, bookseller and wannabe impresario. On the positive side, New York turned out to be the most agreeable spot for him. It was relatively liberal, and Da Ponte found himself a favorite of the cultural elite. He became the first professor of Italian at Columbia University. While the position was pretty much ceremonial, Da Ponte has the double distinction of having been the first Jew and first priest on the school’s faculty. He lived on into his 80’s, revered but regarded as eccentric. He was charming man who made a profession of being European when such a state was still considered novel. Yet when one compares his everyday doings with his winged collaboration with Mozart, one can only shake his head with the recognition of how quicksilver brilliant the remarkable syntheses of talent are, way up in mental processes we can only hope will drop answers into our expectant consciousness, compared to the "first we do this and then we do that" plodding of the practical but still invaluable mind.

         
    A life of lorenzo da ponte talent flies practical reason walks

     

    Among the world’s favorite operas, we find three of them with a libretto penned by Lorenzo Da Ponte and music by none other than the astonishingly delightful Viennese ear-confectioner Mozart. The list is a delight in itself: The Marriage of Figaro, Don Giovann, and Cosм Fan Tutte. We learn in the new book, The Librettist of Venice, by Rodney Bolt, that Da Ponte grew so close with the unequalled Mozart – both of whom, we learn, were not only talented but vain, insecure and ambitious – that while writing Don Giovanni, they worked in adjoining lodges and shouted to each other through their windows. Da Ponte even dared to contend with Mozart, who believed the text should be subservient to the music, while Da Ponte was certain that the words should be primary, in fact, that without his poetry even Mighty Mo’s music would be nothing. Yet how Da Ponte tumbled from the heights. Hard as it may be to imagine, he wound up in New York, running, at one time, a grocery store on the Bowery. Brilliant as an artist, he was apparently, in his personal life, a managerial moron. Or, said another way, while talent flies, practical reason just plods along, like a relative moron. Da Ponte, born Jewish, was, as a result of his father’s having decided the family should become Catholic for the easement of a life of trade, ordained a priest. But his real vocation was married women. His exploits, we learn, rivaled Casanova, who became his pal and, if we believe such a thing is possible in the category at hand, his mentor. Da Ponte himself admitted a shortcoming in comparison with his rival for insincere relationships: he didn’t have Casanova’s purported talent for fleecing the women he falsely wooed. In fact, Da Ponte claims he actually loved the ones he made out with. He also considered himself adroit politically, but his moves were disastrous. He upset the successors of Joseph II so much he was exiled from Vienna. Now, still technically a priest he was married to a younger but more wisely practical woman named Nancy Grahl, but even she was unable to keep the man out of bankruptcy in London and again in America, where they moved in 1805, because her family had settled here. He attempted to establish Italian opera companies when English-speaking audiences had little interest in them. To add onions to opera, the grocery business failed. He finally became a teacher, bookseller and wannabe impresario. On the positive side, New York turned out to be the most agreeable spot for him. It was relatively liberal, and Da Ponte found himself a favorite of the cultural elite. He became the first professor of Italian at Columbia University. While the position was pretty much ceremonial, Da Ponte has the double distinction of having been the first Jew and first priest on the school’s faculty. He lived on into his 80’s, revered but regarded as eccentric. He was charming man who made a profession of being European when such a state was still considered novel. Yet when one compares his everyday doings with his winged collaboration with Mozart, one can only shake his head with the recognition of how quicksilver brilliant the remarkable syntheses of talent are, way up in mental processes we can only hope will drop answers into our expectant consciousness, compared to the "first we do this and then we do that" plodding of the practical but still invaluable mind.

         
    A page from betty crocker s cookbook

     

    Recently, while sitting in my chair drinking the last of my breakfast coffee, a thought staggered into my mind. I must confess most thoughts are quite lonely once they enter my mind, but this one had a nagging element to it. Experience has taught me I should never give in to these strange trespassers. Every time I entertain any of them, I’m the one getting burnt. This time was different. Don’t ask me how it was different, or how I knew it was different, it just was. Of course, looking back I could have been wrong. The thought: why not surprise my wife by baking her a cake? I know what you’re thinking. I thought the same thing when this suggested itself to me. But, the more I thought about it, the more delightfully delicious it sounded. How can anything go wrong if I am doing it for my wife? The only question I needed to answer was what kind of cake should I bake. After a long period of ruminating, I settled on a lemon sponge cake with peanut butter icing. This was going to be the best surprise my wife has ever received from me. Sitting in a prominent place in the kitchen is my wife’s Betty Crocker Cookbook. I don’t know how long she has had that book, it’s been in our kitchen for as long as I can remember — which really may not be that long when I come to think of it. I took the book, sat in my favorite chair and opened it. How do you read a cookbook? As I leafed through it, it did not have any rhyme or reason to me. In musing on the book I said to myself, how important is it to follow directions? Placing the book back in its revered spot, I concluded that since this was my cake, I didn’t need help from anybody else, particularly Betty Crocker. This is the difference between men and women. Women need a lot of directions, while men enjoy the liberty of doing their own thing. I knew exactly what I wanted. A lemon sponge cake, with peanut butter icing. What could be simpler? Retrieving a large mixing bowl, I assembled all the ingredients I needed; flour, sugar, eggs, milk and baking powder. Everyone knows you cannot bake without baking powder. I have no idea what baking powder is, except when you bake you use baking powder. I put everything in the mixing bowl. The only thing I wasn’t quite sure of was the measure, but how hard could that be anyway? Betty Crocker mentioned a cup of this and a cup of that, but never defined what she meant by a cup. I went to the cupboard and looked at all the cups. There were all kinds and sizes of cups and I did not know which one to use. I eyed a large coffee cup and said to myself, this will do just fine. I dumped 6 or 8 cups of flour into the mixing bowl, I can’t remember how many. Then I cracked a dozen eggs and put that into the mixing bowl as well. Pouring a quart of milk into the mixing bowl, I whipped everything into a nice batter. This was to be a lemon sponge cake but I could find nothing marked lemon in the cupboard. I opened the refrigerator, and as luck would have it, I found a quart of lemonade. I poured this concoction into the largest cake pan I could find. As I was about to put it into the oven, I remembered the baking powder. How is this cake going to bake if it doesn’t have the baking powder? Setting the cake pan down, I grabbed the baking powder and liberally sprinkled it on top of my batter. I have no idea what baking powder does but I put enough on my cake so it would do a good job. Into the oven the cake went, and with a flick of the wrist I turned the temperature to 450 degrees. Remembering this was a big cake, I readjusted the temperature to 650. The bigger the cake the hotter the oven, is what I always say. Now all I needed to do was wait for my cake to bake. As I was waiting, I heard rumblings coming from the oven but just chalked that up to a good cake baking. I guess I fell asleep, because the next thing I knew there was a strange odor permeating the air. It smelled a little smoky and then it dawned on me. My cake, it’s done. What I pulled out of the oven did not resemble any cake I had ever seen. It looked like a burnt pancake, twice the size of the cake pan, with some kind of disease on the surface. No amount of peanut butter icing in the world could camouflage this disaster. It was about this time I began reassessing the idea of reading directions. Maybe instructions have a purpose after all. I remember something the Apostle Paul said. “Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.” (2 Timothy 2:15 KJV.) To live right without getting burnt you need the right directions.

         
    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.”

         
    Adult swim you must be this high to ride this ride

     

    1. You Must Be This High To Ride This Ride 2. There’s No “P” In Pool 3. Harvey Birdman, Attorney At Law 4. Aqua Teen Hunger Force 5. Sealab 2021 6. Brak Show 7. English Channel Swim 8. Bobby G. Can’t Swim 1. You Must Be This High To Ride This Ride Adult Swim is a unique kind of Must-See TV found on the Cartoon Network. Catering a fast food sized gem of cartoon hilarity to a crowd that has become too jaded and aware for network fare. These viewers need something with juice and Adult Swim delivers on all accounts. 2. There’s No “P” In Pool The shows in the Adult Swim line-up know about our attention deficit and don’t bore us with unnecessary drivel. For instance, Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law lasts on 15 minutes and they pack the laughs in there tighter than ***. To play in this pool, you’ll want to close your laptop and shut off the cell phone because the rapid-fire jokes and humor are slung at you a mile a minute. 3. Harvey Birdman, Attorney At Law Harvey Birdman the Attorney was once Birdman the superhero, but he is now a dimwitted practicing lawyer. All his cases involve legal disputes between other cartoon characters. He’s handled cases involving a custody battle for young Jonny Quest, a copyright infringement dispute between the Chan Clan and Jabberjaw and defended Scooby and Shaggy on trumped-up pot charges. With hammer in hand, the mighty Thor plays the judge. One of the episodes does a slippery Sopranos parody with Fred Flintstone aka the Dabba Don. He comes to Harvey to defend his many “businesses”. During the course of the 15-minute episode you get to see Harvey’s assistant defect to the side of the gangsters, Harvey adding commentary to old Flintstone’s footage and a pterodactyl lamp taking the stand. 4. Aqua Teen Hunger Force Aqua Teen Hunger Force is about a group of human-sized food items living together in South Jersey. A pistachio milkshake, a bag of fries and a meatball have banded together to form a crime-fighting trio. As lazy as they may be, they make an effort to rid the New Jersey suburbs of unwanted mischief and crime. This wacky trio was originally conceived to appear on the hit Cartoon Network talk show, Space Ghost Coast-to-Coast. Ah, but the network knows a good thing when they see it and gave these misfits a fighting chance with their own show during the ever popular nighttime line-up of more mature cartoon fare known as Adult Swim. 5. Sealab 2021 Aww, the drama of precariously doomed underwater colony and its personnel members that can’t stand one another. The year is 2021 and in the depths of the big blue ocean resides a monumentally high-tech compound known to all as Sealab. With a multi-national scientific staff and a trillion dollar budget the lab is dedicated to the research and exploration of the mysteries of the deep. Underwater colonization is the order of the day since the surface of the Earth has gotten crowded, hot and icky. As is the case with most government agencies, Sealab is manned by a motley rabble of malcontents and misfits who are unfit for work in the private sector. This hapless crew have manipulated their wayward leader, Captain Murphy into submission and are purely content with riding the government clock, raking in a fat hazardous-duty paycheck. The humor here strikes a deep cord in reality and is some of the funniest stuff to ever grace the Cartoon Network. Here’s an excerpt between the Captain and Marco: Marco: Calm down, I'll see what I can do about finding your little toy. Captain Murphy: It's not a toy, it makes real cupcakes, with a 40-watt bulb, and there's icing packets. But the secret ingredient is love. Damn it. Marco: Just try to calm down, go have some pudding. Captain Murphy: Pudding can't fill the emptiness inside me! But it'll help. 6. Brak Show "The Brak Show is the story of a neighborhood. It's the story of a family. It's the story of what happens when adults have children and those children go to school. And Brak is in it. He lives in a house. A house on a quiet street not unlike yours or mine. A house in a neighborhood. That's The Brak Show." That’s the network’s official description of their new hit sitcom starring Brak, the absent-minded space pirate from the Space Ghost cartoons. He goes through all the typical sitcom situations with his friend Zorak. Also along for the ride are Brak's parents, his brother Sisto, and his next-door neighbor Thundercleese. 7. English Channel Swim The hilarious giant block of mature-themed entertainment also includes the shows: Baby Blues, Cowboy Bebop, InuYasha, Lupin the 3rd, Mission Hill, The Oblongs, Reign: The Conqueror, The Ripping Friends and Trigun. Joining the lineup are ex-Fox Network nighttime toons, The Family Guy and Futurama. 8. Bobby G. Can’t Swim The cornerstone of the parade of humor is former superhero, Space Ghost and his hit talk show, Space Ghost Coast-to-Coast. Remember the acclaimed Superhero Space Ghost? Well now in his 40's he is no longer a superhero, and goes by his real name Tad Ghostal. However to remain in the spot light he has started his own late night talk show filmed in his studio in outer space. With his co-host and former villain Zorak, and his director Moltar they interview movie stars on earth through their videophone. Space Ghost has conducted interviews with many big celebrities including Jim Carrey, Weird Al Yankovic, Johnny Carson and Cameron Diaz. Truly Trivial: There was once an episode where Space Ghost’s evil twin brother Chad visits the show to cause havoc.

         
    Aids epidemic in the ussr

     

    When an adult suffers from а child disease, it is extraordinary painful. Just as it happened to me at the late Soviet time when I caught measles, was bedridden for three days with a fever heat of 40C and was going to die. But then a doctor came, diagnosed the rubeola, I was taken to a specialized hospital and alive and kicking in a couple of days. I will never forget those three days - an awful headache, general muzziness because of high temperature and in three days no thoughts but those of fast and desired death. In the hospital I met a man of about 50 who told me his case history. Further narration is from the first person. I'm not young already and all my age mates often club to start complaining of their illnesses - some have ulcer, others - pressure problems, etc. And I sit like an asshole and can't keep the ball rolling since don't have any serious diseases. There finally I fall ill, which made me really happy. "They will cure me" - I thought - "so at last I will have a good reason to beat gums with my aces". I found myself in a contagious isolation ward of Botkin's surrounded only by those with Joe Trots and where everyone carries his own altar in their arms. I was also given my own altar. I really joined the club. They analyze me but can't find anything. At those times there appeared first reports of HIV-positive people in newspapers. The first one, as far as I remember, was a fellow from the foreign trade organization - a homosexual. That was the only association with AIDS. After failing to make a diagnosis the doctors decided that I had AIDS. And started putting me to the question. "Suppose you sleep with pants, come clean, we are doctors after all". I deny this but they don't believe me. They say: "Come on, faggot, we keep the medical secrecy". Thus, a week passes (in three weeks I gave up). I come up to my doctor and say: "All right, guys, make a diagnosis and treat me, I may take it till the day after tomorrow, or else I will leap out of the window - can't stand it anymore". The next day they hold a regular council when a pediatrician wanders in by mistake. On examining me, she diagnoses rubeola proceeding without visible hives for some reason, which prevented to make the diagnosis right. The day before yesterday I was brought here and now I'm well. The only thing I'm distressed about is that it's even shameful to tell men about my experience - they discuss different serious ailments there and I have a child disease which is shameful to speak about let alone personal altars and how they passed me for a faggot. Then I have to hold my tongue.

         
    Al qaeda in iraq announces new leader. or do they

     

    In the wake of the sudden death of its now fragmented leader, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, Al-Qaeda in Iraq polled its somewhat shaken members about who would like to take over Mr. Zarqawi’s job. After a determined effort, the group was able to find a terrorist who, though expressing understandable reluctance, was eventually persuaded to accept the expectedly short-lived position. The usual amateurish Webcast was quickly arranged, and the new leader, flanked by other terrorists wearing the standard-issue black head disguises, introduced himself, with visible knee shaking, as Abu Hamza al-Muhajer. In the co-opted, overbearingly religious language that has become the worldwide standard in terrorist-speak, the new leader of Al-Qaeda in Iraq vowed to avenge al-Zarqawi’s death and vowed that he and the other “holy warriors” will continue with what they perceive as a holy war against their own slack populace and the people Al-Qaeda refers to with moronic medieval acumen as “the crusaders.” “Don't let the joy of killing our Sheikh Abu Musab, may God bless his soul, fool you,” he stated, “for he left behind lions." To prove his point, at that moment, he held up an uncooked shish-kabob and took a bite out of it. Chewing on the raw lamb meat, he continued: "He raised them by himself and they trained in his den. They believe in their ideology, and they fight only for God and in God and through God." Apparently, the group had to reach far down into its ranks to locate another willing volunteer. Unfortunately, no one on the side of the infidels had ever heard of him, even the most erudite terrorist analyst. A few days later, his identity was determined. After the announcement, his photo-ID poster was taken to a US firing range for target practice. No comment was forthcoming until and a couple days later, when a terrorist of even less repute made a tape, claiming he is the rightful fellow who's picture should be on the firing range. Whoever the new leader is, if apprehended alive, he will be sent for retraining in religious ideology to an enlightened mosque, if one can be located, wherein he will learn the disconcerting logic that if, as he and his ill-informed cohorts maintain, there is only one true God, even crusaders are the children of the same God, so such a God is unlikely to welcome them into the paradise they long for as a reward for their murderous activities but will far more likely present them with a more heated welcome and destination.

         
    Amazing trivia part 1

     

    I admit it .. I LIKE trivia, tho it serves no purpose for me since I can never remember any to bring up in conversation. But still, it is fun, so I've created this list of amazing trivia that I found to be absolutely riveting. 1. Snails can sleep up to 3 years. Not so amazing actually since I managed to sleep thru 6 years of jr. high and high school. And when you think about it, what do snails have to do all their lives? Sure, they leave great slime trails and make excellent targets for salt shakers and little boys, but other than that there’s not much more to do but sleep after an exhausting run across a sidewalk. 2. American Airlines saved $40,000 in 1987 by eliminating one olive from each salad served in first-class. Until I read this, I was convinced that there was an olive missing from my salad, yet no one would believe me. Now I am vindicated! I am now searching for proof that the airlines have taken one peanut from each bag .. I'll keep you posted. 3. An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain. After reading this, I realized that I know of many people with the same problem! But that’s an article about politicians I'm working on. For me, it's usually that my eyes are bigger than my stomach... 4. Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories an hour. Well, I'd like to see anyone keep this up long enough to actually lose 150 calories. Now that I think about it, I DON'T want to see... 5. Donald Duck comics were banned in Finland because he doesn't wear pants. This is completely understandable.. I mean, who wants to look at a duck with no pants on? Besides, I understand that it is the law for all birds to wear pants in the city limits of Finland. 6. If you pass gas consistently for 6 years and 9 months, enough gas is produced to create the energy of an atomic bomb. I tried to prove or disprove this, but two things stopped me ... I couldn't stand to look at a bowl of chili after the third day, and my girlfriend threatened to leave me ... although it was kinda hard to tell what she was really saying with that gasmask on. 7. In ancient Egypt, priests plucked EVERY hair from their bodies, including their eyebrows and eyelashes. Now, this piece of trivia leaves ALOT to the imagination, which is probably a good thing. BUT, I would like to point out, you'd have to be pretty limber to get some on those hairs .. nuff said. 8. The ant always falls over on its right side when intoxicated. I know this trivia fact isn't true 'cause I've gone drinking with my ants several times and I've watched them fall over in several different directions... usually they tend to fall on my uncles tho. 9. The average human eats eight spiders in their lifetime at night. I don't know about this fact ... I've seen several spiders at night and never once felt compelled to eat one. Though I hear that spider is tasty if barbequed correctly. 10. And now for our final fun trivia fact: Some lions mate over 50 times a day... No wonder the females do all the work.

         
    America still so young no americans allowed

     

    If sometimes, weighed down with the complexities of uneasy empire, we perchance wonder if America could be freedom’s fading star, it’s somewhat reassuring to realize that the nation is so young it still does not recognize the existence of Americans. Even the Indians don’t completely get the nod, because they’re still camped out on reservations. We might see the persistent refusal to accept “I’m an American” as a recognized nationality, at least on the home front, as a consonant reflection of our mixed and matched heritage. But it does present us with inconveniences. Tell a fellow American who asks your nationality, “I’m an American,” and what does he say? “Oh, come on, tell me, really, what are you?” “I just told you,” you repeat, in your resourceful attempt to nationalize yourself, “I was born and rear-beaten in America.” “No, no,” your interrogator presses on, “I mean, where did your parents come from?” “Well,” you let out, “my mother was born in West Virginia.” “Then where did your father come from?” Now, you’ve been cornered, so you finally confess that he came from here, there, or wherever. Let’s say Ireland. And what does your pouncing interrogator reply? “Oh, so you’re Irish.” Actually, the only time you get to be an American is when you’re likely to suffer the slings of outrageous interactions in distant lands. “Oh, so you’re an American,” you're told, usually in a tone that intimates at least a slight reprimand, as soon as the securely French, Italian, or whatever person you chance to chat with determines you’re from the USA. And, no matter how much effort your make to elude detection by speaking in the tongue of your assailant, the nonchalant accusation pops to the fore as soon as your first Yankee twang intrudes. Will Durant, the popular (dare we say American?) historian, estimated that it takes about eight-hundred years for a country to develop a civilization. I wonder how long it takes short of that to develop the nationality that might achieve it.

         
    America to sue rest of world for ungrateful behavior

     

    America, which has sacrificed the lives of its citizens and its material plentitude more selflessly than any other nation in history to come to the assistance of other countries, noted the astonishingly heated negative commentary about it emanating from virtually every corner of the globe and has decided to sue the rest of the world on the grounds of ungrateful behavior. The President said, “You can’t just go out there and sacrifice your sons and daughters lives and expend so much of the national treasury and not get a little something back. We’ve got sorrowful families all across the land, with whose losses I deeply sympathize, and we can’t even afford to fix the potholes on federal highways. So what choice do we have? We’re taking the ungrateful foreigners to court. Justice will be served. We merit and demand some praise here.” A grandmother for the plaintiff stated, “My family has lost loved ones in three different wars and all in countries that I haven’t heard a good thing said in about America for years. When I take the stand, watch out. I’m patriotic pissed.” The international court at The Hague has declined to take the case, primarily because it is in The Hague. Upon learning of that court’s disinclination, the U. S. has appealed to the U. N. to find a venue that will hear the case.” A prominent attorney for America commented, “We’d rather not have the trial here. Holding it in our own country will detract from the credibility of the outcome, but having it in an unfriendly location is bound to create the kind of inflammatory demonstrations that will lead to a lot of free press.” Not surprisingly, France, Germany, and Spain have also nixed the idea of hosting the trial, maintaining that since they’re all being sued, supporting the action seems inadvisable. Britain and Italy are understood to be considering the matter. Tony Blair is the most disposed to hosting it, saying, “We hardly ever badmouth America, so we hope to come through the trial with flying colors.” The Italian government has expressed some willingness to host it but has indicated it may charge for rental of the courthouse. “I’m confident of victory,” another attorney for America maintained. “All you have to do is look at the newspapers. All the incriminating evidence you need is on the lips of leaders and the public in general in just about every country of the world. The only thing that stands in the way of a big win for the U. S. is finding a country where we can conduct the trial.” Should the verdict go as the plaintiff hopes, the expectation is that the guilty will henceforth base their comments on a true understanding of just who this country is. One of the most persuasive arguments the nation’s attorneys hope to present is based on the usual philosophical tactic of imagining the opposite argument. As the lead attorney for the country put it, “Will you please tell us what other country in the world, besides your own, you would prefer to possess the amount of power America has? We are, in fact, the first nation in the history of the world that could conquer it but, in addition to being freedom-loving people that the whole idea offends, we’re savvy business people who know we just can’t afford the worldwide upkeep.”

         
    An efficient commute

     

    This morning, as usual, I was pressed for time. I had to be to my "9 to 5" especially early and I woke up late. Instead of rushing around more than I already had been, I thought I would take the time to finish my "getting ready for work rituals" in the car. After all, I have seen countless others in my rearview mirror and beside me in their cars do the same, so why can't I? As I grabbed my things, I raced out to the car and started on the 32-minute commute to work. As I was brushing my teeth, I realized, I had no place to spit out the toothpaste foam that accumulated in my mouth. So, I rolled down the window and masterfully drooled down the inside of my car. Crest and saliva dripped down the inside of my car door into the power lock and window switches. At least my car has a minty fresh scent to it. I took a swig of orange juice and remembered what vomit tasted like. Not having a lot of time to worry about my toothbrushing experience, I figured I should do my hair next. One of the nice things about owning a Pontiac Vibe is the 110 Volt AC plug built into the car. Perfect for my wife's hair dryer. Red lights were spaced perfectly to allow me to safely dry my hair. I wasn't about to dry my hair with a towel in the car. That would be just dangerous. The hair paste and styling of my messy spiky hair went off without a hitch. The final thing on my list to do before work is shave. Now, I won't really go into a lot of detail, but I will say that this was the hardest task of my commute. I made it to work with a little time to spare and the only evidence that I was really hurried this morning was a hairdryer on the passenger seat, dried drool on the driver's side door and shaving cream with beard stubble on the floor mats.

         
    Ancient mayan mummy proves a tattoo is forever

     

    Evidence of the extraordinary longevity of tattoos has finally been discovered, in a mummified Mayan female whose panoramic tattoos have lasted almost two thousand years. Tattoo artists were ecstatic at the discovery, immediately citing the mummy as proof that once you’re lucky enough to have a tattoo, you can forget about upkeep. On the other hand, those who have decorated themselves with tattoos but in later years regretted the colorful self-mutilation, were widely distressed by the discovery. As one man with a prominent tattoo on the pierced tip of his nose told us, “I suspect when I’m finally old enough to feel really stupid about this tattoo it’ll still be here., Now, I know if I want to get rid of it, I’ll have to fork over the bucks for plastic surgery.” Curiously enough, the mummy’s bones revealed what at first appeared to be dichotomous lifestyles. She was apparently motherly, because bone evidence revealed that she had given birth to a child, but a variety hardly motherly clubs were also found buried with her. An archaeologist explained the seeming duality of tender sentiment and weaponry by stating, “My theory is that she went to the grave, regretting the tattoos and asked to be buried with clubs so she could ward off any evil spirits who might arrive to apply even more tattoos.”

         
     
         
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