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England (pronounced ing-ger-lund) is widely regarded by people with a lesser intelligence as The United States’s little bitch puppet. It is the largest exporter of haters of Scotland and pakistan (due to brown friday). After brown friday when pakies raided airbases, stole choppers, and airlifted all of Englands call centers off to India, and as of 2006 the british public have had to learn pakistani if they want tech support with there internets, it didnt take long for the banks to follow suit and now Pakistani is Englands second language with gook following a close third and polish creeping in at fourth. british telecom thought it would be a wise idea to change there name to Bombay telecom. England was created in 1066 by the Satan himself, just after creating Marmite. England is (without question) the greatest country on earth as long as you aren’t fleeing opression or ethnic cleansing in your homeland or happen to be french, some would say its best to have no sense of smell as most corner shops are run by pakies that dont seem to be familiar with normal household products such as Cillit Bang!Motorbike games ¦
England is the only thing that has kept the hatred of the French alive, until the USA picked up the torch in 2003 now in 2007 Canada, Australia, Asia and most of Europe have joined there crusade to mock the french. Hating the French, or “Frog Bashing”, has been an English national pastime since the rout and slaughter of the French nobility at The Battle of Crecy in 1346 and Battle of Agincourt in 1415. England is also commonly believed to be a ficticious fantasy island inhabited by fraggles and gummi bears a few miles off the coast of Newfieland, Canada (aka Hoserland) by some americans that dont own passports. Contrary to popular belief, England was NOT struck by a gigantic Iceberg the white debris had in fact blown down from Scotlands dandruff problem. It remains the most populated floating object in the universe.Motorbike games ¦
The greatest practical joke ever played on the French by the British occurred in 1940. The French fleet was laying at anchor in Mers-el-Kebir, French North Africa (now Algeria) when elements of the Royal Navy Mediterranian Fleet blasted the crap out of them. Oh how DeGaulle and Churchill laughed about that in later years. Motorbike games ¦
The Roman Empire did not fall in a battle of war. There was no single big clash of arms that drove it to its knees. It was corroded from the inside. At one stage, the wealthy held so much gold coins that there was not enough currency to keep services to the public going. By keeping the money to themselves the wealthy had simply run the nation into the ground.
History is strewn with such examples. Has this now happened to the United States? Or is the US too big to fail?Motorbike games ¦
You have seen how a handful people were lucky enough to win a big lottery or hit that $1 million jackpot at a casino. (And you wished them happiness with their new wealth, of course.) How often have you wondered if it is worth playing the lotto or gambling? In short, what are the odds of winning?Motorbike games ¦
Calculating the odds
Wagering against a randomizing value is risky. It mostly is a game of chance but you can increase your chances of winning for instance at poker or blackjack by requiring some skill. It also will help if you educate yourself somewhat in probability theory. Unfortunately you won’t be able to cut a deal with the father of probability theory, Girolamo Cardano, who was a friend of Leonardo da Vinci, because he passed away in 1576. Even if you had such opportunity, Cardano, an ardent gambler, would probably have advised you to carefully consider Nicolaus Bernoulli’s St. Petersburg Paradox.Motorbike games ¦
The odds of winning your local lottery is around 18 million to 1, that is 18,000,000 to 1. The odds of winning Powerball can be as high as 50 million to 1 and higher. The odds of being struck by lightning is actually lower! (The odds of your government fixing the economy is much higher.) However, believe it or not, you have a bigger chance – odds as low as 100,000 to 1 – to win at the casino or online casino.Motorbike games ¦
Keep in mind that in most countries you do pay taxes on your winnings. In the United States you’ll pay 28% tax on your lottery pay-out and up to almost 40% when winning millions. Also keep in mind that you can deduct lottery and gambling losses.Motorbike games ¦
Good! May I play?
Of course you may! While the small number of Muslim-dominated countries with sharia law do not allow gambling, most countries allow gambling, playing the lotto or slot machines, either at casinos or online roulette, even in the United States.
If you’re American, please note the local laws on online playing because the exact legal situation with regards to US online casinos varies from state to state. But regardless of your home state, any law against online gambling affects the casinos and financial institutions and not the players themselves.Motorbike games ¦
Some people profiteered from the spill by charging BP outrageous rates for cleanup. Others profited from BP claims money, handed out in arbitrary ways. So many people cashed in that they earned nicknames — “spillionaires” or “BP rich.” Meanwhile, others hurt by the spill ended up getting comparatively little.Motorbike games ¦
In the end, BP’s attempt to make things right — spending more than $16 billion so far, mostly on claims of damage and cleanup — created new divisions and even new wrongs. Because the federal government ceded control over spill cleanup spending to BP, it’s impossible to know for certain what that money accomplished, or what exactly was done.Motorbike games ¦
Some inequities arose from the chaos that followed the April 20 spill. But in at least one corner of Louisiana, the dramatic differences can be traced in part to local powerbrokers. To show how the money flowed, ProPublica interviewed people who worked on the spill and examined records, including some reported earlier by the New Orleans Times-Picayune, for St. Bernard Parish, a coastal community about five miles southeast of downtown New Orleans.Motorbike games ¦
Documents show that local companies with ties to insiders garnered lucrative cleanup contracts and then charged BP for every imaginable expense. The prime cleanup company, which had a history of bad debts and no oil-spill experience, submitted bills with little documentation or none at all. A subcontractor charged BP $15,400 per month to rent a generator that usually cost $1,500 a month. A company owned in part by the St. Bernard Parish sheriff charged more than $1 million a month for land it had been renting for less than $1,700 a month.Motorbike games ¦
Assignments for individual fishermen followed the same pattern, with insiders and supporters earning big checks.
“This parish raped BP,” said Wayne Landry, the chairman of the St. Bernard Parish Council, referring to the conduct of its political leadership. “At the end of the day, it really just frustrates me. I’m an elected official. I have guilt by association.”Motorbike games ¦
The economic benefits that rippled through St. Bernard Parish were seen in varying degrees throughout the Gulf. In the six months after the spill, sales tax receipts, a key measure of economic activity, rose significantly in eight of the 24 most affected communities from Louisiana to Florida, despite the national recession. Only one community, in Mississippi, saw its receipts dip significantly. Local governments also profited. A recent story by the Associated Press found that governments along the coast used BP money to buy SUVs, Tasers and other equipment not necessary to clean up oil.Motorbike games ¦
According to sales tax collections, Louisiana made out better than anywhere. Sales tax collections from Plaquemines Parish rose more than 71 percent, while St. Bernard saw the biggest jump of all. The parish collected almost $26.8 million in sales and lodging tax receipts in the six months after the spill, almost twice as much as over the same period in 2009. Flush with cash from cleanup and claims, many fishermen bought new toys, boats and trucks. Sales at the nearest Chevrolet dealer rose 41 percent. Motorbike games ¦
Some of the influx of money can be traced to the efforts of St. Bernard’s parish president, Craig Taffaro Jr., a 45-year-old psychotherapist with a wrestler’s build, a cue-ball head and a trimmed goatee.Motorbike games ¦
Just days into the crisis, Taffaro did what many parish presidents did: He invoked a Louisiana law that allowed him to declare a 30-day emergency and handle the crisis without most normal government checks and balances. But Taffaro used his powers more broadly than most, saying that he wanted to put money back into the community. Unlike the leaders of other Gulf communities, Taffaro — not BP — chose the prime contractor that supervised the cleanup. He and his allies also decided which fishermen would be hired to put out boom and search for oil. At one point, Taffaro hired his future son-in-law to work in the finance department and help on the spill. Motorbike games ¦
In some ways, parish residents seemed to view the disaster and BP’s culpability as a way to recover from earlier blows. More than other coastal communities, St. Bernard bore the brunt of Hurricane Katrina, which flooded almost every home in August 2005. The population dropped almost in half, from about 67,000 in 2000 to about 36,000 in 2010, largely because people didn’t come back after Katrina and the hurricanes that followed. Before the spill, the parish slashed its budget by 11 percent, cutting garbage collection, the fire department and mosquito control. There was just no money. Motorbike games ¦
The spill changed that. Fishermen were paid to lay out protective boom, the floating material used to corral the oil. Contractors were hired to manage the cleanup and provide security. Claims money began flowing to people who said their lives had been upended by the crisis. Motorbike games ¦
The parish government was among the first to benefit, snagging a $1 million check for oil-spill expenses. Parish employees went shopping for cameras, printers, a file cabinet, staplers, six pairs of children’s scissors and 712 shirts emblazoned with the parish name. Some of the money also went to overtime pay for more than 40 parish employees, including three who claimed overtime for picking up dog food for the animal shelter. St. Bernard’s homeland security director, David Dysart, a salaried employee and Taffaro’s good friend, was paid almost $23,000 for working 497 hours of overtime in less than seven weeks. That meant he was working an average of more than 16 hours a day, including weekends. Motorbike games ¦
As the money flowed, complaints spread. Some beneficiaries didn’t necessarily suffer from the spill but had social or political connections. Subcontractors said those at the top of the cleanup creamed off money for doing very little, while those at the bottom earned much less for doing the actual work. Motorbike games ¦
At first, everyone was angry with BP. But as the months wore on, some St. Bernard residents directed their frustration at Taffaro, blaming him for handing out jobs and money to a small group of insiders. Motorbike games ¦
Meanwhile, Taffaro was attacking BP and the federal government in the media, appearing on TV alongside Gov. Bobby Jindal and testifying in Congress. His outrage was palpable. There wasn’t enough boom, coordination or respect for the local government. BP wasn’t making good on its obligations.
The pressure paid off. Taffaro at one point boasted that St. Bernard had doled out more BP cleanup money to commercial fishermen than any other Louisiana parish. His claim is impossible to verify, because neither Taffaro nor anyone else would provide details about the spending numbers.
BP gave only limited information to ProPublica, and declined to comment on allegations it had been overcharged. The U.S. Coast Guard, the federal agency most involved with overseeing BP’s response, said the government and BP decided cleanup priorities together. Motorbike games ¦
Taffaro and other St. Bernard officials refused to respond to the public-records requests ProPublica began filing in November. When asked again last week why the parish hadn’t provided any records, Dysart said he would be happy to help but that filling the request would take time and cost a lot of money.
“I’m in the process of really, truly trying to assist you,” said Dysart, who is also the parish interim chief administrative officer.
In response to questions submitted by ProPublica last month, Taffaro said through his spokeswoman that he can approve overtime for salaried employees in extenuating circumstances and that Dysart eventually decided to stop taking overtime. Taffaro said there was no law against hiring his future son-in-law because he was not yet married, and that paying overtime for picking up dog food was necessary because the spill had caused fishermen to abandon their dogs.
Taffaro also said that the tax receipt bubble was “a false economy,” similar to what happened after Hurricane Katrina. Motorbike games ¦
NOSTRADAMUS, the French Christian Jew who lived in France in the 16th century, made many accurate forecasts, including the two World Wars. 18 of his 950 quatrains refer to a third world war. Some Nostradamus experts had given the date for the start of such a war as mid-1999, referring to the Balkan conflict surrounding Kosovo. They obviously misinterpreted the quatrains. Their attention then turned to the 11 September 2001 terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York. Motorbike games ¦
NOSTRADAMUS
Born Michel de Notredame on 14 December 1503 in St Remy, France, he was the oldest of five sons. His grandfather, Jean, taught him Latin, Greek, Hebrew, mathematics and astrology at an early age. Nostradamus received a medical degree in 1529 and became physician-in-ordinary to Charles IX during the bubonic plague. He is said to have had extraordinary healing abilities. Motorbike games ¦
Nostradamus was in his late 40s when, it is told, he frequently went into a meditative state and had visions of the future. He began to document the visions in a mixture of Lain, French, and Greek quatrains, publishing his famous “Centuries” in 1558. Motorbike games ¦
Nostradamus was married twice, losing his first wife and two children to the plague. He died on 2 July 1566. “Centuries” was translated into English in 1672. In 1781 it was banned by the Roman Catholic Church. Ironically, in 1553, when Nostradamus encountered a group of Franciscan monks he threw himself on his knees, clutching at the garment of one of the monks, Felice Peretti. When asked why he had done this he replied that he must yield “before his Holiness.” Nineteen years after the death of Nostradamus, Peretti became Pope Sixtus V. Motorbike games ¦
What the experts say Nostradamus predicted about the Balkan war
The war prophecy is reserved for someone whom Nostradamus refers to as “the tyrant.” He predicted that the Slavs will “change their prince” and “raise an army in the mountains,” suggesting a guerrilla war. He speaks of “when the north pole is united” (perhaps NATO?), and there are many geographical references to the Balkans, such as Greece,
Italy and the Mediterranean. Motorbike games ¦
The war is linked to when the “eagle” (United States) and the “cock” (France) stand together. There also is specific reference to the time when England, Poland and Czechoslovakia (now the Czech Republic and Slovakia) “form a new alliance.” The former Eastblock countries recently joined NATO.
He predicted that the Allies will win, that the war will be protracted, lasting seven months, and that it may go beyond the Balkans, toward the north, but that after the war there will be “peace on earth for a long time.” Motorbike games ¦
The forecasts by Nostradamus seemed to be confirmed by other seers, including Nicolaas van Rensburg, the famous South African seer who lived 1862 to 1926. At the turn of the 20th Century Van Rensburg had also predicted the use of electricity, the massacre of six million Jews, the Chernobyl disaster, the rise and fall of Russia, and the European Union – in the last two instances accurately describing the flags before they were designed. Of the third world war, he predicted that England would left weakened, while Germany would rise to become the world’s most powerful nation. Further such predictions by the famous American seer Edgar Cacey are available in the book Predictions for the 21st Century. Motorbike games ¦
What the experts say Nostradamus predicted about the WTC attack
“In the year of the new century and nine months, from the sky will come a great king of terror. The sky will burn at 45 degrees… fire approaches the great new city… there will be thunder… The third big war will begin when the city is burning.”
So it is quoted among rumor mongers. The facts are:
Nostradamus appears not to have made predictions about the World Trade Center attack or, at least, none that could easily be understood from the quatrains. He did not mention “the new century,” or “nine months” and New York is not at 45 degrees; the Manhattan latitude is 40° 47' N. For more, see Skeptic’s Dictionary Motorbike games ¦
What then?
Of course, not only have the “experts” on the prophets not always been correct – the seers themselves have not always been quite so accurate in their forecasts. In fact, many predictions have missed the mark.
Time will tell if the Kosovo conflict or, indeed, the World Trade Center attack had put the spark to a bigger barrel. As for the end of the world… Nostradamus predicted it to be the year 3786 or 3797, depending on which Nostradamus expert you believe. Motorbike games ¦
Cryptic numerology:
After the WTC attack on 11 September 2001, Uri Geller asked everyone to pray for 11 seconds for those in need. Why?
The first plane to hit the towers was Flight 11 by American Airlines;
Flight 11 had 92 on board: 9 + 2 = 11;
Flight 77 had 65 on board: 6 + 5 = 11;
New York City – 11 Letters;
State of New York – 11th State added to the Union;
See Law of Truly Large Numbers
“To predict is difficult; especially about the future” – Chinese proverb
End of the World predictions
Lost nuclear bombs. Motorbike games

Errornebape

I've looked everywhere, and I'll be damned if I can find it, but I know I read that passage somewhere; I think in Kerouac; but I can't locate it now, so you'll just have to go along with me that it's there.
Would I lie to you?
It's a scene in which a young supplicant, an aspiring poet, somebody like that, seeks out this knowledgeable old philosopher -- kind of a Bukowski or Henry Miller figure -- in Paris or New York or somesuch bustling metropolitan situs . . . and the kid comes to the old guru in his ratty apartment, and he sorta kinda asks him that old saw about the meaning of life. Correction: LIFE. He squats there and says to the old man, "What's it all about? What's it mean? Huh?"
And the old man purses his lips and beetles his brow; he perceives the kid is really serious about this; it's not just jerk-off time. So he nods sagely, and clasps his hands behind his back, and he walks to the window and stares out at the deep city for a while, just sorta kinda ponders for a while. And finally, he turns to the kid and he says, with core seriousness, "You know, there's a lotta bastards out there."
Now that's pretty significant. I think. On the other hand, I have never made my residence in a stalactite-festooned cave high up on the northern massif of Chomolungma (Everest to you). I have never been sought out by fawning sycophants, whimpering to abase themselves before my wisdom, hungering to prostrate themselves and to offer ablations at the altar of my Delphic insights. In short, unlike the Great Thinkers of Our Time who appear regularly on talk-shows -- Merv Griffin, Debbie Boone, Zsa Zsa Gabor and Jim Nabors leap instantly to mind -- I doubt that the Oxford Encyclopedia of Philosophy will ever crib from my notes.
Nonetheless, having become something of an ingroup cult figure among those with a high death-wish profile and a taste for cheap thrills, I am often asked, "What's the big secret, Ellison?" At college lectures, for instance, bright-eyed young people, the great hope of our society, come up to me and murmur in reverential tones, "Wanna buy a lid of tough Filipino Scarlet?"
Naturally I try to demonstrate a certain humility in the face of such trust and innocence. I try to explain that Life is Real, Life is Earnest. In my own toe-scuffling fashion I attempt to encapsulate in three or four apocryphal phrases the Ethical Structure of the Universe. The better to aid these fine young people as they set out to change the world.
And from this long, terrifically fascinating life of encounters and adventures, I have selected three examples of what I think are the most important things in life. Notes should be taken; this will count as sixty per cent of your grade.url=http://www.thefunnyjokes.co.uk/]funny jokes ¦
I could have started with one of the more esoteric of the three, but I know your attention-span is short and, in lieu of playing The Saints Go Marching In, I decided it was best to catch your notice with instant sleaze.
Sex is one of the most important things in life. It comes built into the machine. Understanding sex is real important, y'know. And it's not enough just to say, "All men are shits," or "What the fuck do women want?" That's good for openers, but one must press on to deeper insights. As an aid to your greater search, I offer the following anecdote from my own humble experience: an only-minimally exaggerated retelling of the single kinkiest sexual encounter I ever had.
When I got to Los Angeles in 1962, I was well into terminal destitution. Poverty would have been, for me, a sharp jump into a higher-income bracket. Consequently, I wasn't getting laid much. More astute observers than I have charted the correlations between one's D&B rating and one's attraction for members of the same or opposite sex.
Anyhow, I met this young woman at Stats Charbroiler one afternoon, and somehow conned her into accepting a date. It has been fifteen years since that encounter, but I remember her name today as clearly as if it had been intaglio'd on my brain with a jackhammer. Brenda.
A substantially constructed female person, honey blonde of hair, amber of eye, insouciant of manner and expansive of bosom. We exchanged pleasantries, I explained that I was new to L.A. and was, in fact, a published author.
She went for it. blonde jokes
I took her phone number and address, and promised to pick her up the following Saturday night around 8:00 for a rollicking evening of camaraderie and good times, cleverly scaled to my nonexistent finances. Long walks in the bracing night air, that kind of thing.
Came Saturday, and I hand-washed the wretched 1951 Ford that had brought me to California from Chicago and New York. I dressed as spiffily as I could manage, aware at all times of the fact that having postponed a good number of meals had dropped my weight to about ninety pounds and I was beginning to take on the appearance of a card-carrying rickets case.
I drove to her home, which was in the posh Brentwood section of Beverly Hills. I walked to the ornate apartment door of the garden lanai, and rang the bell. Nothing happened. I waited and rang again. Nothing happened. Minutes passed, and I began thinking unworthy thoughts about Brenda's ethics. Finally, I heard foot steps from within, and the door was flung open.
There stood Brenda in her slip, with machines in her hair. "Come in, come in," she said huffily, as if I had interrupted her at the precise moment when she had been decoding the DNA molecule or something equally as significant. "I'm running a little late. I have to finish doing my hair. Well, come in already."
I stepped into the foyer, standing on a ribbed plastic runner that stretched out into the distance. As she closed the door behind me, I began to take a step off the plastic stripping so the door wouldn't hit me. My foot was poised in mid-step as she let out a shriek. "Aaarghh! Not on the carpet! Mama had the schvartze in today!" I spun, widdershins, barely managing to balance myself on one leg like a flamingo. I steadied myself on the plastic runner and looked to my right, the direction my errant foot would have carried me.
There, stretching off to the distant horizon, flooring a living room only slightly smaller than Bosnia and/or Herzogovina, lay the pluperfect lunatic symbol of the upwardly-mobile, nouveau riche household: a white carpet, deepest pile, a veritable Sargasso Sea of insane white carpet -- who but nutcases would carpet a room in which human beings are supposed to relax in white, fer chrissakes? -- with the nap pathologically lying all in one direction, clearly having been carpet-swept by Nubian slave labor so it was anal retentively flowing in one unbroken tide. Hours had been spent making sure each bloody fiber lay in that north by northwest direction.
"Stay on the runner. I won't be long," Brenda commanded.
"I've got to stay on the runner?"
"Sure. Just stand there. I'll be out in a minute."
And she vanished. Back into the bowels of that cyclopean domicile, leaving me standing frozen and tremulous in my baggy pants while she went off to complete her toilette. The plastic runner extended out beneath my feet, back into the dim and vaulted interior. To my left a closed door. To my right the inviolate expanse of white carpeting and a living room in which Xerxes could easily have assembled his armies for an attack on the Hot Gates. I stood there, shifting from one foot to the other like a grade school troublemaker waiting for his audience with the Principal.
And time went by. Slowly. I waited and waited, and heard nothing from the back of the residence. The living room looked invitingly comfortable with all those massive sofas and the huge baby grand piano. But I had been denied entrance. I felt like Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon standing at the doorway to the antechamber of Tutankhamen's tomb, faunching to enter a space unvisited for three thousand years, but fearing the terrible wrath of Beware all ye who violate this sacred place . . .
Now I don't know about you, friends, but if you leave me all alone someplace, with nothing to amuse me, for any extended period of time, I will sure as shit get in trouble. And so, possessed by some devil-demon from my childhood, I became obsessed by the purity of that goddam carpet. I stared at its unblemished white expanse, that sea of bleached grass rippling away to forever. And finally, when it was either do something or go bugfuck, I stepped to the edge of the plastic runner, crouched, and jumped as far out into the carpet as I could. There was no way of knowing where I had come from. My footprints just magically appeared out there.
I hesitated only a moment, and then, scuffling my feet to produce impressions in the carpet, I began spelling out the classic Chaucerian PHUQUE. In letters four feet high. In virginal white carpet.
And I was just putting the . on the ! when I heard a strangled, "Aaaaarghhh!" behind me. I turned, and there stood the missing Brenda, looking really pretty terrific, but with this, how shall I put it, uh, green expression on her face. "OhjeezusOhmiGodOhshit! My mother'll kiiiill me!" And she ran off, leaving me standing there rather shamefaced, wondering just which mental gargoyle had taken possession of the cathedral of my mind, knowing that there was no way I was gonna get laid.
Then, in a moment, here she came, schlepping a carpet sweeper, not a vacuum cleaner, just one of your basic handpushed carpet sweepers, and she starts sweeping the nap back north by northwest!
And I watched this demented scene for about thirty seconds until it got more than I could handle, and I yelled at her, "This is nuts! How the hell can you be a slave to a fuckin' carpet?" But she was in the grip of more powerful forces than my charisma. She was under the unbreakable spell of toilet training, and if the Apocalypse had come along just then she'd still have finished laying that nap back.
I went crazy.
I grabbed for the sweeper. She pirouetted out of my reach. She never broke stroke. I lunged for her again, and got my hands around the sweeper. We struggled back and forth across the living room, caroming off the furniture, lousing up the carpet worse than before. She fought like one of those lady barbarians out of a Conan adventure, punching and kicking.
Then the sweeper went that way, and we went this way, and we fell over and wrestled over and over across the floor, thumping our heads and legs. Over and over, and I came up on top for a moment and pinned her arms and stared down at her, trying to catch my breath . . .
And in that instant I perceived a mad light glowing out of her eyes, and she murmured huskily, "Hit me."
Oh shit.
Now you gotta understand: I'm a quiet, well-mannered, Jewish kid from Ohio. Not even years sunk to the hips in the fleshpots of New York, Chicago, London and Billings, Montana have been able to sully the rigidly Puritanical morals that have led me to the pinnacle of success and clear complexion you see before you today. To put it simply, I was terrified. After all that time, at long last, despite my best efforts at avoidance, I had encountered one of those kinda ladies.
"Uh . . . beg pardon," I said weakly.
"Hit me," she said again. The light in her eyes strobed.
"H-h-huh-hit you?" and
"Punch me around a little bit. I love it."
"P-p-puh--?"
"Don't leave marks. Just hurt me some . . ."
Oh shit.
She was watching me, naked lust in her face, her lips wet with unconcealed desire. Nice quiet Jewish kid from Ohio. But what the hell, I'm adaptable.
Bogart asserted himself. My voice dropped four octaves. "You like a little smacking around, right, shweetheart?" She nodded, bonking her head on the carpet. "Okay," I said roughly, "get naked."
She looked troubled for a moment. "Naked?"
"Now!" I said, my voice a brutal rasp. I got off her. I stood over her as she stripped out of her clothes. My eyes slitted, my jaw tensed. I watched silently. When she was naked -- and pretty terrific she was, I might add -- I said, "Okay, lie on your back." She lay down again. (For a crazed moment I wanted to tell her to "make an angel" the way we used to do it when there was a heavy snow in Ohio. You lie on your back and flap your arms up and down, making angel wings. But I didn't. That would've been really crazy.)
The heavy drapes on the living room windows were secured by thick gold cord ropes with tassels. I unhooked four of them. I wrapped one around her left leg, secured it, and tied it to one leg of the baby grand. Then I did the same to her right leg and attached it to the piano at the other side. Then one arm stretched above her head and fastened to a leg of the massive sectional sofa. The other arm to another post of the sofa. She was spread-eagled, right in the middle of the word PHUQUE! (without the .) out flat on her back, her perspiring body trembling with barely-restrained passion.
"Can you move?"
She tried, then shook her head.
"Tied down tight? Can't get loose?"
She nodded again, breathing raggedly.
"Terrific," I said, heading for the door. "Say hello to your mama for me, and thank her for the chicken soup."
And I ran for my life. blonde jokes
All I could think of was when her mother got home that night, found her baby girl staked out like a gazelle at the waterhole, take one look at this monstrous scene and start screaming, "My caaaarpet . . .!"
You ask me if sex is one of the most important things in life? Absolutely. But the lack of it is even likelier to drive you nuts.url=http://www.thefunnyjokes.co.uk/]funny jokes ¦
Not the pale, pallid nonsense Starsky and Hutch indulge in every week. Real violence. Sudden, inexplicable, ghastly. How seldom we see it. How unhinged we become in the face of it. Because when it really happens, when it manifests itself on its most primitive, amoral level . . . we understand just how fragile is the tissue of social behavior. In a life singularly filled with violence, only one sticks out without even close competition as the most horrendously violent moment I ever witnessed. I'll tell it briefly; even today, years later, my blood runs cold remembering . . .

New York. Early Seventies, maybe '73 or '74. I was in the city on business. Business taken care of, I got together with a friend, a writer from Texas who loves movies as much and as indiscriminately as I do. The ritual: the movie crawl. Load up on junk food, start at the first movie theater on the downtown side of 42nd Street, and just work our way from Times Square to 8th Avenue, cross the street, and work our way back to Times Square. Days. Endless days. Twenty-four, thirty-six, forty-eight hours straight time in the dark. We eat in there, sleep in there, piss and daydream in there. Hot dogs, popcorn, slabs of cheese, munchies, French bread, anydamnthing. And we see them all: the good flicks, the bad flicks, the kung-fu operas, the porn jobs, the superfly stomp the paddy flicks . . . all of them. One after another, till our eyes turn to poached eggs, staggering from theater to theater like refugees from a Macao opium den.

I don't remember the name of the particular theater, but it was on the uptown side of 42nd Street, close to Broadway. It was something like four in the morning. My buddy and I were almost totally cacked-out. I remember the double-bill, however. The lower half, the B feature, was Fear is the Key, a really dreadful action-adventure turkey based on a crummy Alistair Maclean novel. The main feature was Save the Tiger, a contemporary drama starring Jack Lemmon. He won the Oscar for the role in that film.

And there we slumped, way the hell up in the balcony, our knees jammed under our chins, best seats in an almost empty house. Four ayem. Two rows below us -- and it was steep up there, what I'm talking here is damned near per-pen-dic-u-lar -- some black dude was juiced out asleep, lying across three or four seats, snoring.

My buddy the Texas writer is dead asleep, having polished off a recent meal of three boxes Good'n'Plenty and a frozen chocolate covered banana on a stick. And, blessedly, Fear is the Key ends, and Save the Tiger begins.

About ten minutes into this serious, sensitive study of a garment center guy who is killing himself with floating ethics, and from the very first row of the balcony, below and to the right of us, but still very high above the floor of the theater, I hear a shrieky black voice start mouthing off. Dialogue straight out of ONE HUNDRED DOLLAR MISUNDERSTANDING.

"Muh-fugguh! Gahdamn muh-fugn stupid piece'a shit. Dumb sunbish cah-suckin' piece'a shit garbage . . . Leroy! Hey, you sumbish niggah prick Leroy! Le's get th' fuggoutta here, Leeeeeroy!"

Clearly, the critic in the first row of the balcony found this deeply penetrating study of middle class morality as seen through the dissolution of Jack Lemmon's knock-off sweat shop less than relevant to his existence as a mid-Twentieth Century denizen of the shitty slum to whence he would wend his way once this stupid kike film about muh-fuggin' honk paddy bastids ended. Which wasn't soon enough for him. "Leeeee-ROY!"

I had the feeling that Leeee-ROY was the terminal case lying over the seats two rows below us. Out of it.

Well, I peer through the gloom and see the dude down there in the front row of the balcony, his feet up on the brass rail, his partner beside him, silently watching the film but not stopping the noise. And I watch the two of them for a little while, hoping the third member of the group, good ole Leeee-ROY, will bestir his ass and go rejoin them there sepia Athos and Porthos, and maybe just maybe vacate the site quietly so I can watch the goddam muhfuggin' movie.medical jokes

But no such luck. The critic only gets wonkyer, yelling at the top of his lungs. Leeee-ROY don't twitch a bun.

And just as the critic is reaching a pitch that will cause sonic tremors, squealing sunbish and muh-fugguh at the top of his lungs, from behind me I hear The Voice of Doom:

"Shut your face, nigger, before I come down there and kill you."

Pause with me for a nanoinstant. This was not one of those angrily shouted shutups one encounters all-too-frequently these days in pillbox-sized Cinema I/II/III/IV closets filled with slopebrowed, prognathous-jawed pimplebrains who jabber endlessly as though they were still in front of the tube in their living room. This was -- trust me -- the most blood-curdlingly threatening voice I have ever heard. It was the kind of voice one suspected would accompany the body attached to the moving finger writing mene mene tekel in letters of fire. This was an abominable snowman, a tyrannosaurus, a behemoth, a stone righteous muh-fuggin' killer. Deep, resonant, commanding, powerful . . . and very very black.

I don't want to belabor this but whoever or whatever was sitting back up there behind my Texas buddy and me, it was bad.

Beside me, I felt the hand of my Texican partner on my wrist. Softly, he asked, "What the fuck was that?"

"Voice of Doom," I said. "Pretend we're black. Better still: pretend we're at another theater."

All this happened in a second. And only an idiot would have talked back to the owner of that voice. Guess whose name was in the envelope in the category of Most Outstanding Performance by an Idiot? You got it: Leeee-ROY's buddy with the scoop shovel mouth.

Is violence important in this life?

The critic started shrieking, "Who said that? Who said that gahdamn shit t'me? You c'mawn down here, nigguh, I'm gonna cut'chu! I gonna cut on you, nigguh muh-fugguh!"

And he did go on. And on and on. "Oh shit," I murmured, slumping down even deeper in the seat, till my knees were up around my ears like a grasshopper. Beside me, my Texican buddy was praying in High Church Latin, Yiddish and Sufi, all at the same time.

I do believe that the joker down in the first row of that cockroach-ridden movie house was the single dumbest sonofabitch I have ever encountered; and what happened next was the swiftest, most deadly moment of violence I have ever seen.

Motormouth was still working over the conjugation of to cut when suddenly and without warning there was a rush of wind past me, down those steep steps, fast, fast, so damned fast I couldn't make out whether it was a human or a yeti or simply some terrifying force of nature, and all I saw was a dark blur as something BIG went smoothly down to the front row, something GIGANTIC moved into that row . . . and that stupid sonofabitch joker just stood up, still working his wet jaw . . . as if he could do something against that HUGE dude come to silence him . . . and that monstrous black fury just grabbed Motormouth by the shirt front and yanked . . . and pitched him headfirst over the rail.

I heard a terrified scream as the guy fell, and then a sickening crack! like the snapping of a T'ang dynasty chopstick, and then there was silence.

The only sounds were Jack Lemmon talking about what emotional violence he was suffering.

Shut up, Lemmon.

No one in the theater moved. There weren't that many people anyhow. Just my buddy and me and sleeping Leeee-ROY and the buddy of the guy who'd taken the dive . . . and that humungus shape. In the balcony. And if there was anyone down below, they weren't saying anything.

The diver's buddy didn't move or look around or say a word. He just sat there staring straight ahead, as if he could not possibly have found anything more interesting in the universe to think about than Jack Lemmon's problems. The dark shape moved back up the aisle . . . I didn't look left or right . . . I saw nothing, Jim, nothing . . .and it went up past me and was gone.

I watched that entire flick in silence. No one moved to see if the diver was still alive. After a moment's wait the diver's buddy slipped out of the balcony like oil washing down a gutter, and gone. From below . . . nothing.

And when the film was finished, and the lights came up, we rose, and turned slowly. The balcony was empty. Leeee-ROY was still tabula rasa. Just us, all alone. I looked at my buddy from Texas, and he looked at me, and without saying a word we walked down that precarious stairway and came to the railing and peered over.

The diver lay across the back of a shattered seat. He was bent double. Stomach up. His spine was broken. He didn't move. The theater was empty. We walked back up the aisle, through the upper vestibule, down the winding staircase, into the lobby, and out. We didn't look back. No one could help the diver. We wanted to get away.

We never spoke of it to each other.

It was sudden. Not a word. Not a second threat. No false heroics like two stumblebums in an alley outside a bar. No feinting, and no swinging. He just threw him; launched him out into eternity. And walked away from it. Because he was being disturbed in a movie.

Violence, real violence, not the Jack Armstrong nonsense we all play-act at . . . genuine, mindless violence is very important.

Because there is no knowing when it will strike.

And there is no escape from it. blonde jokes

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At least half our waking life is spent trying to make ends meet. Slouching after the buck. Keeping the rain off our heads. That means earning a living. Aren't you glad I clarified it for you? And whether you're on the paycheck or self-employed, whether you wait in line for the dole or cat-burgle through windows in the wee hours, relations with Them As Has the Money are vital. Not getting the Employer pissed-off, maintaining a posture that makes you indispensable, cannot be too strenuously stressed.

One of the most important lessons one can learn in this tragic life, therefore, is what it takes to stay employed. And since almost any job will eventually drive you to erratic behavior, thus precipitating getting your tuchis laid off, I offer the following heart-rending anecdote from my virtually cornucopial stock of life-experiences . . . as a classic example of what not to do.

One day about ten years ago, I was sitting in this little treehouse I rented in Beverly Glen, a sort of arboreal BambiLand section of Los Angeles just on the Tobacco Road side of Bel-Air and Beverly Hills, what I'm talking here is artsy-craftsy but poor as a shulmouse,* <>A shul is a synagogue. As a Jew I'm not allowed to have churchmice. That's okay, they're trayf.] really a treehouse I'm not making this up, see, because half the house sat on a rock ledge up a private little street called Bushrod Lane that was mostly only a kind of paved pathway better suited to fugitives from a James Fenimore Cooper book than this upwardly-struggling young writer trying to bludgeon his way into movies, and the other half -- of the treehouse, that is -- am I going too fast for you? -- was in the crotch of a big eucalyptus tree, and it only cost me $135 a month, which was back then at a time before everything was crazy in terms of what it costs to live decently these days and $135 was not the biggest rent you could pay but I wasn't all that cushy either, and so I was sitting there when the phone rang, and it was Marty. Marty the Agent. And he says to me, he says, "Walt Disney wants you!" Now I don't know what you think constitutes an ominous remark, but as Walt Disney had gone to collect his reward from that Great Consortium Organizer in the Sky at least two years prior to this phone call from Marty the Agent, immediate thoughts of some Lovecraftian horror beckoning to me from the crypt . . .Whooooooo ... Walt waaaaants you ... ! . . . went pitterpattering through my tiny brain. But, as it turned out, I was never to find out if there was truth to the much-bandied underground rumor that Walt had been flash-frozen cryogenically, with an eye to restoring him in the 25th Century or, at worst, stuffing him and putting him on display like Trigger. What it boiled down to, improbably, was that someone had read one of my science fiction stories somewhere and thought I'd be a terrific li'l fellah to have write a kinda sorta sf film Disney was thinking of making.

My first reaction to "Disney wants you" was horror, and then stark amazement. "There's been a mistake," I said to Marty the Agent. "I'm a crazed, radical, bomb-throwing loon who writes stories about things that come up out of the toilets to bite off babies' asses . . . are you sure they don't want Bob Ellison? He writes comedy. Very clean-cut guy. Drives a late model car. Shaves regularly. Never says fuck in mixed company. You sure they mean me, Marty? I'm Harlan Ellison, remember? The one with the hook for a hand."

No, says Marty the Agent, who has been my theatrical agent (as opposed to my literary agent, who is Bob the Agent) as well as my friend for over fifteen years, no, they have clearly lost their minds and they want you, and I have made a nice little week-to week deal for you, with a guaranteed six and options . . . and he named a figure that might not purchase San Simeon in these crazy days of lettuce going for $3.00 a head but back then ten years ago was more money than anyone had ever offered me for anything, including my body.

"Contracts are coming," Marty said, "but go over to the Disney Studio tomorrow morning. They have an office for you."

I was in heaven. So okay, it wasn't writing The Great American Cinematic Answer to Potemkin, so what?! I was on my way. I was going to work in the Studio! It was the big time. And just to get up in the part of a successful scenarist, I dragged out my complete collection of Uncle Scrooge McDuck Comics and re-read them all, till the night had passed away and the morning had come. I dressed smartly, put on the one tie I owned, looked at myself in the mirror before leaving the treehouse and went back in and took off the tie and put on a shirt first. Okay, so I was excited, shoot me.

I drove out the Ventura Freeway to the Buena Vista exit, drove up to the front gate in the disreputable 1951 Ford I mentioned earlier, which hadn't been washed in so long that strangers wrote cleanliness-is-next-to-godliness obscenities in the dirt, and gave my name to the spiffy guard at the kiosk. "Oh, yessir, Mr. Ellison," he said, validating my existence, "your office is in the Writers Building." I beamed. "How do I get there?" I asked. He smiled exactly the same smile as Doc of Seven Dwarfs fame and said, "Well, you drive in here and take the first left, that's Mickey Mouse Avenue. Then you go down Mickey Mouse Avenue till you get to Thumper Boulevard. Turn right on Thumper to Clarabelle Cow Way and take another left. Go straight down Clarabelle Cow Way till you hit the corner of Horace Horsecollar Drive, and the Writers Building is second building on your right."

I think I nodded dumbly, refusing to believe what I had just been told. But I drove in and, sure as shit, there was Mickey Mouse Avenue and Thumper Boulevard and all the rest of them, and I said to myself, Ellison . . . you has fallen down a rabbit hole, keed.

But right there, in front of the building to which I'd been directed, was a parking slot that said H. ELLISON. Right there, on the blacktop, between the thick white lines, some industrious Audio-Animatronic robot (possibly cobbled up in the image of Matisse or Lindner) had stencilled my name for Eternity or six weeks with options . . . whichever came first.

To those of you out there in the Great American Heartland, that may not be such a significant thing, but in the world of studio sinecures, a parking space of one's own is dearer to the heart than never being put on "hold" when calling the networks. I know Sammy Glick manqués who have given up perks and titles and even a Bigelow on the floor just for a parking space with the name thereon. So there I had it: authentication of my elevated status in the universe of the soon-to-be-hot-stuff.

I walked into the building and on the register I found my name and office number. Walked upstairs, followed the numbers till I found my office, and opened the door. It was a two-room suite with bathroom. The room I entered was antechamber, and there, sitting behind her desk, reading a paperback nurse novel, was my secretary. No, change that from . to !!!

You shoulda seen her. This remarkable creature was so clean I could see dust motes taking 90' turns as they fell, just so they wouldn't mar her perfection. A smile that would solve all the energy dilemmas of the TVA. Peter Pan collar on the blouse. Malibu blonde, periwinkle-blue eyes, a goyishe nose that would make Streisand climb a wall a freshly-minted six-pak of dimples most of which were visible.

"May I help you?" she said.

You're probably too young to remember, but the part of Adelaide in the original stage production of Guys and Dolls was played by Vivian Blaine, an accomplished actress who had the most amazing dumb-blond voice ever bottled. Not even Judy Holliday in Born Yesterday could approach the level of stupidity aurally conveyed by Ms. Blaine's rendition of the nitwit. Only once in the more-than-a-quarter-century since Guys and Dolls opened on Broadway, have I heard a voice, male or female, that rivaled for strident, full-out dumbness, the voice of Adelaide.

"May I help you?" she said.

"Uh, I'm Harlan Ellison," I replied. "I think this is my office."

Such instant attentiveness. Such perky willingness to serve, we don't do windows or floors. Could she get me coffee? Could she type some script? Could she file some reports? Could she read my Tarot?

I pointed out that I was just arriving and that it was my first day on the job and, since I had no idea what I was doing, nor even what the nature of the project was to be, I really needed only one bit of assistance: "Is that my office in there?"

She indicated that the connecting room was, in fact, the Holiest of Holies where, she was certain, I would create great moments in cinematic history. I thanked her, suggested she return to the contretemps of Nurse and Doctor and advanced post-nasal drip, and I'd call her when I needed her. In the background I heard mental riffs by Dan Hicks & his Hot Licks.

I went into my office.

They could have staged the World Cup soccer matches in there. One sofa, too short to sleep on; one wall of bookcases empty save for a well-thumbed copy of the 1948 WORLD ALMANAC; one framed painting depicting beanfield hands laboring under a blistering sun (I wondered if that was intended by the management as metaphor); one desk the size of the battleship Potemkin (and I wondered if that was intended by the management as metaphor); one typing table supporting an enormous IBM Selectric, already humming with life; one rollaround typing chair.

And on the desk, an even dozen #2 Dixon Ticonderoga pencils, sharpened to such a piercing sharpness that they seemed to strobe off into invisibility at the points. Tony Curtis could have dueled with those pencils.

I didn't have the heart to tell anyone I type manuscript straight onto the machine. My handwriting is in the top 1/10th of the top percentile of illegible scrawls.

I sat down and waited. For someone to come and tell me what they wanted me to write. To tell me at least the name of the picture. But an hour went by and nothing happened.

As I've pointed out earlier, left to my own devices, I get into trouble. Deep trouble.

So, bored out of my brain, I rose, went into the office where Barbie sat with furrowed brow pondering the mysteries of infections and abscesses of the submaxillary parotid gland, and I said, "I'm going to look around. Be back in a bit."

The smile fried my eyeballs like a ping-pong ball in a cyclotron, and I stumbled into the hall.

I started checking out the other offices. And to my utter delight, there were at least half a dozen writers I knew, ensconced in Plaza Suites similar to mine. The wonderful thing about it was that most of them were loons like me. I'd name them, but since most of you can't even remember the names of authors of books, names of scenarists like Albert Aley and John D.F. Black and Mary C. McCall, Jr. won't mean shit to you. Suffice to say, we all found ourselves gathered in John's office, shucking and jiving till almost noon. At which point someone said, "Okay, let's break for lunch."

I thought that was a terrific idea, having put in an exhausting three hours working in the Disney vineyards.

So we went to the commissary and shoved in around the Writers' Table.

What I did not know was that the Writers' Table was right behind the Producers' Banquette. That was my first big mistake. As it turned out, it was also my last big mistake.

Oh, what fun, sitting there with intellectual companions, cutting up touches and laughing at the drolleries! Born again: the Algonquin round table. Wit beyond compare. And, naturally, as the youngest member of the group, striving to make my mark as worthy of their camaraderie, their respect, I suggested a droll, witty lunchtime conceit . . .

Two things you must know. First, I do a terrific Mickey Mouse imitation. Absolutely phonographically perfect. If the publishers of this book had the money, they ought to bind in a record, one of those little plastic jobbies, so you could hear my spectacular Mickey imitation. When I tell this anecdote in person, it really enhances a lot. But just pretend you can hear it, okay?

The second thing you need to know is that the Producers' Banquette had filled up with Roy Disney and the other heads of the studio, behind me; a fact of which I was unaware; a fact no one bothered to impart.

At the top of my voice I suggested, "Hey, listen, what a kick! Why don't we do a porn Disney flick?"

Everyone smiled. "It'll be terrific," I said. Loudly. "I mean, everyone knows, for instance, that Tinker Bell does it . . . what they don't know is how she Does It." They all looked at me expectantly. "She flies up the head of the penis and flaps her wings like crazy," I said, proud as hell of myself at this bit of fantasy. Everyone chuckled.

I went on, oblivious to the sudden hush all around me in the commissary. "I'll be Mickey, and I'll be the director; John, you do a good Donald, so you can be the male porn lead, sort of a duck-style Harry Reems; Mary, you can be Minnie, the female lead; and Albert, you can be Goofy . . . and Goofy, of course, is the producer." blonde jokes

Their smiles were frozen; the way the smiles of bit players get frozen when they see the monster creeping up behind the hero in a horror flick.

"Hey, gang!" I squeaked in my terrifically accurate Mickey voice. "Everybody ready to shoot the ultimate Disney flick? The film that rips the lid off the goody two-shoes hypocrisy that lies sweltering beneath the surface of G-rated true-life adventures? Okay, you guys, let's get that hand-held Arriflex right down there between Minnie's legs! I wanna see closeups of quivering labia!"

A silence as deep as that at the bottom of the Cayman Trench.

I went on, oblivious, carried along by my enthusiasm. In Donald's quack I said, "Goddam sonofabitch! Pluto, get outta there, you're steaming up the lens!"

As Goofy, in the dumbest voice possible, I said, "Yuck, yuck, yuck . . . hey, fellahs, I'm a highly-paid, extremely-inept producer person . . . c'n I play, too?"

As Mickey: "Fuck off, Goofy, fuck off! Get those Seven Dwarfs in here . . . I don't care ff they don't wanna gang-bang a mouse, tell 'em they're under contract . . . and fer chrissakes, Minnie, will you take off those damned shoes?!"

The meal came. Everyone addressed their plates like inmates of the Gulag Archipelago. When lunch was over, everyone vanished very quickly. I was confused, but felt good. What a nice little shtick I'd invented. Wished they'd joined in. Oh well.

Went back to my office. Noticed first that my name had been whited-out in the parking slot. Upstairs, the secretary and her paperback were gone. On my desk: twelve sharpened #2 Dixon Ticonderoga pencils and a pink slip.

I had been fired after working for the Disney empire for a total of four hours, including lunch.

The lessons here cannot be avoided.

Big business is humorless.funny jokes

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May I add one to your list?
6. People who admit they need help that are too drugged up on meds to get their arse into therapy!

I think Doc Hogan is writing way too many scripts these days. As far as I knew, meds were supposed to be one tool of many needed. Nowadays, seems like people think it's the end all and the be all.

I came to hear about this med(Paxil) 3 years ago when my sis went on it. For some screwball reason she takes a Zoloft a day as well. Go figure. Back then, when I was dealing with a sis that was depressed because she was in a loveless marriage, transferred that need for love to her kids, changing the dynamics from parent to "friend" and thusly became a fulltime slave/martyr, I had a fighting chance to lend an ear and give her some well thought out advice. After assuring her all would be okay again if she makes a plan and follows a plan, I offered my 2 cents. I advised her that meds are okay for some but for all they are only one tool. That it was imperative that she eat right, get her rest, get into therapy, read as much as she could on the subject and to be true to herself. Now, sadly after 3 years on meds only, in a worse state of mind...numb really, she is looking at surgery to get a pre-cancerous polyp removed.
Over the past 3 years our conversations have diminished and resorted to mostly chit-chat. Oh, I still get in there and fight for what I think is right from time to time but afterall, I'm dealing with the Paxil/Zoloft numb effect.
Of course I've been in contact with her lately due to her surgery. She told me she was mad at her regular doc because she used the "C" word during her pre-surgery physical exam. In addition, her doc told her that her problem was too much pent up anger. Before I had a chane to say I agree with her doc, she quickly said: "But let's not get into that."
"Nope, let's not get into ANYTHING", I thought. Let's keep on taking meds, feeling numb for the rest of your life. Let's pretend everything is nail in life cause all you got in your tool box is a hammer.

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