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In this issue:
-a quick joke
A few minutes before the services started, the townspeople were sitting in their pews and talking.
Satan appeared at the front of the church. Everyone started screaming and running for the front entrance, trampling each other in a frantic effort to get away from evil incarnate. Soon everyone had exited the church except for one elderly gentleman who sat calmly in his pew without moving, seeming oblivious to the fact that God's ultimate enemy was in his presence. Satan...
So Satan walked up to the old man and said, "Don't you know who I am?"
The man replied, "Yep, sure do."
"Aren't you afraid of me?" Satan asked.
"Nope, sure ain't." said the man.
"Don't you realize I can kill you with a word?"
"Don't doubt it for a minute," returned the old man, in an even tone.
"Did you know that I could cause you profound, horrifying, physical AGONY for all eternity?" persisted Satan.
"Yep", was the calm reply.
"And you're still not afraid?" asked Satan.
More than a little perturbed, Satan asked, "Well, why aren't you afraid of me?"
The man calmly replied, "I've been married to your sister for over 48
.....and I did. Read all about it:
I am an official member of the North American Fishing Club! And when your membership says "official", that means you bought a license once and they yearly send you a magnetic stick 'em up thing whereon a fish and your status are colorfully displayed. I think everyone's status is: official member. Then they ask for money to save the Tibetan trout. I get a plastic card even. I can show it to people and impress them. The license was bought three years ago when I agreed to go fishing with my nephew, a bass master, on an over-fished, under-stocked East-Central Indiana lake. I enjoyed it, actually. For ten minutes anyway. Then he stopped the boat and said the famous fish-folly words: "Let's drop the anchor and try our luck here. Looks like a good spot!"
He borrowed to me (Hell - this is a "fish story"! Fuck grammar!) one of his many cast-off casting things (rods? poles?) and said to choose my lure from one of his three brought-along tackle boxes. He left several in the cabin. So I did. The brightest, biggest one I could find. "Let's see any righteous fish fail to be lured by this attractive fucker!" Visions of a record catch swam in my head. I could see myself buying fifty copies of the local paper that featured the fish and me - a front-page headline, of course. Well, no fish were fooled after two casts......... OK - that had its two minutes. Time to switch. Yellow with feathers this time. Cool! Two minutes later - a wiggly and jiggly neon green plastic thing to try. One minute later - a purple worm, ridged even... .......... ........ Fuck this! I'm done. Fish don.t cooperate . I don.t fish! They had their chance for fame.
I wanted to tell Joe I was all fished out and have him take me to shore, but how girly would that have been? So I substituted a manly subterfuge: "Hey, Joe. I gotta. fuckin' piss." (The .fuckin.. part made it really manly.)
"Piss in the can!" (more manly this) he says nodding to one of the two beer cans he had emptied - it was barely dawn. He still had his original lure and had cast about fifty times so far. That's the patience I heard so much about I guess. I can-pissed. We were a half hour in the same spot and I had spent one minute pissing into the tiny piss hole of the beer can, about ten minutes taking off and putting on bait (Is bait live stuff like grubs and minnows, and lures dead stuff like plastic and metal and wood?), five minutes casting out and reeling in, and the rest of the time concentrating on which of the hundreds of "things" in the tackle boxes I would next choose as the one sure to work. I gave up and asked the expert - who hadn't yet had a bite but appeared to be enjoying himself - the beer breakfast? - to choose one for me.
"Joe, which of these should I use?" He picked out a dull, deadlike little stick thing with tiny hooks, but only after giving me a mini lecture on patience and stick-to-it-ness. I was the worst fisherman he ever saw he said. I agreed. He said more too. I forgot what.
The sun was rising and it felt so warm so soon. So soon it was so hot. He drank and cast, I twitched and twisted, fidgeted and fussed, and cursed. The sun said it was only nine o'clock, but the empty beer cans made a five o.clock pile. A new plan of attack: "I gotta' shit, Joe!!" (Don't you dare say beer can!) He reeled in, put down his pole, and after I hoisted the anchor, he started the Evinrude. Ahhhhhhhhh. Soon land! But too soon and too harshly that joy was drowned. He throttled down after only a few minutes and pulled into a cove-like area where a dilapidated short pier creaked a hillbilly welcome to the tiny island we approached. ........ (What? There's a fucking rest room here?) Reaching into a watertight compartment under his seat, he fished out what was to be the best catch of the day - a half roll of toilet paper. He handed it to me and nodded to the brush. Shit! Joe told me this lake had a lot to offer, but I didn't expect a natural latrine was one of its features! I faked a shit and got back into the floating prison. I needed a beer.
And I had one, then another. I hadn't touched my pole in over an hour. "Getting hungry?" He asked. I told him no, I was having such a good time watching a master, the beer was enough. (Asshole!!!! The perfect escape and I had to play macho man!) But thank Gar, he was hungry, and an hour later we took up anchor and headed for our pier. It was noonish. No fish. I was a lobster though. The sun-block lotion was in my suitcase. After we moored - is that nautically correct? - I wanted to play Columbus and Father Marquette; wanted to kiss the terra firma and plant a cross and memorialize our landing. Joe mentioned getting worms and minnows and heading back out after chow. Now, now. No way, okay? Call it a day. Fuck it in fact.
I got some kind of sun sickness, and shit and shivered my way through the next two days. We ran out of toilet paper in the cabin and had to borrow from the boat. I couldn't go into town and Joe wouldn't. He came to fish, God-damn-it! Didn.t come to make pussy trips to town for shit paper! OK, Joe, go fucking fishing. Catch something. He did. He caught one small rock bass. It alone was the grand total for three days. He wasn't even near rocks when he landed the beast. He told me it was all of five inches and he threw it back. I believed him - if he were to story it, I expect it would have been at least six. And probably a big mouth too. Rock bass? What in Hell is that?
I felt better our last day there, and as Joe fished, I hiked. From the cabin to the water's edge about a hundred times. I endlessly searched the horizon for his battered bass boat and did anticipate with some desire a nice plate of freshly caught pan fish. Buttered and battered and fried golden and crisp. Fresh and sweet. It was cloudy and had drizzled some throughout the day. Isn't that good fishin' weather? He docked in late afternoon. We had pancakes for supper. The steamy, flaky, crispy, sweet fish remained illusory.
When I mentioned the futility of it all to him on the way home, he gave me a taste of his sportsman's wisdom: "Uncle Richard. When you fish, you must expect nothing in the way of fish! It's being out there - being ....... away. That is the reason for and the pleasure of fishing. Consider it a bonus if you do happen to get lucky and catch something." I considered his words. Had he told me this on the first day, my attitude would have been different and my expectations considerably less expectant. I then asked him if I were lucky - I caught the shits after all. He laughed. Fishing is funny
(Oh . I wasn.t disappointed at not having made the
Lake Sarah local front-page. Joe invited me to go deer
hunting with him that fall. I envisioned myself in
sexy camouflage on the cover of Deer Hunter Magazine,
a twelve point dead-eyed buck beneath the LaCrosse
Mossy Oak Break-up printed camo-on-rubber booted foot
I rested majestically on his firm hindquarters. Well,
that dream lasted till I priced the boots . 70 bucks!
I wore old Nikes. Didn.t kill a thing. Caught
something again though . a cold. It was a fucking good
one too! A six-day-er........well, OK...five.)
Loved the fishing story!!!
Reminds me so much of when my dad took me fishing when I was a kid, except I was too damned young to even be able to have the pleasure of the beer (or whiskey as it probably was). I sure never made _my_ sons suffer through the experience.
I do, however, remember one deep sea fishing trip in salt water: I know that sometimes it is possible to actually catch fish.
Thanks for the story!
If lawyers are disbarred and clergymen defrocked, doesn't it follow that:
electricians can be delighted,
On a more positive note, though, perhaps we can hope that
will be devoted.
A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on the end of a pole which he carried across his neck.
One of the pots had a crack in it. The other was perfect.
While the perfect pot always delivered a full portion of water at the of the long walk from the stream to the master's house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.
For two years, this went on daily with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water in his master's house.
Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it was made to do.
After two years of what it had perceived a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. "I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."
'Why?' asked the bearer. 'What are you ashamed of?'
The pot said, "I have only been able, for these past two years, to deliver half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master's house.
Because of all of my flaws, you do all of this work, and you don't get full value from your efforts,"
The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said "As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path."
Indeed as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path and this cheered it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad as it had leaked out half of its load, and so again apologized to the bearer for its failure.
The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were only flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side?"
That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day when we walked back from the stream, you've watered them.
For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house."
Each of us has our own unique flaws. We are all 'cracked pots'. But it's our cracks and flaws that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding.
You've just got to take each person as they are, and look for good in them.
Remember all the different people in your life! If is
wasn't for the cracked pots, life would be pretty
boring and not so beautiful!
"I figured as long as I remained chaste the church
would welcome me."
This is a continuation of a story Buzter ran on the list last week. The Salt Lake Tribune reports that in unrelated incidents, Ricky Escoto and Matthew Grierson, both 21, were told to withdraw from Brigham Young University or face two-semester suspensions for violating the school's honor code.
The code forbids -- but doesn't clearly define -- homosexual conduct -- which BYU has now defined as committing "inappropriate same-sex behavior, including but not limited to dating, holding hands, kissing, romantic touching, showering, clubbing, etc., as well as regular association with homosexual men."
Escoto was charged last month with the infractions of receiving gifts from other men, visiting gay chat rooms on his personal computer, making out with another man in his apartment and dating at least three different men.
In mid-March Grierson was charged with kissing a man on the BYU campus and holding hands with a man in a local mall.
Maybe Buz can tell us if BYU applies similar rules
to heterosexually oriented students on its campus.
Bernie was invited to his friend's home for dinner. Morris, the host, called his wife by many endearing terms, calling her Honey, My Love, Darling, Sweetheart, Pumpkin, etc.
Bernie looked at Morris and remarked, "That is really nice. After all these years, you still call your wife those pet names."
Morris hung his head and whispered, "To tell the truth, I forgot her
name years ago."
But the father said, "No, I have a better idea. Let's bring her home
and eat your mother."
The host replied, "Yes, and I'm really going to miss her."
The Silverfox seen in this picture is an Australian Actor called John Woods. He starred in an Australian Police program called "Blue Heelers". He has been involved with a number of Australian television programs. I am sure you could find him on the net if you wanted.
America has engaged in some finger wagging lately because California doesn't have enough electricity to meet its needs.
The rest of the country (including George W. Bush's energy secretary Spencer Abraham, who wants Californians to suffer through blackouts as justification for drilling for oil in Alaska's Arctic National Wildlife Refuge) seems to be just fine with letting Californians dangle in the breeze without enough power to meet their needs. They laugh at Californians' frivolity.
Well, everybody. Here's how it really is:
California ranks 48th in the nation in power consumed per person. California grows more than half the nation's fruit, nuts and vegetables. We're keeping them. We need something to eat when the power goes out.
We grow 99 percent or more of the nation's almonds, artichokes, dates, figs, kiwi fruit, olives, persimmons, pistachios, prunes, raisins and walnuts.
Hope you won't miss them.
California is the nation's number one dairy state. We're keeping our dairy products. We'll need plenty of fresh ones since our refrigerators can't be relied upon. Got milk?
We Californians are gonna keep all our high-tech software in state. Silicon Valley is ours, after all. Without enough electricity, which you're apparently keeping for yourselves, we just plain don't have enough software to spare. We're keeping all our airplanes. California builds a good percentage of the commercial airliners available to fly you people to where you want to go. When yours wear out, you'd better hope Boeing's Washington plant can keep you supplied. There isn't enough electricity here to allow us to export any more planes than we need ourselves. And while we're at it, we're keeping all our high-tech aerospace stuff, too, like the sophisticated weapons systems that let you sleep at night, not worried you might wake up under the rule of some foreign kook.
Oh, yeah, and if you want to make a long-distance call, remember where the satellite components and tracking systems come from. Maybe you could get back in the habit of writing letters.
Want to see a blockbuster movie this weekend? Come to California. We make them here. Since we'll now have to make them with our own electricity, we're keeping them. Even if we shot them somewhere else, the labs, printing facilities, editing facilities, and sound facilities are all here.
Want some nice domestic wine? We produce over 17 million gallons per year. We'll need all of it to drown our sorrows when we think about the fact that no matter how many California products we export to make the rest of America's lives better, America can't see its way clear to help us out with a little electricity. You can no longer have any of our wine.
You all complain that we don't build enough power plants. Well, you don't grow enough food, write enough software, make enough movies, build enough airplanes and defense systems or make enough wine.
This is your last warning, America. Lighten (us) up before it's too late.
Wow! That's really telling it like it is !!!
Thanks, Big-ol-Bearcub !! You rate pretty high on my list!
Ethan in LA
Hmmmm. Yes, by all means Californians should keep their products. After all, who needs revenue and cash when there is no means by which to sustain one's booty of cars and "pluginable" objects? And without those fine foods I myself may eventually regret not having payed for others' mistakes.
Did I hear a whisper of secession.......?
Since today is a gloomy day today in NYC, I figured I'd write a little story to give you a good laugh. Now, this is a true story that happened to me this past week.
I went to see my doctor on Thursday, regular checkup, but I also had a problem. I had a soreness on my body. My doctor took a look and said that it seems that I have strained the ligament in the TM joint on the ride side. He prescribed me Naproxen, a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory medication, and it seems to be working today.
Now, after all this yesterday night, I was online with a few gay friends and I told them I was on medication. They asked why? I told them the above, and of course, the first question was, "Where is the TM joint?" I told them it's the jawbone. Immediately, the comments starting flying:
I tried to explain to them that it was nothing of the sort, I strained it on Wednesday night while asleep and woke up with a sore jaw. To add to that, I was alone and have been alone all week! I tried to explain that I could barely could open my mouth enough to chew, but of course, to no avail except for tons of laughter.
Hope this lifts your spirits! I did get a good laugh out of it myself, even though it happened to me.
Hello list members. This is my first(virgin) post to the list. Anyways, to introduce myself my name is Adam and I am a 25 yo in Phoenix, who loves older chubby men.
Here is my message:
I found an interesting fact from an informative web site. Here is where I found the fact, and check out the rest of the site. http://www.hrc.org/worknet/index.asp 7 out of the 10 biggest cities in the United states offer same sex partner benefits for their city employees. Can you guess which three do not? Answer at the bottom of this message. Hint: Our homophobic president was governor of the state that the three cities reside in.
Here is a question to the list. My work offers same sex partner benefits. I haven't put my older lover on my benefits yet. Has any of the younger guys out there that work at a company that has partner benefits put their older lover on their benefits? My partner and I have a 30 year age difference (he also is rather expensive medically....meaning he takes lots of pills for diabetes and high blood pressure), and I was wondering if Human resources would think I am cheating the system, you know helping an older friend out. Or has any older guys put their younger lover on their benefits? Just curious... I haven't checked into it yet but also wondering if you have to prove somehow you are partners... just want to hear your experiences with this or your opinions.
News and developments concerning the struggle for workplace equality for GLBT Americans April 2001
An HRC WorkNet Factoid
Seven of the country's 10 largest cities provide domestic partner benefits
to municipal employees. Those that offer the benefits are: New York, Los
Angeles, Chicago, Philadelphia, San Diego, Phoenix and Detroit (for City
Council employees only). All three holdouts are in Texas: Houston, San
Antonio and Dallas.
End of silverfoxesclub-digest V1 #198