Epoxy can be cured!
My brother-in-law, a pilot, related this incident between a fellow pilot and an engineer/mechanic at the airport. These two chaps were forever squabbling and trying to drive the other one nuts.
The pilot once turned a plane in to the shop with a complaint that read "Unfamiliar noise from engine." The next day, the plane was ready for him. The engineer's logbook entry read "Ran engine continuously for four hours. Noise now familiar."
If Canada's dollar coin is referred to as a "loonie", should its upcoming two dollar coin be the "doubloon"?
In a forest, a fox bumped into a little rabbit, and said, "Hi Junior, what are you up to?" "I'm writing a dissertation on how rabbits eat foxes" said the rabbit. "Come now friend rabbit, you know thats impossible!" "Well, follow me and I'll show you." They both go into the rabbits dwellings and after a while the rabbit emerges with a satisfied expression on his face.
Along comes a wolf. "Hello, what are you doing these days?" "I'm writing the second chapter of my thesis, on how rabbits devour wolves." "Are you crazy! Where is your academic honesty?" "Come with me and I'll show you." As before the rabbit comes out with a satisfied expression on his face and with a diploma in his paw.
Finally, the camera pans to the rabbits cave and as everybody should have guessed by now, we see a mean looking, huge lion sitting next to some bloody and furry remnants of the wolf and the fox.
The moral: its not the contents of your thesis that is important, its your supervisor that really counts!!
This was an essay written by comedian and novelist Hugh Gallagher. He wrote it in high school and submitted it with his application to NYU, which he attended.
3A. IN ORDER FOR THE ADMISSIONS STAFF OF OUR COLLEGE TO GET TO KNOW YOU, THE APPLICANT, BETTER, WE ASK THAT YOU ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTION: ARE THERE ANY SIGNIFICANT EXPERIENCES YOU HAVE HAD, OR ACCOMPLISHMENTS YOU HAVE REALIZED, THAT HAVE HELPED TO DEFINE YOU AS A PERSON?
I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently.
Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.
I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.
Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of charge.
I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400.
My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.
I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have performed several covert operations with the CIA. I sleep once a week; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.
I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven.
I breed prizewinning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin.
I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.
But I have not yet gone to college.
For those of you who were unable to attend the Awards Dinner during the Annual Meeting in San Diego, you missed a tall tale on complex forensics presented by AAFS President Don Harper Mills in his opening remarks. The following is a recount of Dr. Mills' story...
On March 23 the medical examiner viewed the body of Ronald Opus and concluded that he died from a gunshot wound of the head caused by a shotgun. Investigation to that point had revealed that the decedent had jumped from the top of a ten story building with the intent to commit suicide (he left a note indicating his despondency). As he passed the 9th floor on the way down, his life was interrupted by a shotgun blast through a window, killing him instantly. Neither the shooter nor the decedent was aware that a safety net had been erected at the 8th floor level to protect some window washers and that the decedent would not have been able to complete his intent to commit suicide because of this.
Ordinarily, a person who starts into motion the events with a suicide intent ultimately commits suicide even though the mechanism might be not what he intended. That he was shot on the way to certain death nine stories below probably would not change his mode of death from suicide to homicide. But the fact that his suicide intent would not have been achieved under any circumstance caused the medical examiner to feel that he had homicide on his hands.
Further investigation led to the discovery that the room on the 9th floor from whence the shotgun blast emanated was occupied by an elderly man and his wife. He was threatening her with the shotgun because of an interspousal spat and became so upset that he could not hold the shotgun straight. Therefore, when he pulled the trigger, he completely missed his wife and the pellets went through the window striking the decedent.
When one intends to kill subject A, but kills subject B in the attempt, one is guilty of the murder of subject B. The old man was confronted with this conclusion, but both he and his wife were adamant in stating that neither knew that the shotgun was loaded. It was the longtime habit of the old man to threaten his wife with an unloaded shotgun. He had no intent to murder her; therefore, the killing of the decedent appeared then to be accident. That is, the gun had been accidentally loaded.
But further investigation turned up a witness that their son was seen loading the shotgun approximately six weeks prior to the fatal accident. That investigation showed that the mother (the old lady) had cut off her son's financial support and her son, knowing the propensity of his father to use the shotgun threateningly, loaded the gun with the expectation that the father would shoot his mother. The case now becomes one of murder on the part of the son for the death of Ronald Opus.
Further investigation revealed that the son became increasingly despondent over the failure of his attempt to get his mother murdered. This led him to jump off the ten story building on March 23, only to be killed by a shotgun blast through a 9th story window.
The medical examiner closed the case as a suicide.
An Oregonian, a Californian and a Texan were out camping. They were lazing around a campfire when the Texan pulled out a bottle of tequila and after taking a couple of swallows, threw the bottle up in the air, pulled out his six shooter and neatly shot the bottle.
The Californian noted that there was still some tequila left in the bottle, but the Texan replied, "That's okay, we have plenty of tequila where I come from." The Californian promptly brought out his bottle of White Zinfandel, took two swallows, threw it up in the air and shot it with a 9mm semiautomatic Glock pistol with a 15-shot clip, stating: "We have plenty of this where I come from."
The Oregonian took all this in and finally opened a bottle of McTarnahan's Amber Ale. He downed the entire bottle, threw it up in the air, shot the Californian with a 12-gauge shotgun he kept around for birds and deftly caught the bottle.
The Texan's jaw dropped nearly to his silver buckle and his eyes widened nearly as wide as the buckle. The Oregonian, momentarily puzzled at the reaction, finally piped up: "It's okay, we have plenty of Californians where I come from, but I can get a nickel for this bottle!"
Alleged semaphore conversation on the ocean:
#1: PLEASE DIVERT YOUR COURSE 15 DEGREES TO LEFT TO AVOID A COLLISION.
#2: YOU DIVERT YOUR COURSE 15 DEGREES TO RIGHT TO AVOID A COLLISION.
#1: I AM THE CAPTAIN OF A US NAVY FRIGATE. YOU DIVERT YOUR COURSE.
#2: NO. YOU DIVERT YOUR COURSE.
#1. THIS IS A LARGE WARSHIP OF THE US NAVY. DIVERT YOUR COURSE NOW!
#2. THIS IS A LIGHTHOUSE. YOUR CALL.
Sign on a Child Psychologist's door:
"We have always been dependent on the strangeness of kinder."
W. Saul "The Maven" Caplan
If a university had a Department of Origami, would its head be referred to as a folding chair?
I saw that these Progressives were obsessed with the idea of dilation. There is such a thing as a dilated heart, which I am told is a disease. There is such a thing as a dilated, or swelled, head. But the typical case of a creature who dilated equally all round is that of the imperially-minded frog who wanted to be a bull, and dilated until he burst....
G. K. Chesterton
[ ``Dilation'' is also used to describe a fundamental operation of wavelets analysis. I did say ``bizarre'', didn't I? ]
Ask not for whom the bell tolls and you will only pay station-to-station rates.
Just once, I'd like to meet an alien menace that wasn't immune to bullets.
The Brigadier (on "Doctor Who")
Jobs don't kill programmers, programmers kill jobs.
Doug Robinson (foxvax5!dbr)
"Good grief, Seagoon, this skull is two million years old!"
"Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday dear sku-ul..."
The Goon Show
Last updated by Bob Lewis on 2 Jan 1996.
Send comments to him.