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Well, after paying all the other debts dumped on workers, maybe we will just go with "Free Education" and get rid of the nonsense degrees...and football programs.
JOKE OF THE DAY!?!
- Thread starter SilverNuts&Bolts
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A man is driving down the road and his car breaks down near a monastery.
He goes to the monastery, knocks on the door, and says, "My car broke down. Do you think I could stay the night?"
The monks graciously accept him, feed him dinner, even fix his car.
As the man tries to fall asleep, he hears a strange sound. A sound unlike anything he's ever heard before. The Sirens that nearly seduced Odysseus into crashing his ship comes to his mind. He doesn't sleep that night. He tosses and turns trying to figure out what could possibly be making such a seductive sound.
The next morning, he asks the monks what the sound was, but they say, "We can't tell you. You're not a monk." Distraught, the man is forced to leave.
Years later, after never being able to forget that sound, the man goes back to the monastery and pleads for the answer again. The monks reply, "We can't tell you. You're not a monk." The man says, "If the only way I can find out what is making that beautiful sound is to become a monk, then please, make me a monk."
The monks reply, "You must travel the earth and tell us how many blades of grass there are and the exact number of grains of sand. When you find these answers, you will have become a monk."
The man sets about his task.
After years of searching he returns as a gray- haired old man and knocks on the door of the monastery. A monk answers. He is taken before a gathering of all the monks. "In my quest to find what makes that beautiful sound, I traveled the earth and have found what you asked for: By design, the world is in a state of perpetual change. Only God knows what you ask. All a man can know is himself, and only then if he is honest and reflective and willing to strip away self deception." The monks reply, "Congratulations". You have become a monk. We shall now show you the way to the mystery of the sacred sound."
The monks lead the man to a wooden door, where the head monk says, "The sound is beyond that door." The monks give him the key, and he opens the door. Behind the wooden door is another door made of stone. The man is given the key to the stone door and he opens it, only to find a door made of ruby. And so it went that he needed keys to doors of emerald, pearl and diamond. Finally, they come to a door made of solid gold. The sound has become very clear and definite.
The monks say, "This is the last key to the last door."
The man is apprehensive to no end.
His life's wish is behind that door! With trembling hands, he unlocks the door, turns the knob, and slowly pushes the door open.
Falling to his knees, he is utterly amazed to discover the source of that haunting and seductive sound...... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
But, of course, I can't tell you what it is because you're not a monk
He goes to the monastery, knocks on the door, and says, "My car broke down. Do you think I could stay the night?"
The monks graciously accept him, feed him dinner, even fix his car.
As the man tries to fall asleep, he hears a strange sound. A sound unlike anything he's ever heard before. The Sirens that nearly seduced Odysseus into crashing his ship comes to his mind. He doesn't sleep that night. He tosses and turns trying to figure out what could possibly be making such a seductive sound.
The next morning, he asks the monks what the sound was, but they say, "We can't tell you. You're not a monk." Distraught, the man is forced to leave.
Years later, after never being able to forget that sound, the man goes back to the monastery and pleads for the answer again. The monks reply, "We can't tell you. You're not a monk." The man says, "If the only way I can find out what is making that beautiful sound is to become a monk, then please, make me a monk."
The monks reply, "You must travel the earth and tell us how many blades of grass there are and the exact number of grains of sand. When you find these answers, you will have become a monk."
The man sets about his task.
After years of searching he returns as a gray- haired old man and knocks on the door of the monastery. A monk answers. He is taken before a gathering of all the monks. "In my quest to find what makes that beautiful sound, I traveled the earth and have found what you asked for: By design, the world is in a state of perpetual change. Only God knows what you ask. All a man can know is himself, and only then if he is honest and reflective and willing to strip away self deception." The monks reply, "Congratulations". You have become a monk. We shall now show you the way to the mystery of the sacred sound."
The monks lead the man to a wooden door, where the head monk says, "The sound is beyond that door." The monks give him the key, and he opens the door. Behind the wooden door is another door made of stone. The man is given the key to the stone door and he opens it, only to find a door made of ruby. And so it went that he needed keys to doors of emerald, pearl and diamond. Finally, they come to a door made of solid gold. The sound has become very clear and definite.
The monks say, "This is the last key to the last door."
The man is apprehensive to no end.
His life's wish is behind that door! With trembling hands, he unlocks the door, turns the knob, and slowly pushes the door open.
Falling to his knees, he is utterly amazed to discover the source of that haunting and seductive sound...... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
But, of course, I can't tell you what it is because you're not a monk
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Very long, but trust me it’s worth reading.
I never dreamed that slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous!
Little did I suspect.
I was on Brice Street - a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic. As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me.
It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it -- it was that close. I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact.
Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care of themselves!
Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his beady little eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Banzai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" The leap was nothing short of spectacular...
He shot straight up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in the chest. Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would have sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack.
Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light T-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!
Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a quiet residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing...
I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally managed to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw.
That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home.
No one would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary angry squirrel.
This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH!
Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands and, with the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact, he landed squarely on my back and resumed his rather antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all.
His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled, to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result.
TORQUE.
This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The engine roared and the front heel left the pavement.
The squirrel screamed in anger.
The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy.
I just plain screamed.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel-torn t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove and roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel, with a demonic squirrel of death on his back.
The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.
With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike.
This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle... my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the massive power of the big cruiser.
About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he was an evil mutant squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got INSIDE my full-face helmet with me.
As the faceplate closed part way, he began hissing in my face. I am quite sure my screaming changed intensity.
It had little effect on the squirrel, however. The RPMs on the Dragon maxed out (since I was not bothering with shifting at the moment), so her front end started to drop.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very raggedly torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet. By now, the screams are probably getting a little hoarse.
Finally I got the upper hand ... I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked ... sort of.
Spectacularly sort of ..so to speak.
Picture a new scene.
You are a cop.
You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork.
Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing only one leather glove, moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by, and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.
I heard screams.
They weren't mine...
I managed to get the big motorcycle under control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign of a busy cross street.
I would have returned to 'fess up' (and to get my glove back). I really would have.
Really...
Except for two things.
First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car were flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back, doing a crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the car. The cop who had been in the
driver's seat was standing in the street, aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car.
So, the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it" anyway.
That was one thing.
The other?
Well, I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery from the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back window, shaking his little fist at me.
That is one dangerous squirrel.
And now he has a patrol car.
A somewhat shredded patrol car .. but it was all his.
I took a deep breath, turned on my turn signal, made a gentle right turn off of Brice Street, and sedately left the neighborhood. I decided it was best to just buy myself a new pair of gloves. And a whole lot of Band-Aids.
I never dreamed that slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous!
Little did I suspect.
I was on Brice Street - a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic. As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me.
It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it -- it was that close. I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact.
Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care of themselves!
Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his beady little eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Banzai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" The leap was nothing short of spectacular...
He shot straight up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in the chest. Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would have sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack.
Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light T-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!
Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a quiet residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing...
I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally managed to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw.
That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home.
No one would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary angry squirrel.
This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH!
Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands and, with the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact, he landed squarely on my back and resumed his rather antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all.
His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled, to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result.
TORQUE.
This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The engine roared and the front heel left the pavement.
The squirrel screamed in anger.
The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy.
I just plain screamed.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel-torn t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove and roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel, with a demonic squirrel of death on his back.
The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.
With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike.
This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle... my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the massive power of the big cruiser.
About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he was an evil mutant squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got INSIDE my full-face helmet with me.
As the faceplate closed part way, he began hissing in my face. I am quite sure my screaming changed intensity.
It had little effect on the squirrel, however. The RPMs on the Dragon maxed out (since I was not bothering with shifting at the moment), so her front end started to drop.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very raggedly torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet. By now, the screams are probably getting a little hoarse.
Finally I got the upper hand ... I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked ... sort of.
Spectacularly sort of ..so to speak.
Picture a new scene.
You are a cop.
You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork.
Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing only one leather glove, moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by, and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.
I heard screams.
They weren't mine...
I managed to get the big motorcycle under control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign of a busy cross street.
I would have returned to 'fess up' (and to get my glove back). I really would have.
Really...
Except for two things.
First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car were flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back, doing a crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the car. The cop who had been in the
driver's seat was standing in the street, aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car.
So, the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it" anyway.
That was one thing.
The other?
Well, I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery from the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back window, shaking his little fist at me.
That is one dangerous squirrel.
And now he has a patrol car.
A somewhat shredded patrol car .. but it was all his.
I took a deep breath, turned on my turn signal, made a gentle right turn off of Brice Street, and sedately left the neighborhood. I decided it was best to just buy myself a new pair of gloves. And a whole lot of Band-Aids.
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Recycling is inherent to the system we live in.
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This is where the jokes go, right?
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The soldier serving overseas, far from home was annoyed and upset when his girl wrote breaking off their engagement and asking for her photograph back.
He went out and collected from his friends all the unwanted photographs of women that he could find, bundled them all together and sent them back with a note saying:
"Regret cannot remember which one is you -- please keep your photo and return the others.
He went out and collected from his friends all the unwanted photographs of women that he could find, bundled them all together and sent them back with a note saying:
"Regret cannot remember which one is you -- please keep your photo and return the others.
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A little boy goes to his father and asks, “Daddy, how was I born?”
The father answers,
“Well, son, I guess one day you will need to find out anyway! Your mom and I first got together in a chat room on Yahoo. Then I set up a date via e-mail with your mom and we met at a cyber-cafe. We sneaked into a secluded room, and googled each other. There your mother agreed to a download from my hard drive. As soon as I was ready to upload, we discovered that neither one of us had used a firewall, and since it was too late to hit the delete button, nine months later a little Pop-Up appeared that said: 'You've got male!'”
The father answers,
“Well, son, I guess one day you will need to find out anyway! Your mom and I first got together in a chat room on Yahoo. Then I set up a date via e-mail with your mom and we met at a cyber-cafe. We sneaked into a secluded room, and googled each other. There your mother agreed to a download from my hard drive. As soon as I was ready to upload, we discovered that neither one of us had used a firewall, and since it was too late to hit the delete button, nine months later a little Pop-Up appeared that said: 'You've got male!'”
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- Joined
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- Joined
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- Joined
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- Joined
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- Joined
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