Digest for Thursday, February 01, 1996
There are 13 messages totalling 546 lines in this issue.
Topics of the day:
- Faith healer
- Promo for Inside Edition
- Alien date book (offensive to earthlings)
- Stupid Quote of the Day!!!
- Airport Terminology
- Canadian Flag Causes Stir (Fwd)
- Frog talk
- Meat
- Lost & Found
- B.O.F.H. #5
-
- Train Games
- Yogi
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 08:56:13 GMT-0200
From: Gething Leverne - CCD <LGETHING@EAGLE.MRC.AC.ZA>
Subject: Faith healer <off. to disabled>
This is an ooooold British joke and you have to tell the one part
in a funny voice.
Two customers are waiting in line at a busy faith healer. The faith
healer calls in the first guy, Mr Brown. Mr Brown has got a bad
speech impediment <put on funny voice> "I've had this speech defect
all my life, and I want you to sort out my voice" he says to the
healer. "Don't you worry, Mr Brown" she says - "Just slip behind
the curtain for a moment".
She calls in the next guy, Mr Smith, who hobbles in on crutches. He
explains to her that his legs are stuffed up and he wants them to
be healed. She tells him to go behind the curtain too.
Then she concentrates for a while, waves her arms and calls to
the curtain: "Mr Smith, *throw* away your crutches. Mr Brown,
*speak* to me!!"
There's silence for a moment, and then comes the response <in
funny voice> "Mr Smith's fallen over!"
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 06:58:45 -0500
From: David M. Saah <dsaa@LOC.GOV>
Subject: Promo for 'Inside Edition'
Tune in to hear Lisa Marie tell why she told Michael Jackson to
beat it!
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 07:32:10 -0500
From: Amy L. Ward <othello@IAC.NET>
Subject: Alien date book (offensive to earthlings)
Sure, it seems easy being a space alien. You've got your x-ray
vision, your late model space ships and media coverage galore. But,
as usual with most glamour jobs, there's a lot of nitty gritty work
the public doesn't get to see. The job can become routine, and even
a bit tedious, as we learned when we stumbled upon this intriguing
page from...
A SPACE A L I E N S DATE BOOK
8:15 A.M. Leave asteroid for work.
9:00 A.M. Hover over cornfield on outskirts of small Midwestern
town.
9:30 A.M. Land in backyard where housewife is hanging laundry.
Silence barking dog with penetrating gaze.
10:00 A.M. Stun housewife with laser-gun or energy pulsating
finger-tips. Levitate her body just long enough to be
glimpsed by a passing motorist. Materialize the body
inside spaceship. Remove internal organs; weigh, label
and categorize. Return most, if not all, to the body.
Erase all traces of surgery. Rematerialize housewife in
backyard. Turn back time two hours. Bid enigmatic
good-bye. Leave.
1:00 P.M. Visit once prestigious astronomer who everyone thinks
has gone mad. Deliver pep talk. Leave him fist-sized
fragments of an unidentifiable element.
2:15 P.M. Drop by Whitley Strieber's house, pick up royalty check
from best seller. Communion.
3:00 P.M. Hover over southwestern desert.
3:30 P.M. Offer psychotic drifter a lift.
4:30 P.M. Pose for cover of "Weekly World News" with President
Clinton. Discuss ozone depletion, space travel, future
political endorsements.
6:30 P.M. Back at the asteroid. Introduce psychotic drifter to
other aliens. Listen to Windham Hill.
9:00 P.M. Dinner. Eat drifter.
10:00 P.M. Wash antennae, brush eyeballs, peel off outer layer of
skin. Beam cryptic message to NASA satellite. Lights
out.
http://www.iac.net/~othello
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 08:51:09 EST
From: Chris Dooley <chris_dooley@COKER.EDU>
Subject: Stupid Quote of the Day!!!
"We all get heavier as we get older because there's
a lot more information in our heads."
--Vlade Divac, LA Lakers player
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 07:59:59 +0600
From: Randall Woodman <randallw@ADSS.ESY.COM>
Subject: Airport Terminology
As you are all aware, the airline industry in which we work has
it's own unique set of terminology. The following are some of the
most commonly used terms and their definitions.
PASSENGER
A herding creature of widely varying intellect, usually found in
pairs or small groups. Often will become vicious and violent in
simple and easily rectified situations. When frightened or confused
these creatures collect into a group called a "line." This "line"
has no set pattern and is usually formed in inconvenient places.
Passengers are of four known species: Paxus iratus, Paxus latus,
Paxus inebriatus, & Paxus ignoramus.
PRE-BOARD
Passenger who arrives at the gate five minutes before departure.
VOLUNTARY OVERSALE
A passenger who arrives at the gate as the jetway is coming off the
flight.
NO-RECORD
Any passenger booked through a travel agency.
NON-REVENUE POSITION
Usually can be identified by the fact that these passengers are in
first class and are dressed in pilot or flight attendant uniforms.
Non-revenue position are permitted to fly first class free of
charge to prevent revenue passengers from being able to pay first
class passenger charges.
GROUP
A large loud pack of passengers (see passenger) travelling
together. The group leader, who has the tickets, usually waits in
the bar until the required pre-board time of five minutes before
departure, or until there are no seats left together, whichever
occurs last. Reservation agents are prohibited from pre-assigning
seats to groups as this may convenience them.
SIGN
An airport decoration. Usually unnoticed except by small children.
Its primary function is to hide the location of various areas of
the airport, i.e., gate numbers, rest rooms, baggage claim, etc.
POSITION CLOSED
This is a sign posted at various counter locations, which when
interpreted by the passenger says, "Form line here."
BAGGAGE CLAIM
The most difficult area of the airport to find. It is usually
hidden by numerous signs saying, "Baggage Claim Area."
CARRY ON BAG
An item, usually of large dimensions, which somehow managed to fit
under the passenger's seat on the inbound flight. Regardless of
what the passenger says the following are not acceptable as
carry-on items: bicycles, steamer trunks, refrigerators, truck
tires, or wide screen projection TVs.
FLIGHT SCHEDULE
An entertaining work of paperback fiction.
ON-TIME
An obscure term, meaning unknown.
FOG
A natural weather phenomenon which usually occurs around an airport
while the surrounding areas are clear. Fog is controlled by the
airlines and is used to delay flights.
AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL
A game played by airline pilots and air traffic controllers. The
game has no rules, and neither side knows how it is played, but the
goal is to prevent flights from arriving in time for passengers to
make connecting flights.
TICKET AGENT
A superhuman with the patience of a saint, the herding ability of
an Australian sheepdog, the E.S.P. abilities of Uri Geller, the
compassion of a psychoanalyst, and and the tact of a diplomat. They
have mysterious abilities to control wind/rain/snow/fog & all other
weather phenomenon. They are capable of answering three questions
at one time, while talking on the phone, and without stuttering or
choking on their tongue. In later life they may be found in parks
carrying on mysterious conversations with themselves.
--from gevans@onramp.net
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 09:36:20 -0500
From: Aditya, the Hindu Skeptic <aditya@ICANECT.NET>
Subject: Canadian Flag Causes Stir (Fwd)
Canadian Flag Causes Flap in Florida Trailer Park
The neighbor, 73-year-old Frank Bohlinger, said: "I don't know
who came up with this idea to let everyone fly their flag. This is
America." Mrs. Harris said the squabble hurt.
Of course it hurt. This is a direct act of 'merican military
aggression by our hostle cousins to the south. I say we line 'em
up at Kingston and Niagara again and finish the job we started in
1812.
All you 'mericans listen up... if you ever get too snarly on our
tourists, remember, Canada has the capacity to unleash 500,000 of
our finest hardwood crunching beavers into Yellowstone in 24 hours.
I can just picture 73-year-old Frank "Ironsides" Bohlinger,
resplendant in his Legion beret and medals, rocking in a chair, gut
over a curly old brown leather belt at his trailer park in
Sarasota. Frank needs a beaver or two around his trailerpark I'll
bet. Anyone driving south soon?
http://pages.prodigy.com/FL/aditya
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 09:36:40 -0600
From: James Thorson <jthorson@CWIS.UNOMAHA.EDU>
Subject: Frog talk <adult theme>
Q: What did one lesbian frog say to the other lesbian frog?
A: "Gee, we really do taste like chicken."
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 10:41:00 -0500
From: jon (j.) bisbey <jonb@BNR.CA>
Subject: Meat
Imagine if you will... the leader of the fifth invader force
speaking to the commander in chief...
"They're made out of meat."
"Meat?"
"Meat. They're made out of meat."
"Meat?"
"There's no doubt about it. We picked several from different parts
of the planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, probed them all
the way through. They're completely meat."
"That's impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to
the stars."
"They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don't come from
them. The signals come from machines."
"So who made the machines? That's who we want to contact."
"They made the machines. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Meat
made the machines."
"That's ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You're asking me
to believe in sentient meat."
"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. These creatures are the only
sentient race in the sector and they're made out of meat."
"Maybe they're like the Orfolei. You know, a carbon-based
intelligence that goes through a meat stage."
"Nope. They're born meat and they die meat. We studied them for
several of their life spans, which didn't take too long. Do you
have any idea the life span of meat?"
"Spare me. Okay, maybe they're only part meat. You know, like the
Weddilei. A meat head with an electron plasma brain inside."
"Nope. We thought of that, since they do have meat heads like the
Weddilei. But I told you, we probed them. They're meat all the
way through."
"No brain?"
"Oh, there is a brain all right. It's just that the brain is made
out of meat!"
"So... what does the thinking?"
"You're not understanding, are you? The brain does the thinking.
The meat."
"Thinking meat! You're asking me to believe in thinking meat!"
"Yes, thinking meat! Conscious meat! Loving meat. Dreaming meat.
The meat is the whole deal! Are you getting the picture?"
"Omigod. You're serious then. They're made out of meat."
"Finally, Yes. They are indeed made out meat. And they've been
trying to get in touch with us for almost a hundred of their
years."
"So what does the meat have in mind?"
"First it wants to talk to us. Then I imagine it wants to explore
the universe, contact other sentients, swap ideas and information.
The usual."
"We're supposed to talk to meat?"
"That's the idea. That's the message they're sending out by radio.
'Hello. Anyone out there? Anyone home?' That sort of thing."
"They actually do talk, then. They use words, ideas, concepts?"
"Oh, yes. Except they do it with meat."
"I thought you just told me they used radio."
"They do, but what do you think is on the radio? Meat sounds. You
know how when you slap or flap meat it makes a noise? They talk by
flapping their meat at each other. They can even sing by squirting
air through their meat."
"Omigod. Singing meat. This is altogether too much. So what do you
advise?"
"Officially or unofficially?"
"Both."
"Officially, we are required to contact, welcome, and log in any
and all sentient races or multibeings in the quadrant, without
prejudice, fear, or favor. Unofficially, I advise that we erase
the records and forget the whole thing."
"I was hoping you would say that."
"It seems harsh, but there is a limit. Do we really want to make
contact with meat?"
"I agree one hundred percent. What's there to say?" `Hello, meat.
How's it going?' But will this work? How many planets are we
dealing with here?"
"Just one. They can travel to other planets in special meat
containers, but they can't live on them. And being meat, they only
travel through C space. Which limits them to the speed of light
and makes the possibility of their ever making contact pretty
slim. Infinitesimal, in fact."
"So we just pretend there's no one home in the universe."
"That's it."
"Cruel. But you said it yourself, who wants to meet meat? And the
ones who have been aboard our vessels, the ones you have probed?
You're sure they won't remember?"
"They'll be considered crackpots if they do. We went into their
heads and smoothed out their meat so that we're just a dream to
them."
"A dream to meat! How strangely appropriate, that we should be
meat's dream."
"And we can mark this sector unoccupied."
"Good. Agreed, officially and unofficially. Case closed. Any
others?
Anyone interesting on that side of the galaxy?"
"Yes, a rather shy but sweet hydrogen core cluster intelligence in
a class nine star in G445 zone. Was in contact two galactic
rotations ago, wants to be friendly again."
"They always come around."
"And why not? Imagine how unbearably, how unutterably cold the
universe would be if one were all alone."
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 11:51:28 EST
From: MR LYLE J KINNAMAN <FVKM43A@PRODIGY.COM>
Subject: Lost & Found <adult themes>
A group of people were traveling cross-country on a Greyhound bus.
The driver had just turned onto the interstate highway when a woman
came up to him and said, "Please stop the bus, there's a man back
there who's bothering me." The driver said he stop at the very
next exit but before he got there, another woman came up and made
the same complaint.
When the driver was finally able to stop, he walked to the rear of
the bus and saw a little old baldheaded man down on his hands and
knees looking under the seats. The bus driver said, "Sir, what
seems to be the problem?"
"I lost my toupee and I'm looking for it. I though I'd found it
several times but mine parts on the side."
--Lyle's Joke Boutique
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 12:06:15 EST
From: Joseph A. Horvath <JHorvath@SEIC.COM>
Subject: B.O.F.H. #5 <Adult content, language>
BASTARD OPERATOR FROM HELL #5
I'm bored senseless, so I pass the time by reading users email. I
must admit that today's lot is PARTICULARLY boring, not one good
message in all of them. I was expecting at LEAST some veiled
reference to a grope in a storeroom, but nothing. So I'm bored
senseless by the usual drivel about some relative's surgery and how
the weather is over the other side of the world - that sort of
crap.
To relieve the boredom, I remove a e-mail party invite from a
user's mail and post it under the senders username to
alt.singles.with.severe.social.dysfunctions on news, and make a
note in my diary to be there with my camcorder. Should be a blast!
Next in line is the online medical records database, in which the
company doctors store the current medical histories of the staff.
I grep it quickly for "herpes" and "syphilis" and sell the results
to the local scum newspaper. I cover my tracks by adding an entry
to one of the doctor's online electronic diaries for yesterday
saying "$500, Med Recs To Paper" I think that's all it should
take.
I move some tapes from the racks to the trolley to make it look
like we really use them, then start looking thru archie listings
for a hidden x-gif site. I find one then start a batch job running
under some user's account to get them all back, charged to him. I
make sure he's got enough disk for the job by removing any files
not related to the task at hand. Like all those "Doctorate Final
Report" papers that have got quite large in the last couple of
weeks.
I go back to the mail now, as something's bound to have happened.
I do a grep on all mail files for the words "pregnant" and "family
way", and post them anonymously to the local general interest
newsgroup. Then, before anything can happen, the power goes out!
The next second, the phone rings.
"Hello?" I say, annoyed - the coyote was just about to kill
roadrunner again! "Has the comput.." I hang up. This is a matter
of life or death. Quick as I can I rip the computer power cable
out of the UPS and plug the TV in. Damn! Wylie missed again!
Meantime, all the alarms are going off like crazy as the disks spin
down, but that's ok, because my Mac and Terminal are hardwired to
the UPS in any case; and I'm at the Beer Factory level in Dark
Castle too.
The phone rings, so I pull the PABX breaker on the UPS switchboard
and it stops. Now to look like I'm working. I break out the puck
and the hockey stick and play a little one-on-wall. From the
observation window it'll look like I'm being blindingly efficient,
as per usual.
10 Minutes later, the power is back and we're two HDA's down, but
what the hell, I haven't lost a man, I'm onto the final screen, and
there's more cartoons!
The phone rings, it's a luser. (What a surprise) "Computer Room"
I say, being efficient "Hello, when will the compu..." I hang up.
I'm doing well in the screen, all I need do is get past the wizard
who throws spells at you and I'm in!
The phone rings again. I put it on hands free "Computer Room" I
shout, still deep in the game. "I've lost my files" a user whines
over the loudspeaker. "You bet you have" I say, as my concentration
lapses just long enough for me to get zapped by the wizard. "What
was your username?" I say, all sweetness and smiles He tells me, I
look, and he's right. Shit, and I didn't even do it! Not to be
outdone, I change his login directory to the null device, set his
path to "." and redefine the command "news" to execute a script in
his old login directory to send a nasty message to the equal
opportunities officer, then delete itself. Now that's trying!
Written by: Simon Paul Travaglia
University of Waikato; Computer Services
Hamilton, New Zealand
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 15:34:19 -0500
From: Matthew Hoppes <acutech@TNTONLINE.COM>
Subject: <No subject given>
[Personal message deleted for Archival Purposes]
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 16:38:01 -0500
From: Adam Garlock <adam@CANNET.COM>
Subject: Train Games <not offensive>
There were once two people travelling on a train, a scientist and a
poet, who were riding in the same compartment. They had never met
before, so naturally, there wasn't much conversation between the
two.
The poet was minding his own buisness, looking out the window at
the beauty of the passing terrain.
The scientist was very uptight, trying to think of things he didn't
know so he could try to figure them out. Finally, the scientist
was so bored, that he said to the poet, "Hey, do you want to play a
game?"
The poet, being content with what he was doing, ignored him and
continued looking out the window, humming quietly to himself. This
infuriated the scientist, who irratibly asked again, "Hey, you, do
you want to play a game? I'll ask you a question, and if you get
it wrong, you give me $5. Then, YOU ask ME a question, and if I
can't answer it, I'll give YOU $5."
The poet thought about this for a moment, but he deciced against
it, seeing that the scientist was obviously a very bright man. He
politely turned down the scientist's offer.
The scientist, who, by this time was going mad, tried a final time.
"Look, I'll ask you a question, and if you can't answer it, you
give me $5. Them you ask ME a question, and if I can't answer it,
I'll give you $50!"
Now, the poet was not that smart academically, but he wasn't
totally stupid. He readily accepted the offer. "Okay," the
scientist said, "what is the EXACT distance between the Earth
and the Moon?"
The poet, obviously not knowing the answer, didn't stop to think
about the scientist's question. He took a $5 bill out of his
pocket and handed it to the scientist. The scientist happily
accepted the bill and promptly said, "Okay, now it's your turn."
The poet thought about this for a few minutes, then asked,
"Alright, what goes up a mountain on three legs, but comes down
on four?"
The bright glow quickly vanished from the scientist's face. He
thought about this for a long time, taking out his notepad and
making numerous calculations. He finally gave up on his notepad
and took out his laptop, using his Multimedia Encyclopedia.
After about an hour of this, the poet quietly watching the
mountains of Colorado go by the whole time, the scientist FINALLY
gave up. He reluctantly handed the poet a $50 bill. The poet
accepted it graciously, turning back to the window.
"Wait!" the scientist shouted. "You can't do this to me! What's
the answer??"
The poet looked at the scientist and calmly put a $5 bill into the
his hand.
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Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1996 16:57:43 CST
From: Bob Terry <raterry@SAUMAG.EDU>
Subject: Yogi
Another Yogi Bera story. It seems he went into a pizza parlor and
ordered a large one with everything.
"Just fine, sir. And would you like that cut into four pieces or
eight pieces?"
"Cut it into four pieces, you fool," said Yogi. "You know I can't
eat eight pieces!"
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