------------------------------------------------------------ A Scottish old timer in Scotland, in a bar, talking to a young man. Old Man: "Lad, look out there to the field. Do ya see that fence? Look how well it's built. I built that fence stone by stone with me own two hands. Piled it for months. But do they call me McGregor-the-fence- Builder? Noooo..." Then the old man gestured at the bar. "Look here at the bar. Do ya see how smooth and just it is? I planed that surface down by me own achin' back. I carved that wood with me own hard labour, for eight days. But do they call me McGregor-the-Bar-Builder? Nooo..." Then the old man points out the window. "Eh, Laddy, look out to the sea. Do ya see that pier that stretches out as far as the eye can see? I built that pier with the sweat off me own back. I nailed it board by board. But do they call me McGregor- the-Pier-Builder? Nooo..." Then the old man looks around nervously, trying to make sure no one is paying attention. . . "But ya fuck one goat..." ------------------------------------------------------------ "Pound for pound, the amoeba is the most vicious animal on earth." ------------------------------------------------------------ A honeymooning couple was passing through Louisiana. When they were approaching Lafayette, they started arguing about the pronunciation of the town. They argued back and forth until they got to the town, where they decided to stop for lunch. As they stood at the counter, the man said, "Before we order, could you please settle an argument for us. Would you very slowly pronounce where we are." The guy behind the corner leaned over and said, "Burrrrrrrr gerrrrrrr Kiiiiing" ------------------------------------------------------------ With the possible exception of Santa Claus himself, there is not a busier mammal on the face of the earth than the Easter Bunny. Once a year, the Easter Bunny hops into the home of hundreds of millions of boys and girls all over the globe, dropping off chocolates, candy and eggs as part of the celebration of Easter. America Online spent a few minutes with the Easter Bunny as he was preparing for this year's task, for a tell-all, no-holds-barred interview. If you thought you knew the Easter Bunny, you just may be surprised. America Online: Thanks for talking to us. Easter Bunny: No problem. Do you mind if I eat while we talk? (takes out a packet of small green pellets) I've been in a rush recently. AOL: Go right ahead. We've got a list of questions here, compiled from our members, and I'll just go down the list if you don't mind. EB: Ready when you are. AOL: The first question comes from Ted, in Dayton, Ohio. He writes: "We all know that Santa's Workshop is located at the North Pole. Does the Easter Bunny have a workshop, and if so, where is it located?" EB: Well, Ted, the answer is yes, I do have a workshop. It's located in San Bernardino, California. AOL: San Bernardino? EB: That's right. AOL: You have to understand that most people would have figured some place like Easter Island. EB: Have you *been* to Easter Island? What a rock! It's the single most isolated piece of land on the planet. By the time we shipped fresh eggs there, we'd have chickens. Besides, San Bernardino has the sort of motivated labor pool we need. AOL: Elves? EB: Laid-off aerospace workers. AOL: They would seem to be a little overqualified. EB: Maybe. But now we have some lovely chocolate stealth bombers. AOL: Our next question comes from Cindy, in Tempe. She writes: "Why is the Easter Bunny a bunny? Why couldn't it have been the Easter Kitty, or the Easter Puppy?" EB: That's a very good question. In fact, in the late 70s, we as an organization decided to play around with the whole "bunny" thing by recruiting prominent local animals to deliver Easter baskets. In 1978, when the experiment was at its height, we had an Easter Bunny, an Easter Coyote, an Easter Manatee and an Easter Komodo Dragon. AOL: What happened? EB: It just didn't work out. The Komodo dragon ate the eggs, the coyote just flaked out, and the manatee, if I may say so, was just about as dumb as a stick. There were some other problems with the program, too. The less we talk about the whole Easter Man-Eating Bengali Swamp Tiger episode, the better. Now we stick with bunnies. We know bunnies. We can work with bunnies. Bunnies don't eat anyone. AOL: Bob in Honolulu asks: "Is there is just one Easter Bunny? Moreover, has the same Easter Bunny been the Easter Bunny for the last couple of millenia?" EB: The fact of the matter is that there are quite a few Easter Bunnies, and we've never made a secret about that. Unlike the Santa Claus operation, which works under the improbable assumption that one guy delivers all those presents -- AOL: Are you saying that Santa is a sham? EB: I didn't say that. I never said that. What I am saying is that *we* don't work under the same sort of constraints. I mean, think about it. One bunny delivering baskets to several hundred million homes across the planet? The friction from the atmosphere alone would turn the poor guy into a bunny briquette. There'd be hideous charcoal smudges all over the baskets. "Easter Bunny" is a job description, not a proper name. It's like "Postal Carrier," except our employees very rarely become disgruntled. AOL: So why are you THE Easter Bunny? EB: Because I'm boss. You're not an Easter Bunny until I say you are. AOL: How does one become an Easter Bunny? EB: Well, it's not just hopping down the bunny trail, I'll tell you. First, for reasons already explained, you have to be a bunny. After that, we have a psychological evaluation and a battery of physical tests you have to pass. We can't afford to have an Easter Bunny cramp up at the beginning of his run. AOL: Any famous rabbits turned down for the job? EB: I don't want to name names. But one bunny who's making a living in the breakfast cereal industry, we had to let go. Any time a child would try to get an Easter basket from him, he'd back away and start snarling. He was a silly rabbit. Easter baskets are for kids. AOL: He seems to have gotten better since then. EB: Prozac helps. AOL: Albert from Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, wants to know what are the occupational hazards of being the Easter Bunny. EB: There are several. Large dogs are always a problem, of course: one moment you're delivering a basket of goodies, the next, a rottweiler named Pinochet is on you like a meat-filled sock. Nervous homeowners with guns wing a couple of bunnies a year, as do edgy cops and private security guards. We don't even bother trying to deliver to the children of militia members anymore; first they'll plug you for being on their land, then they'll make you into jerky and a pair of gloves. But you know what our number one problem is? AOL: What? EB: Sliding glass doors. Sometimes we'll just forget they're there. Man, that's embarrassing. AOL: Here's an interesting question, from Amy, in New York City. She writes: "How does the Easter Bunny get along with Santa Claus? It seems like Santa gets all the attention." And I have to say, I did notice some tension earlier, when you brought him up. EB (Looking uncomfortable): Well, you know, look. I don't want to say anything bad about the guy. He does what he does, and I do what I do. Professionally, we get along fine. AOL: But privately? EB: Is that tape recorder turned off? AOL: Uh.....sure. EB: He's a big ol' pain in this bunny's bottom. For one thing, he's a prima donna: always me, me, me, where's my highball, where's my corned beef sandwich, tell this dumb bunny to get his own dressing room. I'd rather be trapped in a sack with Joan Crawford. For another, he's totally paranoid of other large men. He thinks that Luciano Pavarotti is trying to move into his territory. Last year it was John Goodman. He actually danced when Orson Welles kicked, waving his pistol and bellowing "Rosebud!" from the top of his lungs. AOL: Wow. He seems a little scary. EB: You think? And yet he gets all the publicity. Why? We do the same job. Mine's actually tougher, since I'm moving perishable stuff. You can't have bad eggs or stale chocolate, you know. Folks wouldn't stand for it. I have to maintain strict quality control. The only food product he has to worry about is fruitcake. You could tile the Space Shuttle with fruitcake. AOL: We're sure you have your own fans. EB: It's like opening for the Beatles, is all. And he *is* the walrus, if you know what I mean. AOL: One final question, from Pat, in Rockford, Illinois; "Does the Easter Bunny actually lay eggs? How does that happen, since the Easter Bunny is both male and a mammal?" EB: Well, platypuses are mammals, and they lay eggs. So it's not impossible. AOL: That still leaves the male part. EB: We're quibbling on details, here. AOL: Maybe there should be an Easter Platypus. EB: Sorry. We tried that in '78. ------------------------------------------------------------ My father died on Jan 02, 1995. He left no forwarding address. Therefore, it fell to me to collect his mail. I didn't expect much really, since my sisters and I had been careful to notify his bank, insurance agent and a host of other businesses that one of their customers was no more. You would think a death notice would cut down on the amount of correspondence from those firms. Quite the contrary. Instead -- for months, mind you -- my deceased father continued to receive mail from companies that had been told of his passing but pressed on, determined to contact him anyway. The first to hope for a reply from beyond the grave was my father's bank. Dear Mr. Hanson, Our records indicate payment is due for overdraft protection on your checking account. Efforts to contact you have proven unsuccessful. Therefore, we are automatically withdrawing your monthly $28.00 service charge from you account. Please adjust your records accordingly. Sincerely, The Phoenix Branch Dear Phoenix Branch, This is to notify you once again that Mr. Hanson died Jan 02, 1995. It is therefore unlikely he will be overdrawing his account. Please close his account, and adjust your books accordingly. Sincerely, Scott Hansom Later that same week, I receive this note from Dad's insurance company. Again, this is a firm that had been told in no uncertain terms of his death. Dear Mr. Hanson, It's time to renew your auto insurance policy! To continue your coverage, you must send $54.17 to this office immediately. Failure to do so will result in the cancellation of your policy, and interruption of your coverage. Sincerely, Your Insurance Agent Dear Insurance Agent, This is to remind you that Mr. Hanson has been dead since January. As such, the odds he'll be involved in a collision are quite minimal. Please cancel the policy, and adjust your books accordingly. Sincerely, Scott Hanson. The next day, I went to my mailbox to find this: Dear Mr. Hanson, Let me introduce myself. I am a psychic reader, and it is very important that you contact me immediately. I sense that you are about to enter a time of unprecedented financial prosperity. Please call the enclosed 900 number immediately, so I can tell you how best to take full advantage of the opportunities that are coming your way. Sincerely, Your Psychic Reader Dear Psychic Reader, My father regrets he will be unable to call you 900 number. As a psychic reader, I'm sure you already know my father is dead, and had been for more that three weeks when you mailed your letter to him. I sense my father would be more than happy to take you up on your offer of a psychic reading, should you care to meet with him personally. Sincerely, Scott Hanson P.S. Should you be in contact with my father in the future, please ask him if he'd like to renew his car insurance. A few months of calm passed, and then these arrived: Dear Mr. Hanson, Our records indicate a balance of $112 has accrued for overdraft protection on your checking account. Efforts to contact you have proven unsuccessful. Please pay the minimum amount due, or contact this office to make other arrangements. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving all of your future borrowing needs. Sincerely, Your Bank's San Diego District Office Dear San Diego District Office, I am writing to you for the third time now to tell you my father died in January. Since then, the number of checks he's written has dropped dramatically. Being dead, he has no plans to use his overdraft protection or pay even the minimum amount due for a service he no longer needs. As for future borrowing needs, well, don't hold your breath. Sincerely, Scott Hanson Dear Mr. Hanson, Records show you owe a balance of $54.17 to your insurance agent. Efforts to contact you have proven unsuccessful. Therefore, the matter has been turned over to us for collection. Please remit the amount of $54.17 to our office or we will be forced to take legal action to collect the debt. Sincerely, Your Insurance Agent's Collection Agency Dear Collection Agency, I told your client. Now I'm telling you. Dad's dead. He doesn't need insurance. He's dead. Dead, dead, dead. I doubt even your lawyers can change that. Please adjust your books accordingly. Sincerely, Scott Hanson A few more months, and: Dear Mr. Hanson, Our records show an unpaid balance of $224 has accrued for overdraft protection on your checking account. Our efforts to contact you have proven unsuccessful. Please remit the amount in full to this office, or the matter will be turned over to a collection agency. Such action will adversely affect your credit history. Sincerely, Your Bank's Los Angeles Regional Office Dear Los Angeles Regional Office, I am writing for the fourth time to the fourth person at the fourth address to tell your bank that my father passed away in January. Since that time, I've watched with a mixture of amazement and amusement as your bank continues to transact business with him. Now, you are even threatening his credit history. It should come as no surprise that you have received little response from my deceased father. It should also be small news that his credit history is of minor importance to him now. For the fourth and final time, please adjust your books accordingly. Sincerely, Scott Hanson Dear Mr. Hanson, This is your final notice of payment due to your insurance agent. If our firm does not receive payment of $54.17, we will commence legal action on the matter. Please contact us at once. Sincerely, Your Insurance Agent's Collection Agency Dear Insurance Agent's Collection Agency, You may contact my father via the enclosed 900 number. Sincerely, Scott Hanson It has now been a couple of months since I've heard from these firms. Either the people writing these letters finally believe my father is dead, or they themselves have died and are now receiving similar correspondence. Actually, there has been a lesson in these letters. Any one of them would be cause for great worry, if sent to a living person. The dead are immune from corporate bullying. There's nothing like dying to put business correspondence in its proper perspective. Perhaps that's the best reason not to fear death. There's no post office there. (Scott Hanson is a news reporter and anchor with WESH-Channel 2 in Orlando.) ------------------------------------------------------------ A dedicated union man was at a convention in Las Vegas and decided to check out the local brothels. When he got to the first one, he asked the madame, "Is this a union house?" "No, I'm sorry it isn't." "Well, if I pay you $100, what cut do the girls get?" "The house gets $80 and the girls get $20." Mightily offended at such unfair dealings, he stomped off down the street in search of a more equitable shop. He went in one brothel after another asking the same question, and getting the same response. Finally he reached a brothel where the madame said, "Why yes, this is a union house." "And if I pay you $100, what cut do the girls get?" "The girls get $80 and the house gets $20." "That's more like it!" the man said. He looked around the room and pointed to a stunningly attractive redhead. "I'd like her for the night." "I'm sure you would, sir," said the madame. She then gestured to a fat, sixty-year-old woman who was snoring in the corner and said: "But Ethel has seniority." ------------------------------------------------------------ The LAPD, The FBI, and the CIA are all trying to prove that they are the best at apprehending criminals. The President decides to give them a test. He releases a rabbit into a forest and has each of them try to catch it. The CIA goes in. They place animal informants throughout the forest. They question all plant and mineral witnesses. After three months of extensive investigations they conclude that rabbits do not exist. Then the FBI goes in. After two weeks with no leads they burn the forest, killing everything in it, including the rabbit, and they make no apologies. The rabbit had it coming. Then the LAPD goes in. They come out two hours later with a badly beaten raccoon. The raccoon is yelling: "Okay! Okay! I'm a rabbit! I'm a rabbit!" ------------------------------------------------------------ From: Louise Aitel A few days ago, my little girl Koshka received the following invitation in the mail: You have been selected to have the opportunity to compete in Premiere's 1997 Providence Pageant Competitions. Over $20,000.00 awarded annually in scholarships and prizes. Contestants will be judged on personality, casual wear competition and formal wear competition. <800 number> No past experience necessary. Training will be provided to all contestants. All this on a lovely pink card with a picture of a dazzling tiara. "Hmmmm," I thought. "An 800 number." This morning I called it. "Hello, Premiere Productions!" came the cheery voice. "Hello," sez I, "This is Louise Aitel. I received one of your postcards." "Are you calling for yourself?" "Oh, not for myself. The card came to Koshka." "How old is your little girl?" she asked innocently. "Let's see, she was born in 1984, that would make her 13." A slightly confused pause. I suppose most parents know their offspring's age. "Well, that would put her in our Miss Junior Teen age group. We offer [she listed the scholarships] to winners in that category. Has... Koshka? [she was having trouble with the name] participated in any prior pageants?" "No," sez I happily, "not even a cat show." Longer pause, "excuse me?" "Well, see, I was wondering if this pageant was species-exclusive", sez I, "because, you see, Koshka is a cat." "Uh, um, well yes, the pageants are for young ladies." "Human only? I thought so." I sighed sadly. "Well, yes," she replied in that tone of voice people use when they aren't sure quite how to proceed. I couldn't help it, I had to laugh at this point, and so did she, relieved that I really *wasn't* a nutcase. "Well, that's why I stopped you before you explained the rest of the process." "We will see if we can get your d..." (no, not daughter...) "cat removed from our mailing list." I gave her the address and should stop getting mail from them. She said this was the first time she'd had a phone call for a cat, and chatted a moment about cats and laughed a lot and thanked me for the daily chuckle. But, you know, it seems a pity. Koshka *is* awfully pretty. ------------------------------------------------------------ HAMMER: Originally employed as a weapon of war, the hammer nowadays is used as a kind of divining rod to locate expensive car parts not far from the object we are trying to hit. MECHANIC'S KNIFE: Used to open and slice through the contents of cardboard cartons delivered to your front door; works particularly well on boxes containing convertible tops or tonneau covers. ELECTRIC HAND DRILL: Normally used for spinning steel Pop rivets in their holes until you die of old age, but it also works great for drilling rollbar mounting holes in the floor of a sports car just above the brake line that goes to the rear axle. HACKSAW: One of a family of cutting tools built on the Ouija board principle. It transforms human energy into a crooked, unpredictable motion, and the more you attempt to influence its course, the more dismal your future becomes. VISE-GRIPS: Used to round off bolt heads. If nothing else is available, they can also be used to transfer intense welding heat to the palm of your hand. OXYACETYLENE TORCH: Used almost entirely for lighting those stale garage cigarettes you keep hidden in the back of the Whitworth socket drawer (What wife would think to look in _there_?) because you can never remember to buy lighter fluid for the Zippo lighter you got from the PX at Fort Campbell. ZIPPO LIGHTER: See oxyacetylene torch. WHITWORTH SOCKETS: Once used for working on older British cars and motorcycles, they are now used mainly for hiding six-month old Salems from the sort of person who would throw them away for no good reason. DRILL PRESS: A tall upright machine useful for suddenly snatching flat metal bar stock out of your hands so that it smacks you in the chest and flings your beer across the room, splattering it against the Rolling Stones poster over the bench grinder. WIRE WHEEL: Cleans rust off old bolts and then throws them somewhere under the workbench with the speed of light. Also removes fingerprint whorls and hard-earned guitar callouses in about the time it takes you to say, "Django Reinhardt". HYDRAULIC FLOOR JACK: Used for lowering a Mustang to the ground after you have installed a set of Ford Motorsports lowered road springs, trapping the jack handle firmly under the front air dam. EIGHT-FOOT LONG DOUGLAS FIR 2X4: Used for levering a car upward off a hydraulic jack. TWEEZERS: A tool for removing wood splinters. PHONE: Tool for calling your neighbor Chris to see if he has another hydraulic floor jack. SNAP-ON GASKET SCRAPER: Theoretically useful as a sandwich tool for spreading mayonnaise; used mainly for getting dog-doo off your boot. E-Z OUT BOLT AND STUD EXTRACTOR: A tool that snaps off in bolt holes and is ten times harder than any known drill bit. TIMING LIGHT: A stroboscopic instrument for illuminating grease buildup on crankshaft pulleys. TWO-TON HYDRAULIC ENGINE HOIST: A handy tool for testing the tensile strength of ground straps and hydraulic clutch lines you may have forgotten to disconnect. CRAFTSMAN 1/2 x 16-INCH SCREWDRIVER: A large motor mount prying tool that inexplicably has an accurately machined screwdriver tip on the end without the handle. BATTERY ELECTROLYTE TESTER: A handy tool for transferring sulfuric acid from car battery to the inside of your toolbox after determining that your battery is dead as a doornail, just as you thought. AVIATION METAL SNIPS: See hacksaw. TROUBLE LIGHT: The mechanic's own tanning booth. Sometimes called a drop light, it is a good source of vitamin D, "the sunshine vitamin", which is not otherwise found under cars at night. Health benefits aside, its main purpose is to consume 40-watt light bulbs at about the same rate that 105-mm howitzer shells might be used during, say, the first few hours of the Battle of the Bulge. More often dark than light, its name is somewhat misleading. PHILLIPS SCREWDRIVER: Normally used to stab the lids of old-style paper-and-tin oil cans and splash oil on your shirt; can also be used, as the name implies, to round off Phillips screw heads. AIR COMPRESSOR: A machine that takes energy produced in a coal-burning power plant 200 miles away and transforms it into compressed air that travels by hose to a Chicago Pneumatic impact wrench that grips rusty suspension bolts last tightened 40 years ago by someone in Abingdon, Oxfordshire, and rounds them off. ------------------------------------------------------------ One misty Scottish morning a man was driving through the hills to Inverness. Suddenly out of the mist, a massive red-haired highlander stepped into the middle of the road. The man is at least six feet four and has the appearance of a walking wardrobe. He has a huge red beard and despite the wind, mist and near freezing temperatures, is wearing only his kilt, a tweed shirt and a tam-o'-shanter at a rakish angle. At the roadside there stands a young women. She is absolutely beautiful - slim, shapely, fair complexion, golden hair....... heart stopping. The driver stops and stares, and his attention is only distracted from the lovely girl when the red thing opens the car door and drags him from his seat onto the road with a fist resembling a whole raw ham. "Right, you Jimmy" he shouts, "Ah want you to masturbate!" "But......" stammers the driver. "Du it now...or I'll bluddy kill yer!" So the driver turns his back on the girl, drops his trousers and starts to masturbate. Thinking of the girl on the roadside this doesn't take him long. "Right" snarls the highlander "Du it again!" "But....." says the driver. "Now!" So the driver does it again. "Right laddie, du it again" demands the highlander. This goes on for nearly an hour. The hapless driver gets cramps in both arms, he has rubbed himself raw, has violent knob-ache, his sight is failing (as promised for years by his priest) and despite the cold wind has collapsed in a sweating, gibbering heap on the ground, unable to stand. "Du it again" says the highlander. "I can't do it anymore - you'll just have to kill me", whimpers the man. The highlander looks down at the pathetic soul slumped on the roadside. "All right laddie," he says, "NOW you can give ma daughter a lift to Inverness". ------------------------------------------------------------ VIENNA - A medium and author has won the sole right to contact a 30,000-year-old-spirit. Judy Knight, an American, claims to have close spiritual ties with the Ramtha, who has relayed messages to her since 1978. But in September 1992, she claims, her psychic channel became disturbed by Judith Ravell from Berlin, who admits she started contacting Ramtha around that time. The legal battle has been dragged through Austria's courts for three years. The supreme court has awarded Knight copyright and ordered Ravell to drop her claim to be in contact with Ramtha. Ravell has held several seminars and festivals in Salzburg at which she has passed on the spirit's messages. Ramtha, said to be the leader of the sunken continent of Atlantis, is much sought after in esoteric circles in Europe and the United States. Knight secured her copyright in the United States in the late 1970s after claiming Ramtha told her she was the only medium with right of access to him. The court ordered Ravell to pay $800 damages. Knight's lawyers are looking for thousands more. Ramtha was unavailable for comment. -- San Francisco Examiner, 06/09/97. ------------------------------------------------------------ A Briton, a Frenchman and a Russian are viewing a painting of Adam and Eve frolicking in the Garden of Eden. "Look at their reserve, their calm," muses the Brit. "They must be British." "Nonsense," the Frenchman disagrees. "They're naked, and so beautiful. Clearly, they are French." "No clothes, no shelter," the Russian points out, "they have only an apple to eat, and they're being told this is paradise. They are Russian.