Freebsd Fortunes

Murphy's Law is recursive.  Washing your car to make it rain doesn't
work.

Murphy's Law of Research:
        Enough research will tend to support your theory.

"Murphy's Law, that brash proletarian restatement of Godel's Theorem ..."
                -- Thomas Pynchon, "Gravity's Rainbow"

Mustgo, n.:
        Any item of food that has been sitting in the refrigerator so
long it has become a science project.
                -- Sniglets, "Rich Hall & Friends"

"My advice to you, my violent friend, is to seek out gold and sit on
it."
                -- "Grendel", by John Gardner

My band career ended late in my senior year when John Cooper and I
threw my amplifier out the dormitory window.  We did not act in haste.
First we checked to make sure the amplifier would fit through the
frame, using the belt from my bathrobe to measure, then we picked up
the amplifier and backed up to my bedroom door.  Then we rushed
forward, shouting "The WHO!  The WHO!" and we launched my amplifier
perfectly, as though we had been doing it all our lives, clean through
the window and down onto the sidewalk, where a small but appreciative
crowd had gathered.  I would like to be able to say that this was a
symbolic act, an effort on my part to break cleanly away from one state
in my life and move on to another, but the truth is, Cooper and I
really just wanted to find out what it would sound like.  It sounded
OK.
                -- Dave Barry, "The Snake"

"My doctor told me to stop having intimate dinners for four.  Unless
there are three other people."
                -- Orson Welles

My God, I'm depressed!  Here I am, a computer with a mind a thousand
times as powerful as yours, doing nothing but cranking out fortunes and
sending mail about softball games.  And I've got this pain right
through my ALU.  I've asked for it to be replaced, but nobody ever
listens.  I think it would be better for us both if you were to just
log out again.

"My life is a soap opera, but who has the rights?"
                -- MadameX

My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
        And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
        And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
        As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams --
        And I wish he were in Asia.
                -- Dorothy Parker