Freebsd Fortunes 2

        Harry, a golfing enthusiast if there ever was one, arrived home
from the club to an irate, ranting wife.
        "I'm leaving you, Harry," his wife announced bitterly.  "You
promised me faithfully that you'd be back before six and here it is almost
nine.  It just can't take that long to play 18 holes of golf."
        "Honey, wait," said Harry.  "Let me explain.  I know what I promised
you, but I have a very good reason for being late.  Fred and I tee'd off
right on time and everything was find for the first three holes.  Then, on
the fourth tee Fred had a stroke.  I ran back to the clubhouse but couldn't
find a doctor.  And, by the time I got back to Fred, he was dead.  So, for
the next 15 holes, it was hit the ball, drag Fred, hit the ball, drag Fred...

        Harry constantly irritated his friends with his eternal optimism.
No matter how bad the situation, he would always say, "Well, it could have
been worse."
        To cure him of his annoying habit, his friends decided to invent a
situation so completely black, so dreadful, that even Harry could find no
hope in it.  Approaching him at the club bar one day, one of them said,
"Harry!  Did you hear what happened to George?  He came home last night,
found his wife in bed with another man, shot them both, and then turned
the gun on himself!"
        "Terrible," said Harry.  "But it could have been worse."
        "How in hell," demanded his dumfounded friend, "could it possibly
have been worse?"
        "Well," said Harry, "if it had happened the night before, I'd be
dead right now."

        He had been bitten by a dog, but didn't give it much thought
until he noticed that the wound was taking a remarkably long time to
heal.  Finally, he consulted a doctor who took one look at it and
ordered the dog brought in.  Just as he had suspected, the dog had
rabies.  Since it was too late to give the patient serum, the doctor
felt he had to prepare him for the worst.  The poor man sat down at the
doctor's desk and began to write.  His physician tried to comfort him.
"Perhaps it won't be so bad," he said. "You needn't make out your will
right now."
        "I'm not making out any will," relied the man.  "I'm just writing
out a list of people I'm going to bite!"

        ...He who laughs does not believe in what he laughs at, but neither
does he hate it.  Therefore, laughing at evil means not preparing oneself to
combat it, and laughing at good means denying the power through which good is
self-propagating.
                -- Umberto Eco, "The Name of the Rose"

        "Heard you were moving your piano, so I came over to help."
        "Thanks.  Got it upstairs already."
        "Do it alone?"
        "Nope.  Hitched the cat to it."
        "How would that help?"
        "Used a whip."

        "Hello, Mrs. Premise!"
        "Oh, hello, Mrs. Conclusion!  Busy day?"
        "Busy? I just spent four hours burying the cat."
        "Four hours to bury a cat!?"
        "Yes, he wouldn't keep still: wrigglin' about, 'owlin'..."
        "Oh, it's not dead then."
        "Oh no, no, but it's not at all a well cat, and as we're
goin' away for a fortnight I thought I'd better bury it just to be
on the safe side."
        "Quite right.  You don't want to come back from Sorrento
to a dead cat, do you?"
                -- Monty Python

        Here is the fact of the week, maybe even the fact of the month.
According to probably reliable sources, the Coca-Cola people are experiencing
severe marketing anxiety in China.
        The words "Coca-Cola" translate into Chinese as either (depending
on the inflection) "wax-fattened mare" or "bite the wax tadpole".
        Bite the wax tadpole.
        There is a sort of rough justice, is there not?
        The trouble with this fact, as lovely as it is, is that it's hard
to get a whole column out of it. I'd like to teach the world to bite a wax
tadpole.  Coke -- it's the real wax-fattened mare.  Not bad, but broad
satiric vistas do not open up.
                -- John Carrol, The San Francisco Chronicle

        Here is the problem: for many years, the Supreme Court wrestled
with the issue of pornography, until finally Associate Justice John
Paul Stevens came up with the famous quotation about how he couldn't
define pornography, but he knew it when he saw it.  So for a while, the
court's policy was to have all the suspected pornography trucked to
Justice Stevens' house, where he would look it over.  "Nope, this isn't
it," he'd say.  "Bring some more."  This went on until one morning when
his housekeeper found him trapped in the recreation room under an
enormous mound of rubberized implements, and the court had to issue a
ruling stating that it didn't know what the hell pornography was except
that it was illegal and everybody should stop badgering the court about
it because the court was going to take a nap.
                -- Dave Barry, "Pornography"

        "How did you spend the weekend?" asked the pretty brunette secretary
of her blonde companion.
        "Fishing through the ice," she replied.
        "Fishing through the ice?   Whatever for?"
        "Olives."

        "How many people work here?"
        "Oh, about half."