|Freebsd Fortunes 6: 1981 of 2171|
Two men were sitting over coffee, contemplating the nature of things,
with all due respect for their breakfast. "I wonder why it is that
toast always falls on the buttered side," said one.
"Tell me," replied his friend, "why you say such a thing. Look
at this." And he dropped his toast on the floor, where it landed on the
"So, what have you to say for your theory now?"
"What am I to say? You obviously buttered the wrong side."
|Freebsd Fortunes 6: 1982 of 2171|
Two peanuts were walking through the New York. One was assaulted.
|Freebsd Fortunes 6: 1983 of 2171|
Two percent of zero is almost nothing.
|Freebsd Fortunes 6: 1984 of 2171|
Two rights don't make a wrong, they make an airplane.
|Freebsd Fortunes 6: 1985 of 2171|
Two Russian friends happen to meet in Red Square. One of them says, "By
the way, did you hear that Romanov died?"
"No," replied the other, "I didn't even know he'd been arrested!"
|Freebsd Fortunes 6: 1986 of 2171|
Two sure ways to tell a REALLY sexy man; the first is, he has a bad memory.
I forget the second.
|Freebsd Fortunes 6: 1987 of 2171|
Two Swedish guys get of a ship and head for the nearest bars. Each one
orders two vodkas and immediately downs them. They they order two more
and once again quickly throw them back. They then order two more. When
they arrive, one of them picks up his glass, and, turning to the other,
toasts him, "Skoal!"
The other turns to the first man and scolds, "Hey! Did you come
here to screw around, or did you come here to drink?"
|Freebsd Fortunes 6: 1988 of 2171|
Two wrongs are only the beginning.
|Freebsd Fortunes 6: 1989 of 2171|
Two wrongs don't make a right, but they make a good excuse.
-- Thomas Szasz
|Freebsd Fortunes 6: 1990 of 2171|
Tyger, Tyger, burning bright Where the hammer? Where the chain?
In the forests of the night, In what furnace was thy brain?
What immortal hand or eye What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
Burnt in distant deeps or skies When the stars threw down their spears
The cruel fire of thine eyes? And water'd heaven with their tears
On what wings dare he aspire? Dare he laugh his work to see?
What the hand dare seize the fire? Dare he who made the lamb make thee?
And what shoulder & what art Tyger, Tyger, burning bright
Could twist the sinews of they heart? In the forests of the night,
And when thy heart began to beat What immortal hand or eye
What dread hand & what dread feet Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Could fetch it from the furnace deep
And in thy horrid ribs dare steep
In the well of sanguine woe?
In what clay & in what mould
Were thy eyes of fury roll'd?
-- William Blake, "The Tyger"