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Pastimes : Laughter is the Best Medicine - Tell us a joke -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: John Messbauer who wrote (5528)	5/9/1998 7:24:00 PM
From: Turboe	Read Replies (2) \| Respond to of 62547

All right-- a little humor from Dennis Miller. If you fly, YOU HAVE TO read this.... "Now I don't want to get off an a rant here, but flying in this country has turned into an amazingly arduous process, especially boarding the plane, which has now become this tedious Bataan death march with American Tourister overnight bags. I get stuck behind this one guy, who takes forever to get situated. He's clogging the aisle like a piece of human cholesterol jammed in the passengerial artery. You just want to get that soft drink cart and flush his ass out the back door. He's folding that sport jacket like he's in the color guard at Arlington National Cemetery. Or else I get stuck behind a wizard who wants to beat the system by gaffer-taping a twine handle onto a refrigerator-freezer box and calling it "carry on." Wedging it into the overhead with hydraulic jacks. It's like trying to get Pavarotti into a wet suit, for Christ's sake. And exactly when did stewardesses in this country get so f$%#&^% cranky? I know it's a tough job. There's got to be a thousand different ways to tie that neckerchief but why piss on me, huh? You know the worst thing about it is they don't even come clean with you and tell you how much they hate you. They treat you with that highly contrived air of mock civility, that tight, pursed-lip grin where they nod agreement with everything you say. You know right behind that face plate they barely tolerate your very existence. I'd rather they just come out in the open and say, "Hey, listen a##hole. When I was eighteen years old, I made a horrible vocational error, all right? I turned my entire adult life in for cheap airfare to Barbados. Now I've got hair with the tensile strength of Elsa Lanchester in 'Bride of Frankenstein.' I haven't met Mr. Right. I'm a waitress in a bad restaurant at thirty thousand feet. Jam your Diet Slice up you a@@, all right?" At least show me something. Come down the aisle like the old broad in 'From Russia with Love' with the knife point coming out of her shoe. "Peanuts, Mr. Bond?" What about when you leave the plane and they've got them propped by the front door in that complete android catonic stupor where they look like the Yul Bryner robot from 'Westworld' when he blew a headpipe and iced Marcus Welby's assistant. "Bye. Bye. Bye. Bye." It's like your stockbroker on Thorazine or something. And am I the only one who likes to get on a plane and unwind with a good book? Sit there in a little peace and quiet. I'm constantly in conversation with complete strangers - always being approached by these overly ebullient Jonathan Livingston Human types. This eighteen-year-old kid who's on his way back from Aruba and wants to show me this skull bong he purchased there that's carved out of volcanic rock. You know he's always got a dream he wants me to interpret for him. What am I, Queequeg? And you're afraid to not talk to him. You never know who the f@#$%$#@ terrorist is on the plane. I'd hate to alienate anybody who's looking for a prom date to Valhalla. There's a lot of terrorism in the air, but you know when you walk through the air terminal and see the crack security people manning the perimeter, I think we all sleep the sleep of angels. Came into Phoenix the other day, the woman working the X-ray machine had the attention span of Boo Radley. She's sitting there like Captain Pike from "Star Trek." She had a channel flicker. She's watching baggage from other airports, for Christ's sake. You think pilots make fun of those guys who bring them the last ten feet into the terminal with those cone flashlights? "Well, thank you, Vasco da Gamma. I kited in from Malaysia, you're going to take me the last furlong, Captain Eveready. I hope you don't blow a D-cell. I'd hate to be stuck out here in the Bermuda Tarmac for the rest of my life." What about those masks that drop down in the event of decompression? That's a pretty flimsy-looking apparatus, isn't it? Doesn't this look remarkably like a Parkay margarine cup on the end of an enema bag or something? They always have these bizarre instructions to start the flow of oxygen. "Tug down lightly on the cord." Yeah, you know when I'm shoulder-rolling at seven hundred miles per hour, "lightly" just isn't in my f@#$%$# vocabulary, all right? You know people are going to be Conaning those things right off the bulkhead. Something intrinsically cruel having the last forty seconds of your life turn into a "Lucy" skit. I think instead of oxygen, they ought to pump in nitrous oxide. This way, if the plane does wreck - that first rescue team comes onto the scene - you're up in a tree still strapped in your seat just laughing your a@@ off. Guys say, "Bobby, get over here. Look how hip this guy is. I mean, he's naked, he's blue, he's howling. This cat is centered, huh?" You know what I hate is when you're sitting in coach class and they pull that curtain on first class. Oh, I see, they paid an extra forty dollars and I'm a f$%#%$# leper. I always get the feeling that if the plane's about to wreck, the front compartment breaks off into a little Goldfinger miniplane. They're on their way to Rio and I'm a charcoal briquette on the ground. You know who I feel sorry for in the whole air-travel scenario? It's the poor bastard who has to drive the jetway. You know that little accordion tentacle that weaves its way out to meet the plane? Everybody else is Waldo Pepperin' around in their Bobby Lansing leather bomber jackets, the right stuff coursing through their veins as they push the outside of the envelope. Your job is to drive the building. A lot of qualifications to sit next to that exit door, huh? When did that happen? I've been a physical klutz for years. I'm like Clouseau. Nobody's ever said a word. All of a sudden they want me to be a f$#@$#@ Navy SEAL. I guess they want to be sure the person sitting there doesn't panic in the event that the plane goes down in water. Item number 8 on the qualification list was "You must not be Ted Kennedy." Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong."

To: John Messbauer who wrote (5528)	5/9/1998 7:26:00 PM
From: Turboe	Respond to of 62547

Everybody repeat after me....."We are all individuals." To succeed in politics, it is often necessary to rise above your principles. Plan to be spontaneous tomorrow. 99 percent of lawyers give the rest a bad name. 42.7 percent of all statistics are made up on the spot.

To: John Messbauer who wrote (5528)	5/9/1998 11:20:00 PM
From: Buckey	Read Replies (3) \| Respond to of 62547

Please explain the parrot joke with respect to the dirty dishes??? 2nd time I have seen it.

To: John Messbauer who wrote (5528)	5/13/1998 3:28:00 PM
From: Mr Bond	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 62547

> A guy walks into a bar with an octopus. He sits the octopus > down on a stool and tells everyone in the bar that this is a > very talented octopus. He can play any instrument in the world. > He hears everyone in the crowd laughing at him, calling him an > idiot etc... > So he says that he will wager 500 dollars to anyone who has an > instrument that the octopus can't play. > A guy walks up with a guitar and sits it beside the octopus. > The octopus starts playing better than Jimmi Hendrix, just > rippin' it up. So the man pays his 500. > Another guy walks up with a trumpet. The octopus plays the > trumpet better than Dizzy Gillespie. So the man pays his 500. > A third guy walks up with bagpipes. He sits them down and the > octopus fumbles with it for a minute and sets it down with a > confused look. "Ha!", the man says, "can't you play it?". > The octopus looks up at the man and says "Play it ?, I'm going > to fuck it, as soon as I get its pyjamas off".