Abort, Retry, Ignore?

 Once upon a midnight dreary, fingers cramped and vision bleary,
 System manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor,
 Longing for the warmth of bed sheets, still I sat there doing spreadsheets.
 Having reached the bottom line I took a floppy from the drawer,
 I then invoked the SAVE command and waited for the disk to store,
 Only this and nothing more.

 Deep into the monitor peering, long I sat there wond'ring, fearing,
 Doubting, while the disk kept churning, turning yet to churn some more.
 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token.
 "Save!" I said, "You cursed mother!  Save my data from before!"
 One thing did the phosphors answer, only this and nothing more,
 Just, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

 Was this some occult illusion, some maniacal intrusion?
 These were choices undesired, ones I'd never faced before.
 Carefully I weighed the choices as the disk made impish noises.
 The cursor flashed, insistent, waiting, baiting me to type some more.
 Clearly I must press a key, choosing one and nothing more,
 From "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

 With fingers pale and trembling, slowly toward the keyboard bending,
 Longing for a happy ending, hoping all would be restored,
 Praying for some guarantee, timidly, I pressed a key.
 But on the screen there still persisted words appearing as before.
 Ghastly grim they blinked and taunted, haunted, as my patience wore,
 Saying "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

 I tried to catch the chips off guard, and pressed again, but twice as hard.
 I pleaded with the cursed machine: I begged and cried and then I swore.
 Now in mighty desperation, trying random combinations,
 Still there came the incantation, just as senseless as before.
 Cursor blinking, angrily winking, blinking nonsense as before.
 Reading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

 There I sat, distraught, exhausted, by my own machine accosted.
 Getting up I turned away and paced across the office floor.
 And then I saw a dreadful sight: a lightning bolt cut through the night.
 A gasp of horror overtook me, shook me to my very core.
 The lightning zapped my previous data, lost and gone forevermore.
 Not even, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

 To this day I do not know the place to which lost data go.
 What demonic nether world us wrought where lost data will be stored,
 Beyond the reach of mortal souls, beyond the ether, into black holes?
 But sure as there's C, Pascal, Lotus, Ashton-Tate and more,
 You will be one day be left to wander, lost on some Plutonian shore,
 Pleading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

MURPHY'S LAWS OF COMBAT
 
1. If the enemy is in range, so are you.
 
2. Incoming fire has the right of way.
 
3. Don't look conspicuous, it draws fire.
   ( For this reason aircraft carriers have been called "Bomb Magnets")
 
4. There is always a way.
 
5. The easy way is always mined.
 
6. Try to look unimportant, they may be low on ammo.
   (Triva devotees will recall the sudden disappearence of rank and
   distinctive caps on the uniforms worn by Soviet officers in Afghanistan)
 
7. Professionals are predictable, it's the amateurs that are dangerous.
 
8. The enemy invariably attacks on two occasions:
 a. when you're ready for them.
 b. when you're not ready for them.
 
9. Teamwork is essential, it gives them someone else to shoot at.
 
10. If you can't remember, then the claymore is pointed at you.
 
11. The enemy diversion you have been ignoring will be the main attack.
 
12. A "sucking chest wound" is nature's way of telling you to slow down.
 
13. If your attack is going well, you have walked into an ambush.
 
14. Never draw fire, it irritates everyone around you.
 
15. Anything you do can get you shot, including nothing.
 
16. Make it tough enough for the enemy to get in and you won't be able to
get out.
     (This seems to be the guiding design principle behind the
     Soviet's BMP and our Bradley infantry vehicle, both of which nicely
     package the troops in armored boxes for group distruction)
 
17. Never share a foxhole with anyone braver than yourself.
 
18. If you're short of everything but the enemy, you're in a combat zone.
 
19. When you have secured an area, don't forget to tell the enemy.
 
20. Never forget that your weapon is made by the lowest bidder.
 
21. Friendly fire isn't.
 
22. If the sergeant can see you, so can the enemy.
 
23. Never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down, never
    stay awake when you can sleep.
 
24. The most dangerous thing in the world is a second lieutenant with a
    map and a compass.
 
25. There is no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole.
 
26. A grenade with a seven second fuse will always burn down in four
    seconds.
 
27. Remember, a retreating enemy is probably just falling back and
    regrouping.
 
28. If at first you don't succeed call in an air-strike.
 
29. Exceptions prove the rule, and destroy the battle plan.
 
30. Everything always works in your HQ, everything always fails in the
    colonel's HQ.
 
31. The enemy never watches until you make a mistake.
 
32. One enemy soldier is never enough, but two is entirely too many.
 
33. A clean (and dry) set of BDU's is a magnet for mud and rain.
 
34. Whenever you have plenty of ammo, you never miss. Whenever you are low
    on ammo, you can't hit the broad side of a barn.
 
35. The more a weapon costs, the farther you will have to send it away to
    be repaired.
 
36. Field experience is something you don't get until just after you need
    it.
 
37. Interchangeable parts aren't.
 
38. No matter which way you have to march, its always uphill.
 
39. If enough data is collected, a board of inquiry can prove ANYTHING.
 
40. For every action, there is an equal and opposite criticism. (in boot
    camp)
 
41. The one item you need is always in short supply.
 
42. The worse the weather, the more you are required to be out in it.
 
43. The complexity of a weapon is inversely proportional to the IQ of the
    weapon's operator.
 
44. Airstrikes always overshoot the target, artillery always falls short.
 
45. When reviewing the radio frequencies that you just wrote down, the
    most important ones are always illegible.
 
46. Those who hesitate under fire usually do not end up KIA or WIA.
 
47. The tough part about being an officer is that the troops don't know
    what they want, but they know for certain what they DON'T want.
 
48. To steal information from a person is called plagarism. To steal
    information from the enemy is called gathering intelligence.
 
49. The weapon that usually jams when you need it the most is the M60.
 
50. The perfect officer for the job will transfer in the day after that
    billet is filled by someone else.
 
51. When you have sufficient supplies & ammo, the emeny takes 2 weeks to
    attack. When you are low on supplies & ammo the enemy decides to
    attack that night.
 
52. The newest and least experienced soldier will usually win the Medal Of
    Honor.
 
53. A Purple Heart just goes to prove that were you smart enough to think
    of a plan, stupid enough to try it, and lucky enough to survive.
 
54. Murphy was a grunt.
 
55. You aren't Superman. (Freshly graduated recruits from Marine boot
    camp, and all fighter pilots, especially, take note)
 
56. Suppressive fires - won't.
 
57. If it's stupid but it works, it isn't stupid
 
58. When in doubt empty the magizine
 
59. No plan survives the first contact, intact
 
60. If you are forward of your position, the artillery will fall short
 
61. The important things are always simple
 
62. The simple things are always hard
 
63. No-combat ready group has passed inspection.
    Note: No marine unit has ever failed a combat readiness
    inspection, which suggests peacetime inspections are readiness as
    mess hall food is cuisine)
 
64. Beer Math -> 2 beers times 37 men equals 49 cases
 
65. Body count math -> 3 guerrillas plus 1 probable plus 2 pigs equals 37
    enemies killed in action
 
66. Things that must be together to work, usually can't be shipped
    together
 
67. Radios will fail as soon as you need fire support despertly.
    (Corollary: Radar tends to fail at night and in bad weather, and
    especially during both)
 
68. Tracers work both ways
 
69. The only thing more accurate than incoming enemy fire is incoming
    friendly fire
 
70. If you take more than your share of objectives, you will have more
    than your fair share to take.
 
71. When both sides are convinced they are about to lose, they're both
    right
 
72. All or any of the above combined

        

SHE DRIVES FOR A RELATIONSHIP, HE'S LOST IN THE TRANSMISSION

By DAVE BARRY

CONTRARY to what many women believe, it's fairly easy to develop a 
long-term, stable, intimate and mutually fulfilling relationship with a guy.
Of course this guy has to be a Labrador retriever.  With human guys, it's
extremely difficult.  This is because guys don't really grasp what women mean
by the term relationship.  Let's say a guy named Roger is attracted to a woman
named Elaine.  He asks her out to a movie; she accepts; they have a pretty 
good time.  A few nights later he asks her out to dinner, and again they 
enjoy themselves.  They continue to see each other regularly, and after a 
while neither one of them is seeing anybody else.  And then, one evening 
when they're driving home, a thought occurs to Elaine, and, without really 
thinking, she says it aloud: "Do you realize that, as of tonight, we've been 
seeing each other for exactly six months?" And then there is silence in the 
car.  To Elaine, it seems like a very loud silence.  She thinks to herself: 
Geez, I wonder if it bothers him that I said that.  Maybe he's feeling 
confined by our relationship; maybe he thinks I'm trying to push him into 
some kind of obligation that he doesn't want, or isn't sure of.  And Roger 
is thinking: Gosh.  Six months.  And Elaine is thinking: But, hey, I'm not so
sure I want this kind of relationship, either.  Sometimes I wish I had a 
little more space, so I'd have time to think about whether I really want us 
to keep going the way we are, moving steadily toward... I mean, where are we 
going?  Are we just going to keep seeing each other at this level of 
intimacy? Are we heading toward marriage?  Toward children?  Toward a 
lifetime together?  Am I ready for that level of commitment?  Do I really 
even know this person?  And Roger is thinking: ...so that means it was... 
let's see... February when we started going out, which was right after I had 
the car at the dealer's, which means... lemme check the odometer... Whoa!  I'm
*way* overdue for an oil change here.  And Elaine is thinking:  He's upset.  
I can see it on his face.  Maybe I'm reading this completely wrong.  Maybe 
he wants more from our relationship, more intimacy, more commitment; maybe 
he has sensed--even before I sensed it--that I was feeling some reservations.  
Yes, I bet that's it.  That's why he's so reluctant to say anything about 
his own feelings.  He's afraid of being rejected.  And Roger is thinking:  
And I'm gonna have them look at the transmission again.  I don't care what 
those morons say, it's still not shifting right.  And they better not try to 
blame it on the cold weather this time.  What cold weather?  It's 87 degrees 
out, and this thing is shifting like a goddamn garbage truck, and I paid 
those incompetent thieves $600.

COMMUNICATIONS GAP

And Elaine is thinking:  He's angry.  And I don't blame him.  I'd be angry 
too.  God, I feel so guilty, putting him through this, but I can't help the 
way I feel.  I'm just not sure.  And Roger is thinking: They'll probably say 
it's only a 90-day warranty.  That's exactly what they're gonna say, the 
scumballs.  And Elaine is thinking: Maybe I'm too idealistic, waiting for a 
knight to come riding up on his white horse, when I'm sitting right next to 
a perfectly good person who seems to truly care about me.  A person who is 
in pain because of my self centered, schoolgirl romantic fantasy.  And Roger 
is thinking: Warranty?  They want a warranty?  I'll give them a goddamn 
warranty.  I'll take their warranty and stick it right up their...  "Roger," 
Elaine says aloud.  "What?" says Roger, startled.  "Please don't torture 
yourself like this," she says, her eyes beginning to brim with tears.  
"Maybe I should never have... Oh God, I feel so..." (She breaks down, sobbing.) 
"What?" says Roger.  "I'm such a fool," Elaine sobs.  "I mean, I know there's
no knight.  I really know that.  It's silly.  There's no knight, and there's 
no horse." "There's no horse?" says Roger.  "You think I'm a fool, don't you?" 
Elaine says.  "No!"  says Roger, glad to finally know the correct answer.
"It's just that... It's that I... I need some time," Elaine says.  (There is a
15 second pause while Roger, thinking as fast as he can, tries to come up with
a safe response.  Finally he comes up with one that he thinks might work.)
"Yes," he says.

A BEFUDDLED BEAU

(Elaine, deeply moved, touches his hand.)

"Oh Roger, do you really feel that way?" she asks.  "What way?" says Roger.  
"That way about time," says Elaine.  "Oh," says Roger.  "Yes." (Elaine turns 
to face him and gazes deeply into his eyes, causing him to become very 
nervous about what she might say next, especially if it involves a horse.  
At last she speaks.)  "Thank you, Roger," she says.  "Thank you," says 
Roger.  Then he takes her home, and she lies on her bed, a conflicted, 
tortured soul, and weeps until dawn, whereas Roger gets back to his place, he 
opens a bag of Doritos, turns on the TV, and immediately becomes deeply 
involved in a rerun of a tennis match between two Czechoslovakians he never 
heard of.  A tiny voice in the far recesses of his mind tells him that 
something major was going on back there in the car, but he is pretty sure 
there is no way he would ever understand what, and so he figures it's better 
if he doesn't think about it. (This is also Roger's policy regarding world 
hunger.)

IT'S ANALYSIS TIME

The next day Elaine will call her closest friend, or perhaps two of them, 
and they will talk about this situation for six straight hours.  In 
painstaking detail, they will analyze everything she said and everything he 
said, going over it time and time again, exploring every word, expression, 
and gesture for nuances of meaning, considering every possible ramification.  
They will continue to discuss this subject, off and on, for weeks, maybe 
months, never reaching any definite conclusions, but never getting bored 
with it either.  Meanwhile, Roger, while playing racquetball one day with a
mutual friend of his and Elaine's, will pause just before serving, frown, 
and say: "Norm, did Elaine ever own a horse?"

We're not talking about different wavelengths here.  We're talking about 
different planets, in completely different solar systems.  Elaine cannot 
communicate meaningfully with Roger about their relationship any more than 
she can meaningfully play chess with a duck.  Because the sum total of 
Roger's thinking on this particular topic is as follows: Huh?  But the point 
I'm trying to make is that, if you are a woman, and you want to have a 
successful relationship with a guy, the No. 1 tip to remember is: 1. *Never* 
assume that the guy understands that you and he have a relationship.  the 
guy will not realize this on his own.  You have to plant the idea in his 
brain by constantly making subtle references to it in your everyday 
conversation, such as:  --"Roger, would you mind passing me a Sweet 'n' Low, 
inasmuch as we have a relationship?" -- "Wake up, Roger!  There's a prowler 
in the den and we have a relationship!  You and I do, I mean." -- "Good news,
Roger!  The gynecologist says we're going to have our fourth child, which 
will serve as yet another indication that we have a relationship!" -- "Roger,
inasmuch as this plane is crashing and we probably have only a minute to 
live, I want you to know that we've had a wonderful 53 years of marriage 
together, which clearly constitutes at relationship."  Never let up, women.  
Pound away relentlessly at this concept, and eventually it will start to 
penetrate the guy's brain.  Someday he might even start thinking about it on 
his own.  He'll be talking with some other guys about women, and, out of the 
blue, he'll say, "Elaine and I, we have, ummm... We have, ahhh... We... We 
have this thing."  And he will sincerely mean it.

The next relationship-enhancement tip is:
2.  Do not expect the guy to make a hasty commitment.

By 'hasty' I mean, 'within your lifetime.'  Guys are extremely reluctant to 
make commitments.  This is because they never feel ready.  "I'm sorry," guys 
are always telling women, "but I'm just not ready to make a commitment."  
Guys are in a permanent state of nonreadiness.  If guys were turkey breasts, 
you could put them in a 350-degree oven on July Fourth, and they still wouldn't 
be ready for Thanksgiving.

        

WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE ROAD?
 
Plato: For the greater good.
 
Karl Marx: It was a historical inevitability.
 
Machiavelli: So that its subjects will view it with admiration, as a
chicken which has the daring and courage to boldly cross the road, but
also with fear, for whom among them has the strength to contend with
such a paragon of avian virtue?  In such a manner is the princely
chicken's dominion maintained.
 
Hippocrates: Because of an excess of light pink gooey stuff in its
             pancreas.
 
Jacques Derrida: Any number of contending discourses may be discovered
within the act of the chicken crossing the road, and each interpretation is
equally valid as the authorial intent can never be discerned, because
structuralism is DEAD, DAMMIT, DEAD!
 
Thomas de Torquemada: Give me ten minutes with the chicken and I'll find
                      out.
 
Timothy Leary: Because that's the only kind of trip the Establishment would
               let it take.
 
Douglas Adams: Forty-two.
 
Nietzsche: Because if you gaze too long across the Road, the Road gazes
           also across you.
 
B.F. Skinner: Because the external influences which had pervaded its
sensorium from birth had caused it to develop in such a fashion that it
would tend to cross roads, even while believing these actions to be of
its own free will.
 
Carl Jung: The confluence of events in the cultural gestalt necessitated
that individual chickens cross roads at this historical juncture, and
therefore synchronicitously brought such occurrences into being.
 
Jean-Paul Sartre: In order to act in good faith and be true to itself, the
                  chicken found it necessary to cross the road.
 
Ludwig Wittgenstein: The possibility of "crossing" was encoded into the
objects "chicken" and "road", and circumstances came into being which
caused the actualization of this potential occurrence.
 
Albert Einstein: Whether the chicken crossed the road or the road crossed
                 the chicken depends upon your frame of reference.
 
Aristotle: To actualize its potential.
 
Buddha: If you meet the chicken on the road, kill it.
 
Howard Cosell: It may very well have been one of the most astonishing
events to grace the annals of history.  An historic, unprecedented avian
biped with the temerity to attempt such an herculean achievement formerly
relegated to homo sapien pedestrians is truly a remarkable occurence
 
Salvador Dali: The Fish.
 
Darwin: It was the logical next step after coming down from the trees.
 
Emily Dickinson: Because it could not stop for death.
 
Epicurus: For fun.
 
Ralph Waldo Emerson: It didn't cross the road; it transcended it.
 
Johann Friedrich von Goethe: The eternal hen-principle made it do it.
 
Ernest Hemingway: To die. In the rain.
 
Werner Heisenberg: We are not sure which side of the road the chicken was
                   on, but it was moving very fast.
 
David Hume: Out of custom and habit.
 
Jack Nicholson: 'Cause it (censored) wanted to.  That's the (censored)
                reason.
 
Pyrrho the Skeptic: What road?
 
The Sphinx: You tell me.
 
Mr. T: If you saw me coming you'd cross the road too!
 
Henry David Thoreau: To live deliberately ... and suck all the marrow out
                     of life.
 
Mark Twain: The news of its crossing has been greatly exaggerated.
 
Molly Yard: It was a hen!
 
Zeno of Elea: To prove it could never reach the other side.

        

 "A friend of mine is a chief engineer at SuperMac, and he related this
story to me.

 SuperMac records a certain number of technical support calls at random,
to keep tabs on customer satisfaction. By wild "luck", they managed to
catch the following conversation on tape.

 Some poor SuperMac TechSport got a call from some middle level official
from the legitimate government of Trinidad. The fellow spoke very good
English, and fairly calmly described the problem.

 It seemed that was a coup attempt in progress at that moment. However,
the national armoury for that city was kept in the same building as the
Legislature, and it seems that there was a combination lock on the door to
the armoury. Of the people in the capitol city that day, only the Chief of
the Capitol Guard and the Chief Armourer knew the combination to the lock,
and they had already been killed.

 So, this officer of the government of Trinidad continued, the problem is
this. The combination to the lock is stored in a file on the Macintosh ,
but the file has been encrypted with the SuperMac product called Sentinel.
Was there any chance, he asked, that there was a "back door" to the
application, so they could get the combination, open the armoury door, and
defend the Capitol Building and the legitimately elected government of
Trinidad against the insurgents?

 All the while he is asking this in a very calm voice, there is the sound 
of gunfire in the background. The Technical Support guy put the person on
hold. A phone call to the phone company verified that the origin of the
call was in fact Trinidad. Meanwhile, there was this mad scramble to see
if anybody knew of any "back doors" in the Sentinel program.

 As it turned out, Sentinel uses DES to encrypt the files, and there was
no known back door. The Tech Support fellow told the customer that aside
from trying to guess the password, there was no way through Sentinel, and
that they'd be better off trying to physically destroy the lock.

 The official was very polite, thanked him for the effort, and hung up.
That night, the legitimate government of Trinidad fell. One of the BBC
reporters mentioned that the casualties seemed heaviest in the capitol,
where for some reason, there seemed to be little return fire from the
government forces."

        

			Charting Bloopers
		Adele D.S. Mitchell, PhD, RN

	I know that we are often in a hurry and mistakes happen, but I'm
amazed by how some people chart.  I've been collecting chart bloopers by
physicians and nurses for years.  The following were found in a variety of
places; some may have come from your institution.  Can you imagine what
would happen if these notes appeared in court?

1.  Patient has chest pain if she lies on her left side for over a year.
2.  On the second day the knee was better and on the third day it had
    completely disappeared.
3.  Father died in his 90's of female trouble in his prostate and kidneys.

4.  Skin: Somewhat pale but present.
5.  The pelvic examination will be done later on the floor.
6.  Vomiting of unknown origin.
7.  New onset chronic comma.
8.  Admitted in error.
9.  Evaluate for progressive ambulation.
10. Diagnosis: Gunshot wound to the head, coma.
11. Patient was seen in consultation by Dr. Blank, who felt we should
     sit on the abdomen and I agree.
12. Large brown stool ambulating in the hall.
13. Patient has two teenage children but no other abnormalities.
14. B-9 Position vertigo.
15. Discharge status: Alive but without permission.
16. Vaginal packing out. Doctor in.
17. Dr. Blank is watching his prostate.
18. Patient had bilateral varicosities below the legs.
19. If he squeezes the back of his neck for 4 or 5 years it comes and goes.
20. At the time of onset of pregnancy, the mother was undergoing bronchoscopy.
21. She was treated with Mycostatin oral suppositories.
22. Healthy appearing decrepit 69 year old white female, mentally alert but
    forgetful.
23. 1 Benign chest removed from the pelvis.
24. Large amount of brown feces expelled.

        

The song of the birds for mirth.
One's nearer to God in the garden 
Than anywhere else on earth."

 An old poem, one that was engraved around the perimeter of my 
grandpater's sundial.  That poem was probably one of the first things I
learned to read.  I had never really considered its meaning, it was just
a bit of stray doggerel.  This morning however....

 It probably comes as no surprise to anyone to know that I have a  large 
garden.  Equally, sprats being the mimics they are, it was no real 
surprise to me when Lauren declared the plot of ground between walkway, 
house and fence was her 'garden.'  

 "You'll be totally responsible for it, you know."

 Not a problem, I was assured.  And she merrily began transplanting 
'flowers' (weeds) that she came across during the course of the day to her
'garden.'  And, neglectful or not, I pretty much ignored her efforts. I 
could tell, from a distance since the walk is something I rarely bother to 
use, that her weeds were flourishing.  From where I usually sat, she 
appeared to have a preponderance of Queen Anne's Lace.  This was fine with
me, while wild carrot can be fairly obnoxious if it gets loose amongst 
other plants, contained as it was by the pavement I had few fears of an 
'escape' to my borders or test plots.

This morning, I took my usual stroll out back with my morning coffee, and 
noticed that her 'garden' was doing quite well.  Today I strolled over to 
examine it a bit closer.

*Gulp*.

What appeared from a distance to be Queen Anne's Lace, on closer 
inspection resolved itself into a no less common, but decidedly more 
sinister umbelliferae.  Poison Hemlock to be precise...lots of it.. 

A quick study of the remaining plants showed she was also growing 
Belladonna, Aconite, both bittersweet and black nightshade and False 
Hellebore.

"Near to God..." was right.  Jay-sus.

I was still standing there attempting desperately to collect my 
thoughts and decide what to do, when the 'gardener' popped out of the house.

	"Doesn't my garden look great?"

	"Uh, yeah.  Great.  Are you planning on being an assassin when
	 you grow up?"

	"No.  Why?"

	"All these plants are very, very poisonous."  I braced myself for  
	 the ensuing outcry.  "I think they should be dug up and destroyed, 
 
	 Lauren.  These are dangerous to have around."

It was a morning for surprises.  No shrieks or screams of anguish.  
Instead I was rewarded with a vaguely speculative glance.

	"*You* grow poisonous plants."

	"I grow poisonous *specimens*, one each.  I am not cultivating a
	  "Field of death".  Additionally, I'm not growing  
	 *any* Hemlock or nightshade.  These can't stay here."

The look of speculation, if possible, grew more intense.  Taking me by 
my hand, I was treated to a walk around my own garden, with spawn 
identifying the plants that over the years I had taught her.  

	"Foxglove, causes heart failure.  Cotton, seeds are poison.  Flax, 
	 seeds are poison.  Castor Bean, plant is poison.  Comfrey, causes  

	 liver failure and rash.  Henbane, causes confusion and 
         convulsions.
	 Larkspur, plant is poison....."  

I followed her about listening to the litany, both impressed and more 
than slightly bemused.  Apparently she *had* been listening.  Ultimately
we came to the end and she ran out of steam.  Wondering if she had only
bothered to remember the 'killer' plants I pulled of a Cascara leaf.

	"What does this one do?"

She examined it closely and snickered.

	"Gives you the shits."

Ah.  So she was paying attention.

The upshot of the discussion was basically fair's fair.  If I was 
allowed to grow poisonous specimens, then she, using proper precautions,
should be allowed to do likewise.  This also meant that all but one
specimen for each type had to be pulled.

Peeve:  These plants can't be composted and they can't be burned.  

It took a half hour to pull out the offenders.  When all was said and 
done, there were a mere half dozen 'specimens' left.  These were roped 
off and a sign (with the requisite skull and crossbones) was tacked to the 
fence.  

?Peeve:  I'm sure I should be upset, but if memory serves me correctly, 
	 she was always very careful to wash her hands after 'gardening.' 
	 at the time I thought it was simply to remove the dirt, now  
	 I'm not so sure.  I  have a sneaky suspicion that she knew
	 exactly what she had (with the exception of the Hemlock.)
	 Belladonna and nightshade are not likely to be mistaken for
	 anything else and both had been pointed out to her over the 
	 years.

?PeeveII:  Ripping down the nightshade.  Poison it may be, but a mass of 
	   it, climbing a fence, with the tiny purple flowers and red
	   berries is bloody attractive.

ObPlanAhead:  Next year she grows sunflowers.

From the headquarters of Poison Control,

I remain

Deirdre

        

Yes, folks, yet another parody of a song. This one's called "The Sound of 
Cylons" sung to the tune of "The Sound of Silence"

Hello, Starbuck, my old friend.
We're under fire once again.
There's 99 of them and two of us.
But they couldn't hit a metro bus.
They're so stupid, and they've only got one eye.
They're going to die.
Hear the sound of Cylons.

Now we've reached the planet Earth.
No more will we have to search.
But they've followed us so now we go.
Nobody liked us so they cancelled our show.
No more fight scenes, battlestars or Daggits
They're all such maggots.
No more sound of Cylons.

There's another verse to it, but I have since forgotten it. Ooops.

        

 You know you have EWS (Event Withdrawal Syndrome) when:
 
 -- You find yourself wishing you could shop for that one last bit of fabric
 (or trim, or leather, or whatever).
 -- It feels weird to have a ceiling overhead
 -- It seems just a little TOO quiet at night.
 -- You wonder what garb you want to wear tomorrow.
 -- You want to tell your co-workers what you did this weekend, but you know
 they just won't understand.
 -- You miss the constant companionship of your fellow Scadians.
 -- The stars are far too pale and sparse.
 -- You can't get the sound of drums out of your head.
 -- You realize that if you start singing the Moose song none of your
 neighbors will join in with you.
 

        

     1994's MOST BIZARRE SUICIDE
     
     At the 1994 annual awards dinner given by the American Association for 
     Forensic Science, AAFS President Don Harper Mills astounded his 
     audience in San Diego with the legal complications of a bizarre death. 
     Here is the story.
     
     "On 23 March 1994, the medical examiner viewed the body of Ronald Opus 
     and concluded that he died from a shotgun wound of the head. The 
     decedent had jumped from the top of a ten-story building intending to 
     commit suicide (he left a note indicating his despondency). As he fell 
     past the ninth floor, his life was interrupted by a shotgun blast 
     through a window, which killed him instantly. Neither the shooter nor 
     the decedent was aware that a safety net had been erected at the 
     eighth floor level to protect some window washers and that Opus would 
     not have been able to complete his suicide anyway because of this."
     
     "Ordinarily," Dr. Mills continued, "a person who sets out to commit 
     suicide ultimately succeeds, even though the mechanism might not be 
     what he intended. That Opus was shot on the way to certain death nine 
     stories below probably would not have changed his mode of death from 
     suicide to homicide. But the fact that his suicidal intent would not 
     have been successful caused the medical examiner to feel that he had 
     homicide on his hands. "The room on the ninth floor whence the shotgun 
     blast emanated was occupied by an elderly man and his wife. They were 
     arguing and he was threatening her with the shotgun. He was so upset 
     that, when he pulled the trigger, he completely missed his wife and 
     the pellets went through the a window striking Opus.
     
     "When one intends to kill subject A but kills subject B in the 
     attempt, one is guilty of the murder of subject B. When confronted 
     with this charge, the old man and his wife were both adamant that 
     neither knew that the shotgun was
     loaded. The old man said it was his long-standing habit to threaten 
     his wife with the unloaded shotgun. He had no intention to murder her 
     - therefore, the killing of Opus appeared to be an accident. That is, 
     the gun had been accidentally loaded.
     
     "The continuing investigation turned up a witness who saw the old 
     couple's son loading the shotgun approximately six weeks prior to the 
     fatal incident. It transpired that the old lady had cut off her son's 
     financial support and the son, knowing the propensity of his father to 
     use the shotgun threateningly, loaded the gun with the expectation 
     that his father would shoot his mother. The case now becomes one of 
     murder on the part of the son for the death of Ronald Opus.
     
     There was an exquisite twist. "Further investigation revealed that the 
     son [Ronald Opus] had become increasingly despondent over the failure 
     of his attempt to engineer his mother's murder. This led him to jump 
     off the ten-story building on March 23, only to be killed by a shotgun 
     blast through a ninth story window.
     
     "The medical examiner closed the case as a suicide."
 

        
    
Subject: FAA Windshield testing....
 
   The FAA has a device for testing the strength of windshields on airplanes.
   They point this thing at the windshield of the aircraft and shoot a dead
   chicken at about the speed the aircraft normally flies at it.  If the
   windshield doesn't break, it's likely to survive a real collision with a
   bird during flight.
 
   The British had recently built a new locomotive that could pull a train
   faster than any before it.  They were not sure that its windshield was
   strong enough so they borrowed the testing device from the FAA, reset it
   to approximate the maximum speed of the locomotive, loaded in the dead
   chicken, and fired.  The bird went through the windshield, broke the
   engineer's chair, and made a major dent in the back wall of the engine cab.
 
   They were quite surprised with this result, so they asked the FAA to check
   the test to see if everything was done correctly.  The FAA checked
   everything and suggested that they might want to repeat the test using a
   thawed chicken.

        

Subject: Cats vs. buttered bread

Question to the Oracle:

If you drop a buttered piece of bread, it will fall on the
floor butter-side down.  If a cat is dropped from a window
or other high and towering place, it will land on it's feet.

But what if you attach a buttered piece of bread, butter-side
up to a cat's back and toss them both out the window?
Will the cat land on it's feet?  Or will the butter splat on
the ground?
 
A questioner...

 And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

 Even if you are too lazy to do the experiment yourself you should be
 able to deduce the obvious result.  The laws of butterology demand
 that the butter must hit the ground, and the equally strict laws of
 feline aerodynamics demand that the cat can not smash it's furry back.
 If the combined construct were to land, nature would have no way to
 resolve this paradox.  Therefore it simply does not fall.

 That's right you clever mortal (well, as clever as a mortal can get),
 you have discovered the secret of antigravity!  A buttered cat will,
 when released, quickly move to a height where the forces of
 cat-twisting and butter repulsion are in equilibrium.  This equilibrium
 point can be modified by scraping off some of the butter, providing
 lift, or removing some of the cat's limbs, allowing descent.

 Most of the civilized species of the Universe already use this
 principle to drive their ships while within a planetary system.  The
 loud humming heard by most sighters of UFOs is, in fact, the purring of
 several hundred tabbies.

 The one obvious danger is, of course, if the cats manage to eat the
 bread off their backs they will instantly plummet.  Of course the cats
 will land on their feet, but this usually doesn't do them much good,
 since right after they make their graceful landing several tons of
 red-hot starship and pissed off aliens crash on top of them.

        

The Indiana Rules of Driving, or does the cow get the right of way.....

#1.  Never anger anyone with a gun in their gun rack.  You will get shot.
#2.  You may pass a tractor in the road.  You may not pass one in the field.
#3.  All livestock get right of way.  Pedestrians do not.
#4.  Don't get the truckers angry at you...they are bigger than you and 
     can gang up using their CB's.
#5.  There is a reason that I-465 resembles the Indianapolis Motor 
     Speedway...
#6.  Ambulances and fire trucks get right of way.  Cops get blocked.
#7.  Please leave the mud in the field after cutting through your 
     neighboor's cornfield.
#8.  When you stop to collect your roadkill, please pull all the way off 
     the road.  Otherwise, you could be roadkill.
#9.  Deer get right of way depending on what you are driving.  Large 
     trucks--free meal ahead, go on through.  Yugos only do so if you are 
     doing a kamikaze run.
#10. Traffic in Brown County in the month of October will not have their 
     eyes on the road.  Loads of free vension!
#11. Get that stinkin' Ohio State sticker off your car!
#12. Any liberal bumper stickers are subject to ridicule and removal.
#13. If you drive a small car, please take an inflatable raft with you at 
     all times.  The chuckholes get a little deep.
#14. The quickest route between two points is always under construction.
#15. The Indiana construction season begins on Jan. 2 and ends Dec. 23.
#16. The state flower is a traffic cone; the state motto is "Detour Where?"
#17. Never speed past a "stalled" Camero with a fantastic paint job; he's 
     a State Trooper.
#18. These rules do not apply in Gary.  No rules apply in Gary.
#19. Either get to like country music outside of Indy or bring tapes.
#20. And finally, beware the fall road hazards; rain, leaves, IU Football 
     fans, and flying bits and pieces of cornstalks.

        

A lawyer who works in Texas receives news of an out of town emergency
which requires him to fly out of the state for a short period of time. He
doesn't even have a chance to pack, so he calls home to tell his wife he is
going.

The maid answers the phone but is hesitant to put his wife on the phone.
After quite a bit of cajoling, she admits that his wife is upstairs in bed
 with the mailman!

Now the man is furious, and would rush right home, but of course there is
this emergency to take care of, so he tells the maid to go get the gun from
 his desk drawer, and kill both his wife and the mailman.

She protests, but he explains that under Texas law it is legal to kill
your adulterous wife and her lover. Using his silver tongue, he finally
convinces her to do it.

She puts down the phone, and the lawyer can hear the sound of two gun
shots, the screams, some loud bumps, and, finally, some splashes.

The maid comes back on the phone. The lawyer asks "Did you kill them?"

"Yes," she replies.

"What did you do with the bodies?" The lawyer asks.

"I threw them in the pool." ... pause ...

"Pool??  What pool?" ... "Hey, is this 565-8234?">

        


COYOTE V. ACME

In The United States District Court, Southwestern District, Tempe, Arizona
Case No. B19293, Judge Lance Ito, Presiding

Wile E. Coyote, Plaintiff
-vs.-
Acme Company, Defendant


Opening statement of Mr. Harold Schoff, attorney for Mr. Coyote:


My client, Mr. Wile E. Coyote, a resident of Arizona and
contiguous states, does hereby bring suit for damages against the
Acme Company, manufacturer and retail distributor of assorted
merchandise, incorporated in Delaware and doing business in every
state, district, and territory. Mr. Coyote seeks compensation for
personal injuries, loss of business income, and mental suffering
caused as a direct result of the actions and/or gross negligence of
said company, under Title 15 of the United States Code, Chapter 47,
section 2072, subsection (a), relating to product liability.


Mr. Coyote states that on eighty-five separate occasions he has
purchased of the Acme Company (hereinafter, "Defendant"), through
that company's mail-order department, certain products which did
cause him bodily injury due to defects in manufacture or improper
cautionary labelling. Sales slips made out to Mr. Coyote as proof
of purchase are at present in the possession of the Court, marked
Exhibit A. Such injuries sustained by Mr. Coyote have temporarily
restricted his ability to make a living in his profession of
predator. Mr. Coyote is self-employed and thus not eligible for
Workmen's Compensation.


Mr. Coyote states that on December 13th he received of Defendant via
parcel post one Acme Rocket Sled. The intention of Mr. Coyote was to
use the Rocket Sled to aid him in pursuit of his prey. Upon receipt
of the Rocket Sled Mr. Coyote removed it from its wooden shipping
crate and, sighting his prey in the distance, activated the
ignition. As Mr. Coyote gripped the handlebars, the Rocket Sled
accelerated with such sudden and precipitate force as to stretch Mr.
Coyote's forelimbs to a length of fifty feet. Subsequently, the
rest of Mr. Coyote's body shot forward with a violent jolt, causing
severe strain to his back and neck and placing him unexpectedly
astride the Rocket Sled. Disappearing over the horizon at such
speed as to leave a diminishing jet trail along its path, the Rocket
Sled soon brought Mr. Coyote abreast of his prey. At that moment
the animal he was pursuing veered sharply to the right. Mr. Coyote
vigorously attempted to follow this maneuver but was unable to, due
to a poorly designed steering on the Rocket Sled and a faulty or
nonexistent braking system. Shortly thereafter, the unchecked
progress of the Rocket Sled brought it and Mr. Coyote into
collision with the side of a mesa.



Paragraph One of the Report of Attending Physician (Exhibit B),
prepared by Dr. Ernest Grosscup, M.D., D.O., details the multiple
fractures, contusions, and tissue damage suffered by Mr. Coyote as
a result of this collision. Repair of the injuries required a full
bandage around the head (excluding the ears), a neck brace, and full
or partial casts on all four legs.


Hampered by these injuries, Mr. Coyote was nevertheless obliged to
support himself. With this in mind, he purchased of Defendant as an
aid to mobility one pair of Acme Rocket Skates. When he attempted
to use this product, however, he became involved in an accident
remarkably similar to that which occurred with the Rocket Sled.
Again, Defendant sold over the counter, without caveat, a product
which attached powerful jet engines (in this case, two) to
inadequate vehicles, with little or no provision for passenger
safety. Encumbered by his heavy casts, Mr. Coyote lost control of
the Rocket Skates soon after strapping them on, and collided with a
roadside billboard so violently as to leave a hole in the shape of
his full silhouette.

Mr. Coyote states that on occasions too numerous to list in this
document he has suffered mishaps with explosives purchased of
Defendant: the Acme "Little Giant" Firecracker, the Acme
Self-Guided Aerial Bomb, etc. (For a full listing, see the Acme
Mail Order Explosives Catalogue and attached deposition, entered in
evidence as Exhibit C.) Indeed, it is safe to say that not once has
an explosive purchased of Defendant by Mr. Coyote performed in an
expected manner. To cite just one example: At the expense of much
time and personal effort, Mr. Coyote constructed around the outer
rim of a butte a wooden trough beginning at the top of the butte and
spiralling downward around it to some few feet above a black X
painted on the desert floor. The trough was designed in such a way
that a spherical explosive of the type sold by Defendant would roll
easily and swiftly down to the point of detonation indicated by the X.
Mr. Coyote placed a generous pile of birdseed directly on the X, and
then, carrying the spherical Acme Bomb (Catalogue #78-832), climbed
to the top of the butte. Mr. Coyote's prey, seeing the birdseed,
approached, and Mr. Coyote proceeded to light the fuse. In an instant,
the fuse burned down to the stem, causing the bomb to detonate prior
to its release by Mr. Coyote.

n addition to reducing all Mr. Coyote's careful preparations to
naught, the premature detonation of Defendant's product resulted in
the following disfigurements to Mr. Coyote:

 1. Severe singeing of the hair on the head, neck, and muzzle.
 2. Sooty discoloration.
 3. Fracture of the left ear at the stem, causing the ear to
     dangle in the aftershock with a creaking noise.

 4. Full or partial combustion of whiskers, producing kinking,
     frazzling, and ashy disintegration.

 5. Radical widening of the eyes, due to brow and lid charring.


We come now to the Acme Spring-Powered Shoes. The remains of a pair
of these purchased by Mr. Coyote on June 23rd are Plaintiff's
Exhibit D. Selected fragments have been shipped to the
metallurgical laboratories of the University of California at Santa
Barbara for analysis, but to date, no explanation has been found for
this product's sudden and extreme malfunction. As advertised by
Defendant, this product is simplicity itself: two wood-and-metal
sandals, each attached to milled-steel springs of high tensile
strength and compressed in a tightly coiled position by a cocking
device with a lanyard release. Mr. Coyote believed that this
product would enable him to pounce upon his prey in the initial
moments of the chase, when swift reflexes are at a premium.

To increase the shoes' thrusting power still further, Mr. Coyote
affixed them by their bottoms to the side of a large boulder.
Adjacent to the boulder was a path which Mr. Coyote's prey was
known to frequent. Mr. Coyote put his hind feet in the
wood-and-metal sandals and crouched in readiness, his right forepaw
holding firmly to the lanyard release. Within a short time, Mr.
Coyote's prey did indeed appear on the path coming toward him.
Unsuspecting, the prey stopped near Mr. Coyote, well within range
of the springs at full extension. Mr. Coyote gauged the distance
with care and proceeded to pull the lanyard release.

At this point, Defendant's product should have thrust Mr. Coyot
forward and away from the boulder. Instead, for reasons yet unknown,
the Acme Spring-Powered Shoes thrust the boulder away from Mr.
Coyote. As the intended prey looked on unharmed, Mr. Coyote hung
suspended in air. Then the twin springs recoiled, bringing Mr. Coyote
to a violent feet-first collision with the boulder, the full weight
of his head and forequarters falling upon his lower extremities.

The force of this impact then caused the springs to rebound,
whereupon Mr. Coyote was thrust skyward. A second recoil and
collision followed. The boulder, meanwhile, which was roughly ovoid
in shape, had begun to bounce down a hillside, the coiling and
recoiling of the springs adding to its velocity. At each bounce, Mr.
Coyote came into contact with the boulder, or the boulder came into
contact with Mr. Coyote, or both came into contact with the ground.
As the grade was a long one, this process continued for some time.

The sequence of collisions resulted in systemic physical damage to
Mr. Coyote, viz., flattening of the cranium, sideways displacement
of the tongue, reduction of length of legs and upper body, and
compression of vertebrae from base of tail to head. Repetition of
blows along a vertical axis produced a series of regular horizontal
folds in Mr. Coyote's body tissues--a rare and painful condition
which caused Mr. Coyote to expand upward and contract downward
alternately as he walked, and to emit an off-key, accordionlike
wheezing with every step. The distracting and embarrassing nature of
this symptom has been a major impediment to Mr. Coyote's pursuit of
a normal social life.

As the court is no doubt aware, Defendant has a virtual monopoly of
manufacture and sale of goods required by Mr. Coyote's work. It is
our contention that Defendant has used its market advantage to the
detriment of the consumer of such specialized products as itching
powder, giant kites, Burmese tiger traps, anvils, and
two-hundred-foot-long rubber bands. Much as he has come to mistrust
Defendant's products, Mr. Coyote has no other domestic source of
supply to which to turn. One can only wonder what our trading
partners in Western Europe and Japan would make of such a situation,
where a giant company is allowed to victimize the consumer in a
most reckless and wrongful manner over and over again.

Mr. Coyote respectfully requests that the Court regard these larger
economic implications and assess punitive damages in the amount of
seventeen million dollars. In addition, Mr. Coyote seeks actual
damages (missed meals, medical expenses, days lost from professional
occupation) of one million dollars; general damages (mental
suffering, injury to reputation) of twenty million dollars; and
attorney's fees of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. By
awarding Mr. Coyote the full amount, this Court will censure
Defendant, its directors, officers, shareholders, successors, and
assigns, in the only language they understand, and reaffirm the
right of the individual predator to equal protection under the law.

        

A punk, in full regalia (leather, chains, rings on every bodily
protrusion, multicolored spiked hair . . . the works), happened
to note an old vet watching him intently from a park bench.
The punk sauntered up to the oldster and, with a sneer curling his
purple-colored lips, demanded to know what the old man was
looking at.

"You," replied the senior citizen.

"Whatsamatter old man, ain't ya ever seen anything like me?" demanded
the punk.

Never taking his gaze from the punk, the old man said:  "Once. About
twenty years ago I had intercourse with a parrot.  I was just
wondering if you might be my son."

        

Bryce,

I say, the care package you sent was a big hit here, thanks!  Below is
a chronological description of the care package consumption:

Sometime before Friday:  The Care package arrives.  I resist all
temptation to open the package and consume an entire box of Frangos.
Very impressive.

Friday 9:45 AM:  I arrive early to work and open the care package that
was hidden under my desk.  I 'm amazed at all the good stuff in side,
but somewhat disappointed to find that there were two boxes of Frango
(or what ever they are calling them now) chocolate mints:  I could have
eaten a box and nobody would have known.  Oh well.  I make a pot of
coffee using the robust Yukon blend, and eat three or four chocolate
covered expresso beans.  I send a message to NCABU announcing the
goodies.

10:00 AM:  The pot of coffee is gone and ErikaPh, my manager, makes
another, which of course I have to sample.  All the items are a big hit
with everybody so far, except the chocolate covered expresso beans,
which are only popular with the real coffee fans (who absolutely love
them).  Not letting a good thing go to waste, I have a couple more, a
mint or two, and start on my second cup of coffee.  I notice Erika
actually drank two cups from this pot, and I start to wonder how I
could approach my manager about making sure she leaves enough coffee
for the rest of the queue.

10:10 AM:  The pot of coffee is out again so HarveyY makes another.  I
of course must sample the Cafe Verona blend and indulge in a few more
chocolate covered expresso beans.  Erika again drinks two more cups of
coffee.  I frown but say nothing and in my depression eat another
Frango chocolate mint.

10:30 AM:  There has been a single cup of coffee left for some time,
and not to let it go to waste, I drink it.

11:00 AM:  KevinCo sees the empty coffee pot so he makes another, and
then fills my cup under protest.  Erika again drops by and fills her
mug, and pilfers some chocolate covered xxpresso beans.  For some
strange reason, my typing speed has increased from, 25 WPM to 60 WPM,

11:45 AM:  For some (unknown) reason, I feel agitated.  To bleed of all
the excess energy coming from nowhere, I do 92 pushups while helping a
University of Oregon grad student with Excel.  Out the window I notice
Erika is on her second lap running around the building.  After all that
exercise, I feel thirsty, so I drink another cup of coffee and for a
snack down a few more chocolate covered expresso beans.

12:10 PM:  I now notice that there are people dropping by my cube that
usually don't, in fact, I've seen the entire queue come by and sample
some goodies.  I try to chat, but for some reason people seem
interested in just sampling the various yummy Frangos and the
chocolate-almond mocha's.  Erika stops by for more coffee and we
exchange unpleasantries.  I don't recall the exact conversation, but I
do remember the phrases "useless stingy middle-manager" and "whiny
engineer".  For therapy I eat a few more chocolate covered expresso
beans and try to look up how to make a car bomb on Internet's
rec.pursuits.anarchy.

1:00 PM:  I skip lunch, but do drink another cup of coffee and make
another pot by request.  Getting bored, I pick up the Charlotte phone
book and start dialing people at random, asking if they need any help
with Excel.  Erika comes by for another cup of coffee.  I miss her with
the stapler, but she wings me a good one with one of those cube coat
hooks.

2:00 PM:   The entire queue, I believe, is wired with caffeine and
sugar.  I, being a Seattle native, am immune to these effects.  MikeNa
is 10 minutes into teaching his 2nd impromptu aerobics class.  It is
very interesting to watch engineers do jumping jacks while holding
their Aspect phones.

3:00 PM:  HarveyY has built a small shrine for the coffee pot in the
empty cube next to me, and the low humming has started to get on my
nerves:  "Huummmmm   Hummmm   Hummmmm ."  Some people, I
swear.

3:30 PM:  The Starbucks Guatemalan blend has been polished off, and a
fight has ensued in the hallway on whether to ration the chocolate
covered expresso beans for later or continue with the consumption.
Hastily, I  build a laser pistol out of my MS Mouse card and the power
supply from my Mac II CI, and the fight quickly ends.  MikeNa shows up
and drags the unconscious rebels back to their desks.

4:00 PM:  If I could just talk to the cleaning people into lending me
some Drain-O, I can complete the car bomb before Erika goes home.  The
coffee pot is empty again so of course I make another.  Nice guy that I
am, I drink a cup to sample the brew and deem it Most Excellent.  I
have a couple of Frango mints to compensate for skipping lunch.

5:00 PM:  KevinCo informs me that Erika has been slipping by in
camouflage spandex to siphon off coffee with a long straw.  I thank him
for this valuable intelligence information.  In a time-honored Seattle
Male Bonding Ritual, we eat 5 chocolate covered expresso beans each.

6:15 PM:  I send mail to the entire queue announcing a fresh pot of
coffee (after drinking a cup first) and await Erika to sneak by with
glee.

6:20 PM: I caught Erika red-handed.  I dodge the pen she tried to stab
me with, and landed a good blow to her left kidney.  As she is crawling
back to her desk I hear her mumble something about "time to write a
review".

6:25 PM  I panic and in desperation, log on to the mail server with a
VTP connection.  I hack my way into Erika's Xenix mail spool file and
quickly write, in the Xenix Borne C Shell, a program that will send an
email message every 30 seconds using Erika's email name.  I address it
to the only people on campus at the time, Corporate Security, and title
the message,  "I Want Bill Gate's Love Child!".  I "cc"
ingate!ALL@ibm.com and ingate!JScully@apple.com just for giggles and
grins.

7:30 PM:  Two security guards show up, one drags Erika away and the
other starts packing her desk.  I laugh hideously at her shrieks of
protest, and in celebration jump in my girl friend's sports car and
drive around the Charlotte Coliseum several times at 120 MPH.

8:00 PM:  I'm feeling really tired.  KevinCo points out that there
still an entire box of chocolate covered expresso beans left.  Not
wanting them to go to waste, we each eat half a box.

9:00 PM  After successfully typing my 3rd impromptu novel while helping
Betty from Orlando with a data consolidation, MikeNa announces that the
queue has been shut off.  After the phone call I drink 14 complementary
beers, and for some unknown reason, still couldn't get to sleep that
night.

        

I just ate a handful of oxycodone so's I could hammer this message out --
I wanted to tell you to sub me again and all about The Great Morphine
Machine I was hooked up to at the hospital for all 7 days -- The True
Tyranny Of Technology, it were, The True Tyranny Of Technology.

What happens you see, is they stick this needle on the end of an IV tube
in yer arm and give you a little hand-grip thing with a button/plunger on
the end of it, then everytime you whang on that there button/plunger you
get a taste of real pharmaceutical Madonna from that needle.  (It's called
a PCA: "Patient Controlled" something-or-other.)

The thing is rigged to a bottle containing 14.2 mg of Morphine -- your
4-hour limit -- and you can either whang down on that button every 15
minutes -- which is the minimum time betwen doses -- and run out after
the 7th pop, and then go dry for 2 hours, or calculate out how may 7's go
into 4 hours so you can maintain an even buzz and never run out of the
stuff.

Can you imagine trying to do this kind of math in yer head just minutes
after yer ribs have been cracked open and a third of yer lung hacked out? 
Damn.  I had to ask for a pencil and some paper.  But I _never_ missed a 
dose.

        


"They're made out of meat."

"Meat?"

"Meat. They're made out of meat."

"Meat?"

"There's no doubt about it. We picked several from different parts of the
planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, probed them all the way through.
They're completely meat."

"That's impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the
stars."

"They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don't come from them. The
signals come from machines."

"So who made the machines? That's who we want to contact."

"They made the machines. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Meat made the
machines."

"That's ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You're asking me to
believe in sentient meat."

"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. These creatures are the only sentient
race in the sector and they're made out of meat."

"Maybe they're like the Orfolei. You know, a carbon-based intelligence that
goes through a meat stage."

"Nope. They're born meat and they die meat. We studied them for several of
their life spans, which didn't take too long. Do you have any idea the life
span of meat?"

"Spare me. Okay, maybe they're only part meat. You know, like the Weddilei.
A meat head with an electron plasma brain inside."

"Nope. We thought of that, since they do have meat heads like the Weddilei.
But I told you, we probed them. They're meat all the way through."

"No brain?"

"Oh, there is a brain all right. It's just that the brain is made out of
meat!"

"So... what does the thinking?"

"You're not understanding, are you? The brain does the thinking. The meat."

"Thinking meat! You're asking me to believe in thinking meat!"

"Yes, thinking meat! Conscious meat! Loving meat. Dreaming meat. The meat is
the whole deal! Are you getting the picture?"

"Omigod. You're serious then. They're made out of meat."

"Finally, Yes. They are indeed made out meat. And they've been trying to
get in touch with us for almost a hundred of their years."

"So what does the meat have in mind?"

"First it wants to talk to us. Then I imagine it wants to explore the
universe, contact other sentients, swap ideas and information. The usual."

"We're supposed to talk to meat?"

"That's the idea. That's the message they're sending out by radio. 'Hello.
Anyone out there? Anyone home?' That sort of thing."

"They actually do talk, then. They use words, ideas, concepts?"

"Oh, yes. Except they do it with meat."

"I thought you just told me they used radio."

"They do, but what do you think is on the radio? Meat sounds. You know how
when you slap or flap meat it makes a noise? They talk by flapping their meat
at each other. They can even sing by squirting air through their meat."

"Omigod. Singing meat. This is altogether too much. So what do you advise?"

"Officially or unofficially?"

"Both."

"Officially, we are required to contact, welcome, and log in any and all
sentient races or multibeings in the quadrant, without prejudice, fear, or
favor. Unofficially, I advise that we erase the records and forget the whole
thing."

"I was hoping you would say that."

"It seems harsh, but there is a limit. Do we really want to make contact
with meat?"

"I agree one hundred percent. What's there to say?" `Hello, meat. How's it
going?' But will this work? How many planets are we dealing with here?"

"Just one. They can travel to other planets in special meat containers, but
they can't live on them. And being meat, they only travel through C space.
Which limits them to the speed of light and makes the possibility of their
ever making contact pretty slim. Infinitesimal, in fact."

"So we just pretend there's no one home in the universe."

"That's it."

"Cruel. But you said it yourself, who wants to meet meat? And the ones who
have been aboard our vessels, the ones you have probed? You're sure they
won't remember?"

"They'll be considered crackpots if they do. We went into their heads and
smoothed out their meat so that we're just a dream to them."

"A dream to meat! How strangely appropriate, that we should be meat's dream."

"And we can mark this sector unoccupied."

"Good. Agreed, officially and unofficially. Case closed. Any others? Anyone
interesting on that side of the galaxy?"

"Yes, a rather shy but sweet hydrogen core cluster intelligence in a class
nine star in G445 zone. Was in contact two galactic rotations ago, wants to
be friendly again."

"They always come around."

"And why not? Imagine how unbearably, how unutterably cold the universe
would be if one were all alone."

        


 
 Subject: The Cat's Diary
 
 	Day 751: My captors continue to torment me with bizarre 
 dangling objects.  They eat lavish meals in my presence while I 
 am forced to subsist on dry cereal.  The only thing that keeps me
 going is the hope of eventual escape -- that, and the satisfaction
 I get from occasionally ruining some piece of their furniture.  
 
 	I fear I may be going insane.  Yesterday, I ate a houseplant.
 Tomorrow I may eat another.
 

          Day 773: I cannot hope to endure! They have locked within this
hell-hole with a large, slobbering beast. My only salvation is that the
creature, though massive and strong, is a blundering fool. He welcomes their
advances, he rants in his horridly loud and grating manner at the slightest
provocation, and he happily eats some sort of slimy goo with unidentifiable
chunks that smells not unlike my own vomit.

          I discovered that climbing the curtains, while affording me no
means of escape, causes the oldest female of their clan to break into
wracking sobs. I continue the fight...

          Day 781: The fools attempted - again - to drown me in the bubbly
water. The Eldest Male will likely never recover. They continue to search for
his ear. They attempted this same ritual with the Slobbering Beast, and he
continues his rampage. I write this from underneath the couch as the Elder
Female chases the Beast with what she calls a "tazer." There are these few
moments that make life bearable...

        

 Punctuation is everything - look at the difference it makes.
 
 Dear John:
     I want a man who knows what love is all about. You are generous, 
kind, thoughtful. People who are not like you admit to being useless and 
inferior. You have ruined me for other men. I yearn for you. I have no
feelings whatsoever when we're apart. I can be forever happy--will you let
me be yours?
Gloria
 
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
 Dear John:
   I want a man who knows what love is. All about you are generous, kind, 
thoughtful people, who are not like you. Admit to being useless and 
inferior. You have ruined me. For other men, I yearn. For you, I have no
feelings whatsoever. When we're apart, I can be forever happy. Will you
let me be?
Yours,
     Gloria
 

        


 THE RABBIT, THE FOX AND THE WOLF -- A FABLE
 
 One sunny day a rabbit came out of her hole in the ground to enjoy the
 weather. The day was so nice that the rabbit became careless, so a fox
 sneaked up to her and caught her.
 
 "I am going to eat you for lunch!," said the fox.
 
 "Wait!" replied the rabbit, "You should at least wait a few days"
 
 "Oh yeah? Why should I wait?"
 
 "Well, I am just finishing writing my Ph.D. thesis."
 
 "Hah! That's a stupid excuse. What is the title of your thesis anyway?"
 
 "I am writing my thesis on 'The Superiority of Rabbits over Foxes and
 Wolves.'"
 
 "Are you crazy? I should eat you up right now! Everybody knows that a
 fox will always win over a rabbit."
 
 "Not really, not according to my research. If you like, you can come to
 my hole and read it for yourself. If you are not convinced you can go
 ahead and have me for lunch."
 
 "You are really crazy!" But since the fox was curious and had nothing
 to lose, it went with the rabbit into its hole. The fox never came back
 out.
 
 A few days latter the rabbit was again taking a break from writing and,
 sure enough, a wolf came out of the bushes and was ready to eat her.
 
 "Wait!", yelled the rabbit, "you cannot eat me right now."
 
 "And why might that be, you fuzzy appetizer?"
 
 "I am almost finished writing my Ph.D. thesis on 'The Superiority of
 Rabbits over Foxes and Wolves'."
 
 The wolf laughed so hard that it almost lost its hold on the rabbit.
 "Maybe I shouldn't eat you, you are really sick in your head, you might
 have something contagious," the wolf opined.
 
 "Come read for yourself, you can eat me after that if you disagree with
 my conclusions." So the wolf went to the rabbit's hole and never came
 out.
 
 The rabbit finished writing her thesis and was out celebrating in the
 lettuce fields. Another rabbit came by and asked, "What's up? You seem
 to be very happy."
 
 "Yup, I just finished writing up my dissertation."
 
 "Congratulations! What is it about?"
 
 "It is titled 'The superiority of Rabbits over Foxes and Wolves.'"
 
 "Are you sure? That doesn't sound right."
 
 "Oh yes, you should come over and read for yourself."
 
 So they went together to the rabbit's hole.
 
 As they went in, the friend saw the typical graduate student abode,
 albeit a rather messy one after writing a thesis. The computer with the
 controversial dissertation was in one corner, on the right there was a
 pile of fox bones, on the left was a pile of wolf bones, and in the
 middle was a lion.
 
 The moral of the story is: The title of your dissertation doesn't
 matter, all that matters is who your thesis advisor is.

        

Pierre, a french fighter pilot, takes his girlfriend, Marie, out for a
pleasant little picnic by the river Seine.  It's a beautiful day and
love is in the air, so Marie leans over to Pierre and says:  "Pierre,
kiss me!".

So our hero grabs a bottle of red wine and splashes it on Marie's lips.

"What are you doing, Pierre?" shrieks Marie.

"Well, my name is Pierre, the French Fighter Pilot, and when I have red
meat I like to have red wine!"

His answer is good enough for Marie and things begin to heat up.

So she says : "Pierre, kiss me lower."

Our hero rips off her blouse, grabs a bottle of white wine and starts
pouring it all over her tits.

"Pierre, what are you doing?"

"My name is Pierre, the French Fighter Pilot, and when I have white meat
I like to have white wine!"

They resume their passionate interlude and things really steam up.
Marie leans over once more and softly whispers into his ear,  "Pierre,
kiss me lower."

Pierre tears off her underwear, grabs a bottle of Cognac and sprinkles
it all over her bush.  He grabs a match and lights it on fire.

Patting the flames out furiously, Marie screams,  "PIERRE, WHAT ARE YOU
DOING!!!?"

"My name is Pierre, the French Fighter Pilot, and when I go down, I go
down in flames!"

        


YOU MIGHT BE AN E.R. NURSE IF ........

You believe that 90% of people are a poor excuse for protoplasm...

Discussing dismemberment over a gourmet meal seems perfectly normal to
you...

You believe a good tape job will fix anything...

You have the bladder capacity of five people...

You can identify the positive teeth to tattoo ratio...

Your idea of a good time is a full arrest at shift change...

You find humor in other people's stupidity...

You believe in aerial spraying of Prozac...

You disbelieve 90% of what you are told and 75% of what you see...

You have your weekends off planned for a year in advance...

When a patient presents with a list of 30 allergies to meds and you
automatically assume they are a drug seeker and that their doctor is from
out of town...

Your idea of comforting a child includes placing them in a papoose
restraint...

You encourage an obnoxious patient to sign out AMA so you don't have to
deal with them any longer...
[AMA = Against Medical Advice]

You believe that "shallow gene pool" should be a recognized diagnosis...

You have discovered a new condition that you call "hypo-xanax-emia"...
[xanax is indicated for the management of anxiety, i.e., need to administer
more xanax.]

You believe that the government should require a permit to reproduce...

You plan what you are going to have for dinner while performing gastric
lavage...
[gastric lavage is a stomach pump]

You believe that "ask-a-nurse" is an evil plot thought up by Satan...

You believe that unspeakable evils will befall you if the phrase "wow, it's
really quiet" is uttered...

You refer to Friday as NH Dump Day and you don't mean New Hampshire...

Your diet consists of food that has gone through more processing than most
computers...

You believe chocolate is a food group...

You take it as a compliment when someone calls you dirty name...

You are prone to complimenting complete strangers on their great veins when
you are out in public...

You have ever referred to someone's death as a transfer to the eternal care
unit...

You don't think a referral to Dr. Kevorkian is inappropriate...

You have ever referred to someone's death as a celestial transfer...

You have ever answered a "lost condom" phone call...

You refer to someone in severe respiratory distress as a "smurf"...

Your idea of a good time is dueling shock rooms...

You have ever wanted to hold a seminar entitled "Suicide...Doing It
Right"...

You feel that most suicide attempts should be given a free subscription to
"Guns and Ammo" magazine...

You believe that "too stupid to live" should be a nursing diagnosis...

You have ever had to leave a patient's room before you begin to laugh
uncontrollably...

You have ever wanted to reply "yes" when someone calls and asks "Is my
(husband, wife, mother, brother, friend, etc.) there?"...

You have ever issued a "dead head" alert...

You have ever referred to the E.R. Doc or triage nurse as a "shit
magnet"...

Your favorite hallucinogenic is exhaustion...

You think that caffeine should be available in I.V. form...

You have ever restrained someone and it was not a sexual experience...

Your most common assessment question is "what changed tonight to make it an
emergency after 6 (hours, days, weeks, months, years)?"...

You have witnessed the charge nurse muttering down the hallway "who's in
charge of this mess anyway?"...
[yes, the charge nurse is in charge]

You refer to vegetables and are not talking about a food group...

You have ever used the phrase "health care reform" to instill fear into
your coworkers' hearts...

You believe the waiting room should be equipped with a valium fountain...

You play poker by betting ectopics on EKG strips...
[ectopics are irregularities who could be indicator of an impending cardiac
arrest.  They come in groups such trigimenys, which are three of a kind]

You believe a "supreme being consult" is your patients only hope...

You want lab to order a "dumb shit profile"...

You are totally astounded when someone from a NH is understandable...

You have been exposed to so many x-rays that you consider radiation a form
of birth control...

You believe your patient is demonically possessed...

You have ever had a patient look you straight in the eye and say "I have no
idea how that got stuck in there"...

You believe that waiting room time should be proportional to length of time
from symptom onset ("you've had the pain for three weeks...well have a seat
in the waiting room and we'll get to you in three days")...

        


 3/28/96 Paris (Reuters) - A recent response to a wildfire on the south of
 France's Cote d'Azur was billed as a marvel of modern fire-fighting
 technology.
 
 Two specially-built flying  boats zoomed in, skimmed the waters of the
 Mediterranean, scooping vast amounts of water into their belly tanks, and
 then dropped the water on the hillside fire. All was jolly and the wine flowed
 freely until a body was found in the ashes.
 
 The coroner found that the gentleman had apparently fallen from a great
 height, suffering serious injuries before being burned to death.  The report
 further noted that the victim was wearing a bathing suit, snorkel, and swim 
 fins.

        

	    BASIC RULES FOR CATS WHO HAVE A HOUSE TO RUN


1.  CHAIRS AND RUGS:  If you have to throw up, get into a chair quickly.  If
you cannot manage in time, get to an Oriental rug.  If there is no Oriental
rug, shag is good.

2.  DOORS:  Do not allow closed doors in any room.  To get a door opened,
stand on your hind legs and hammer with your fore paws.  Once the door is
opened, it is not necessary to use it.  After you have ordered an outside
door opened stand halfway in and halfway out and think about several things.
This is particularly important during very cold weather, rain, snow and the
mosquito season.

3.  GUESTS:  Quickly determine which guest hates cats the most.  Sit on that
lap.  If you can arrange to have Friskies Fish'n Glop on your breath, so
much the better. For guest who claims "I love kitties"  be ready with aloof
disdain, apply claws to stockings, use a quick nip on the ankle.

When walking among dishes on the dinner table, be prepared to look surprised
and hurt when scolded.  The idea is to convey, "But you allow me on the
table when company is not here."

Always accompany guest to the bathroom.  It is not necessary to do
anything, just sit and stare.

4.  WORK:  If one of your humans is sewing or writing and another is idle,
stay with the busy one.  This is called helping, otherwise known as
hampering.  Following are the rules for hampering.

    When supervising cooking, sit just behind the left heel of the cook.  You
    cannot be seen and thereby stand a better chance of being stepped on, and
    picked up and consoled.

    For book readers, get in close under the chin, between the eyes and the
    book unless you can lie across the book itself.

    For knitting projects, curl quietly into the lap of the knitter and
    pretend to doze.  Occasionally reach out and slap the knitting needles
    sharply.  This can cause dropped stitches or spill the yarn.  The knitter
    may try to distract you with a scrap ball of yarn.  Ignore it.  Remember,
    the aim is to hamper work.

5.  PLAY:  It is important.  Get enough sleep in the daytime so that you are
fresh for playing catch a mouse or king-of-the-hill on your human's bed
between 2 and 4 a.m.

Begin people training early.  You will have a smooth running household.
Humans need to know the basic rules.  They can be taught if you start early
and are consistent.

        


So there's this fella with a parrot. And this parrot swears like a 
sailor, I mean he's a pistol. He can swear for five minutes straight 
without repeating himself. Trouble is, the guy who owns him is a quiet, 
conservative type, and this bird's foul mouth is driving him crazy.  
One day, it gets to be too much, so the guy grabs the bird by the 
throat, shakes him really hard, and yells, "QUIT IT!"  But this just 
makes the bird mad and he swears more than ever.  Then the guy gets 
mad and says, "OK for you." and locks the bird in a kitchen cabinet. 
This really aggravates the bird and he claws and scratches, and when 
the guy finally lets him out, the bird cuts loose with a stream of 
vulgarities that would make a veteran sailor blush.
     
At that point, the guy is so mad that he throws the bird into the 
freezer. For the first few seconds there is a terrible din. The bird 
kicks and claws and thrashes. Then it suddenly gets _very_ quiet.  At 
first the guy just waits, but then he starts to think that the bird 
may be hurt. After a couple of minutes of silence, he's so worried 
that he opens up the freezer door.
     
The bird calmly climbs onto the man's outstretched arm and says, 
"Awfully sorry about the trouble I gave you. I'll do my best to 
improve my vocabulary from now on."
     
The man is astounded. He can't understand the transformation that has 
come over the parrot. Then the parrot says, "By the way, what did the 
chicken do?"

        

	BIG PINE KEY, Fla., July 13 (UPI) -- An Underwater Music Festival in  
the Florida Keys on Saturday has attracted more than 700 divers and 
snorkelers who submerged to listen to a local radio station's special 
six-hour radio broadcast. 
	The festival featured a wide variety of music and public service  
messages preaching coral reef preservation techniques that was piped 
below via a half dozen underwater speakers suspended above the reef. 
	``It's like a big Walkman that doesn't press on your head,'' said  
Scott Horner of Centralia, Wash., who escorted his Boy Scout troop to 
the concert at the Looe Key National Marine Sanctuary, situated about 6 
miles south of Big Pine Key. ``Where we live you don't actually get in 
the salt water. It's about 48 degrees there.'' 
	Saturday's calm seas and 85 degree water temperatures provided  
excellent conditions for the musical extravaganza. 
	``We're here to celebrate Florida Keys' coral reefs to enjoy them  
with sight and sound,'' said WWUS News Director Bill Becker who came up 
with the idea 12 years ago. 
	``We played everything from the Beatles 'Yellow Submarine' to the  
Marvelettes 'Too Many Fish in the Sea,''' said station manager Bob Soos. 
``And just to get their (divers) attention, I offered up 'Theme from 
Jaws' and 'Mac the Knife.''' 
	While some divers were content to simply relax and swim lazily amid  
the marine life, others came dressed for the occasion. 
	Nancy Herlehy of Big Pine Key donned a blue mermaid's outfit while  
Dan Zintsmaster of Key West, Fla., dove in impersonating Elvis. 
  	   	

        

The following is a verbatim transcript of a sentence imposed in 1881 upon a
defendant convicted of murder in the Federal District Court of the 
Territory of New Mexico.  The judge who imposed the sentence was a United 
States judge.  

The trial was held in Taos, NM, in an adobe stable being used as a 
temporary courtroom.

"Jose Manuel Miguel Xaviar Gonzales, in a few short weeks it will be 
Spring.  The snows of Winter will flee away, and the ice will vanish, and 
the air will become soft and balmy.  In short, Jose Manuel Miguel Xaviar 
Gonzales, the annual miracle of the years will awaken and come to pass, but
you won't be there."

"The rivulet will run its soaring course to the sea, the timid desert 
flowers will put forth their tender shoots, the glorious valleys of this 
imperial domain will blossom as the rose.  Still, you won't be here to 
see."

"From every treetop some wild woods songster will carol his mating song, 
butterflies will sport in the sunshine, the busy bee will hum happy as it 
pursues its accustomed vocation, the gentle breeze will tease the tassels 
of the wild grasses, and all nature, Jose Manuel Miguel Xaviar Gonzales, 
will be glad, but you.  You won't be here to enjoy it because I command the
sheriff or some other officers of the country to lead you out to some 
remote spot, swing you by the neck from a notting bough of some sturdy oak,
and let you hang until you are dead."

"And then, Jose Manuel Miguel Xaviar Gonzales, I further command that such 
officer or officers retire quickly from your dangling corpse, that vultures
may descend from the heavens upon your filthy body until nothing shall 
remain but bare, bleached bones of a cold-blooded, copper-colored, 
blood-thirsty, throat-cutting, chili-eating, sheep-herding, murdering 
son-of-a-bitch!"

United States of America vs Gonzales (1881)
United States District Court, New Mexico Territory Sessions

        

This story was related by Pat Routledge of Winnepeg, Ontrario
   about a repair call he handled while living in England.

   It's common practice in England to ring a telephone by signaling
   extra voltage across one side of the two wire circuit and ground
   (earth in England).  When the subscriber answers the phone, it
   switches to the two wire circuit for the conversation.  This
   method allows two parties on the same line to be signalled without
   disturbing each other.

   Anyway, an elderly lady with several pets called to say that her
   telephone failed to ring when her friends called; and that on the
   few occasions when it did ring her dog always barked first.  Pat
   proceeded to the scene, curious to see this psychic dog.

   He climbed a nearby telephone pole, hooked in his test set, and
   dialed the subscriber's house.  The phone didn't ring.  He tried
   again.  The dog barked loudly, followed by a ringing telephone.
   Climbing down from the pole, Pat found:

   a. A dog was tied to the telephone system's ground post
   via an iron chain and collar.

   b. The dog was receiving 90 volts of signalling current.

   c. After several such jolts, the dog would start barking and
   urinating on the ground.

   d. The wet ground now completed the circuit and the
   phone would ring.

   Which shows that you that some problems can be fixed by just
   pissing on them.