Text 3349, 85 rader
Skriven 2006-01-06 05:00:24 av Greg Sears (3:633/104)
     Kommentar till en text av George Pope
Ärende: Re: Gnu Ear
===================
 GP> On (03 Jan 06) Greg Sears wrote to George Pope...
 GS>  GP> You savages are catching up to the real world slowly but surely,
   >  GP> eh?
   >  George Pope you must be thinking of aussie EH! Savages are people
   >             like your southern mates making war on others, with the
   >             aussies buddies and the poms!!

 Echo: FUNNY
 Date: 04-Jan-2006 09:55
 Read:" Gnu Ear "
 George Pope Put A SMILE on Greg Sears's  DIAL #[:-)] 

 GP> I used "savages" in the sense of "prehistoric" not "wild". . .

 George Pope, exactly true on both counts! Thinks about IT! '-)

              Have you read this one. . . .

The phone rang at the fire station.

  "Hurry!" said the panicked voice, "we've got a big fire at the store!"

  "How do we get there?" the fire fighter demanded.

  "Dammit," shouted the caller. "Use the big red truck!"

> OBJoke: for our Moderator and all-round friend/servant

  Renfrew was the most absentminded altar boy Father O'Malley had
ever seen. But Renfrew meant well, and the clergymen decided to give
him one more chance to prove himself.

  "At mass tomorrow, I will come to a point where you'll hear me sing
'And God's angels lit the candles.' When I say that, you're to light
the candles in the back of the church. Is that understood?"

  Renfrew said it was, and that night both the priest and Renfrew
prayed for his success.

  The next day Father O'Malley conducted mass in front of a full
congregation. At last his rich baritone sang out, "And God's angels
lit the candles!"

  Nothing happened and he said again, "And God's angels lit the
candles!"

  Still the candles remained unlit, and once more he boomed, "And
God's angels lit the candles!"

  From behind the last pew Renfrew's small voice carried across the
room. "And your dog pissed on the matches!"


> OBJoke: for Mr. <+]::-{(} ("Cyberpope")

  Mr. Gregg had the boys over for poker but, as fate would have it,
his wife had to work late that night, and he had to keep an eye on
their eleven-year-old-son, Bruce.

  Bruce was a curious lad, and all night long he did nothing but
float around the table, reading each man's hand and muttering the
contents to himself ... loud enough for everyone to hear. Each time,
Mr. Gregg would usher his son to another room, but dispite frequent
entreaties and even more frequent threats Bruce always returned to
the den. finally, one of the players got so fed up that he took Bruce
by the elbow and led him away. When he returned, the game resumed;
five minutes passed, then ten, then a half-hour, and not once did
young Bruce show his face.

  Amazed, Mr. Gregg asked, "Hell, Spike, what did you do__kill the
kid?"

  "Naaa," he replied. "I just taught him how to jerk off."


Salutations from --Christchurch-+
  ICE-man in      /\            |          \ | /   Mountains, Sunshine
 New Zealand     /  \/\         |  /\     -- O --   Forestry, Farming
-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^/      \!!ii,,..@-/==\---^-^-^-^-^ Beaches and Surfing


... ÜßÜßÜÜßÜßÜÜßÜßÜ ‹ DRi¥K tì màkˆ éÂhÉ© pˆ•plä ¡Nt‰R‰StiïG. ßÜßÜßßÜßÜßßÜßÜ

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 * Origin: Afraid of the competition? We ARE the Competition! (3:633/104)