Text 685, 142 rader
Skriven 2004-12-09 04:48:36 av Greg Sears (1:153/307)
     Kommentar till en text av George Pope
Ärende: Re: Poems
=================
Funny on 07-Dec-2004 12:06

 GS>  GP> Then he said to his whore
   >    > As they crashed to the floor
   >    > Damn, that was fun!
   >    > Next time, your bum!
   >    > But from crashing she was now too sore!
   >
   >   G-day George Pope, Why is it all woman/sheilas/birds that fuck
   >                      are considered by you to be whores? ;-?

       -=[George Pope wrote IN a message to GREG SEARS]=-

 GP> It's just a figure of speech, mate!
   > Some women accept it as a compliment! (it's roughly equivalent to
   > "slut" or "bitch" in N.American Idiom)
   > __I__ don't consider them to be "whores," normally, but when writing a
   > limerick involving the word "floor" it was sortwf required!

  G-day George Pope, thank-you I understand now figuratively speaking. '-)


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

There are SEVERAL ways to solve a problem. For example, consider the
following from "The Teaching of Elementary Science and Mathematics" by
Alexander Calandra:

"The process of creativity is a mysterious and interesting one. It is
brilliantly described in the following story. A student refused to
parrot back what he had been taught in class. When the  student
protested, I was asked to act as arbiter between the student and his
professor.

   I went to my colleague's office and read the examination question:
'Show how it is possible to determine the height of a tall building with
the aid of a barometer.'

   The student had answered: 'Take the barometer to the top of the
building, attach a long rope to it, lower the barometer to the street
and then bring it up, measuring the length of the rope. The length of
the rope is the height of the building.'

   A high grade is supposed to certify competence in physics, but the
answer did not confirm this. I suggested that the student have another
try at answering the question. I gave the student six minutes, with the
warning that his answer should show some knowledge of physics. In the
next minute he dashed off his answer, which read:  'Take the barometer
to the top of the building and lean over the edge of the roof. Drop the
barometer, timing its fall with a stopwatch. Then, using the formula S =
1/2at2, calculate the height of the building.'

   At this point, I asked my colleague if he would give up. He conceded,
and I gave the student almost full credit.

   In leaving my colleague's office, I recalled that the student had
said he had other answers to the problem, so I asked him what they were.

   'Oh, yes. There are many ways of getting the height of a tall
building with the aid of a barometer. For example, you could take the
barometer out on a sunny day and measure the height of the barometer,
the length of its shadow, and the length of the shadow of the building,
and by the use of a simple proportion, determine the height of the
building.'

   Fine, I said. And the others?

  'Yes. Take the barometer and begin to walk up the stairs. As you climb
the stairs, you mark off the length of the barometer along the wall. You
then count the number of marks, and this will give you the height of the
building in barometer units. A very direct method.'

  'Finally, there are many other ways of solving the problem. Probably
not the best is to take the barometer to the basement and knock on the
superintendent's door. When the superintendent answers, you speak to him
as follows:  "Mr. Superintendent, here I have a fine barometer. If you
will tell me the height of this building, I will give you this
barometer".'


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

Every field has its stories depicting the contrasting subcultures within
the field.  Among MD's this means surgeons vs internists vs pathologist
vs psychiatrists. "We heal with steel!" "When in doubt, cut it out!",
"Surgery is the ideal therapy: it separates the disease from the
patient.", and "Never let the skin come between you and the diagnosis!"
are just a few of the slogans that give a taste of the essence of
surgeon culture.

The surgeons like to parody the more medically oriented folks by
stroking imaginary beards and declaiming "Hmmmm, perhaps we should
raise the calcium. Or maybe lower the magnesium. On the other hand, it
could be that a trial of corticosteroids would be warranted. I think
I'll go back to my lab, read a few more articles and think about this
some more." etc. Anyway, you've all heard the generic jokes about " N
X's, an X1, an X2,..., and an XN all go together to perform activity Y"
My favorite of these for Doctors is "The hospital duck hunt" story.

To wit:

The staff of St. Elsewhere (an old medical euphemism for some
unspecified hospital not as good as yours) go for a duck shoot with the
departments of medicine, surgery, pathology and psychiatry all in
different boats in different parts of the marsh. In the early morning
calm, a rustle of wings suddenly erupts near the medicine boats. "A
sonological pattern consistent with the aerial movement of ducks!"
shouts the chief resident. "But wait, replies the attending physician.
Ducks may very well occupy the top of the differential diagnosis but
this pattern is by no means pathognomonic. One must also keep in mind
geese, swans, herons, egrets, radio controlled model aircraft with
engine difficulty, digital dolby recordings of actual water fowl flight,
not to mention..." Well of course the ducks are long past by this point
and heading over the psychiatrist's boats. They, however, are to
engrossed in their own discussions to notice. "What do you suppose one
should make of this highly suspect activity whereby a largely male group
competing for intra-group dominance ventures into the extremely womblike
marsh brandishing long, incredibly phallic weaponry and transferring
their own feelings of impotent rage into a symbolic penetration of the
elusive, feminine flight motif..."

The ducks pass, amused but unharmed.  It is their misfortune then to
pass nearby the surgery staff who at the first flutter of sound grab
their rifles and fill the air with lead shot and smoke, removing
everything down to the last dragonfly from the dawning, rose-colored
sky.  "Hey, fellas!", the chief of surgery shouts over to the
pathologist's boats. "Go see if those things were ducks, will ya!?"



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