Ask a Stupid Quetion Get a Stupid Answer

[cronxeh]

I think what I calculated is how many radians the thing would travel in a circular motion in Pascal Time. I think what I need to do next is parametrize the circular path curve and find the distance.. i think it will be Planck length so nothing exciting there, false alert

 

[penguinraider]

Penguinraider enjoys and always talks about himself in the third person.

Why does timego slower during boring lectures and speed up during,oh, say football? Does time enjoy playing tricks on us?

 

[The Bob]

Why does timego slower during boring lectures and speed up during,oh, say football? Does time enjoy playing tricks on us?

Time is like a little monkey and when it is excited it does more and faster. This is why time seems to go faster, it is just excited. Also it can go slow when it is bored. Each person has its own time monkey.

Why do we map time with space?

The Bob (2004 ©)

 

[The Bob]

Why do we map time with space?

I do not know but I am going to stop now before everyone thinks I am talking to myself.

What is needed for a thread to be popular?

The Bob (2004 ©)

 

[arildno]

A good haircut and a new pair of glasses.

Why haven't I posted here before?

 

[madcat11]

Why haven't I posted here before?

Because you have "no" in your name.

What makes a haircut good?

 

[cronxeh]

are you a MexiCAN or a MexiCANT?

 

[penguinraider]

A mexican't.

Who else talks to themselves in the third person?

 

[zoobyshoe]

Who else talks to themselves in the third person?

No one. According to Who's Who In The Third Person, 1988 edition (last edition in print) Mrs. Leonard Robinson of Letona, Arkansas, USA was the only remaining practitioner of this art, and she retired from it in 1979 to pursue a carrear in creative paleontology. Her hoax of Arkansas Man, which proved the prehistoric roots of inbreeding, was created by carefully filing and sculpting the lower mandible of her great uncle's skeletal remains such that it fit perfectly into the sockets of his own scull!. She received a blue ribbon at the state fair for this. Currently she is doing volunteer work in Europe cleaning up exploded toads. Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson!

Recently, when I was crawling on all fours in northern Germany inserting explosives into toads, the newscaster on the radio I was monitoring for unjellitivistic utterances announced that authorities had determined that on the 17th on this month, between the hours of 3:35 and 4:14 P.M. EST, no one in the world had thought about Simon B. Birmingham, author of Fun With Bodyhair, Houghton/Mifflin 1952. That being the case, I made a vow to think of him at least once every ten minutes for the rest of my life so that this situation would never arise again. Already, though, I have stumbled several times. Is there no one who will help take up the slack?

 

[<<<GUILLE>>>]

I have a question.

my mother always said that stupid people are those who do supid things.


is she correct?

 

[zoobyshoe]

is she correct?

Yes, because life is like a box of chocolates, a sticky, gooey assemblage of lipid stupidity; a neatly packaged set of little chocolate crania which contain some kind of runny, gooey syrup that should be cerebral tissue but isn't. Stupid is as stupid does. An that's about all Ah have ta say about thaaat.

Is there no one to help me take up the slack?

 

[honestrosewater]

Is there no one to help me take up the slack?

Sure, my uncle is a tailor; He can take up your slacks. How many inches would you like taken off?

 

[zoobyshoe]

How many inches would you like taken off?

Don't know. Zoobies measure in the swebble unit system. No one has successfully worked out a means of conversion. There was this one brilliant mathemetician who penned an exited claim to have thought up an "ingenious solution" in the margin of a work on another subject. When questioned later he said he meant he'd figured out what to do with old boxes of chocolates.

Recently, neurologist Oliver Sacks complained bitterly that years ago his publisher had pressured him into altering the title of his book The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat. The actual title was supposed to be: The Man Who Mistook His Hat For A Wife. The publisher felt the sex scenes were not fit for the reading public, and told him to change the title and the story or go unpublished. Anyway, Sack is about to publish a sequal entitled The Man Who Mistook A Muffler For An African Grey Parrot. Apparently his neurological inability to distinguish between a Dodge muffler and his parrot lead him to go around for years with the muffler balanced on his shoulder. Constant feeding of seeds into the forward end lead to their eventual falling from the rear end which simply reinforced his belief in it as a living bird. Sacks has complained bitterly that his publisher has forbidden him to disclose what the man did with the actual parrot. Should publishers interfere with neurology?

 

[<<<GUILLE>>>]

Yes, because life is like a box of chocolates, a sticky, gooey assemblage of lipid stupidity; a neatly packaged set of little chocolate crania which contain some kind of runny, gooey syrup that should be cerebral tissue but isn't. Stupid is as stupid does. An that's about all Ah have ta say about thaaat.

Is there no one to help me take up the slack?

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa......I only understood until the first word, but neva minde.

 

[Math Is Hard]

Should publishers interfere with neurology?

Intereting quetion. Just as those with neurological disorders often mistake mufflers for parrots, it's not uncommon for editors to mistake what they do to manuscripts for literary talent. It seems in this case that neurology is interfering with publishers.

My dentist just asked me I wanted novocaine, lidocaine or Michael Caine. Which one is the most numbing?

 

[zoobyshoe]

Which one is the most numbing?

Internal or external use?

Speaking of dentists, the National Geohographic Channel recently aired a special on the phenomenon of Spontaneous Human Andentition, a mysterious disorder in which a person's teeth suddenly drop out. Some blame sugar cane, some: cane toads, some: exploding toads. A fringe group posits the existence of the dentotron, a subatomic particle that, while rare, can sometimes find it's way through the Van Allen radiation belt to the Earth's surface where encounters with smiling people lead to this mysterious loss of teeth. Some claim there is no such disorder, that thw people whose teeth fall out are human/shark hybrids, a stand supported by the fact that the sufferer's teeth generally grow back in a week or two. What's your take on the phenomenon of Spontaneous Human Andentition?

 

[Math Is Hard]

What's your take on the phenomenon of Spontaneous Human Andentition?

Mercy! What a terrible malady. I have heard that it only befalls those who are simultaneously down in the mouth, long in the tooth, and suffering from an exploding frog in the throat. Thus the rarity of the condition.

In January of 1947, Alfred Einstein was simultaneously down in the mouth, long in the tooth, and suffering from an exploding frog in the throat. As his teeth flew from his head, Alfred marveled feverishly at the tiny white projectiles and he knew instantly that he had stumbled on to a concept of great significance. In his delirium, he called the office of every newspaper in town and shouted his discovery, but alas they completely misinterpreted what poor toothless Alfred said.

Two possible questions to answer. Choose one or both:
1)What was Alfred trying to say?
2) What did they think he said?

 

[zoobyshoe]

Two possible questions to answer. Choose one or both:
1)What was Alfred trying to say?
2) What did they think he said?

This is the famous "Ice frost! Ice frost!" incident. That's what the papers heard him exclaim. Alfred, himself, believed that he had discovered the uselessness of flossing as it had done nothing to prevent his loss of teeth. He was actually shouting "I flossed! I flossed!" The incident was a source of great confusion in the scientific world till Alfred's teeth grew back a week or two later. Only one man, then Whipper-Snapper Emeritus at Cornell, Richard P. Chineynman, had been able to work out the probability of what Alfred E. had actually said and knew it was a false alarm. "He say: `I frossed! I frossed!' That all." No one, though, understood Chineynman, despite his being correct. (Chineynman admitted that he, himself, may not have understood the explanation he'd arrived at, but that he was certain it was correct.)

Today the National Geohographic Channel again aired their special on the wild giant swine Hog Kong who was shot and killed after several seasons of terrorizing a weird, purple jellyfish farm somewhere in rural America. Hog Kong was claimed to be the size of a school bus and to weight in at several dozens of tons, and the National Geohographic team was geared up to get to the facts of the matter, to get accurate measurements and DNA samples. The disinternment proved Hog Kong was, in fact, a school bus, and it's DNA showed it to be the comon diesel variety, not some kind of wild natural gas or propane model. The quetion remains: who was driving?

 

[Huckleberry]

The driver was none other than Gary Gygax, creator of a once popular fantasy role-playing game. He was found in a carbon-aluminum cranial cavity containing a folding dungeon master's chair, a heavy duty cooler, and a table covered in dice the shapes and sizes of which none have looked upon except for The Gygax himself. After licking the cheese curl residue from his fingers he rolled a handful of dice and spoke "I hit and you suffered 35 points of damage and are poisoned from my pig stench." Oddly enough he was right and the investigators died on the spot.
He later claimed the creation of Hog Kong was research for his next project, "Giant, Mutated, Killer Pigs That Live In Rural America In Close Proximity With Purple Jellyfish, And Smell Bad Too." It was to be the vangaard for his new line of role-role-playing games. The idea is that people relive their old role-playing memories in a real life scenario. A survey was taken and former fantasy role players were asked what were their fondest memories, and the #1 response was "Giant, Mutated, Killer Pigs That Live In Rural America In Close Proximity With Purple Jellyfish, And Smell Bad." Ofcourse, none of the people that took the survey have been sober for more than 8 hours a day since they were 15, they live in their parents basement, and have a personal shrine including a statuette of The Gygax himself.

My quetion is... Do these little known cultists never leave their subterranean chambers, or are they living among us unobserved; waiting, watching, plotting some sinister scheme?

 

[zoobyshoe]

My quetion is... Do these little known cultists never leave their subterranean chambers, or are they living among us unobserved; waiting, watching, plotting some sinister scheme?

A quick check of the surveillance logs here at Area 51 reveals that they do leave their hideouts now and then, but the purpose does not seem to be infiltration. There seems to be a lot of purchasing of AA batteries, apple cider vinegar, and pilfering of paper napkins from fast food establishments. There is also a report of one anomalous trip to an auto supply store where a Dodge muffler was purchased with cash. Everyone's curiosity has been piqued, but none of the special agents assigned to the case has arrived at a coherent hypothesis about the purpose of these items.

In a recent interview, National Geohographic Channel executives confessed that they are running out of swine material, and may have grossly overestimated the viability of a television channel consisting solely of programs about swine. "I guess you really can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear," concluded one spokesman. Any suggestions?

 

[Math Is Hard]

In a recent interview, National Geohographic Channel executives confessed that they are running out of swine material, and may have grossly overestimated the viability of a television channel consisting solely of programs about swine. "I guess you really can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear," concluded one spokesman. Any suggestions?

That's a darn shame. If they're running out of pig stories I suppose the only hope is for them to start making some up. oh, wait, they do that already. Boy, I am going to be so upset if my favorite series, Sowsquatch! goes off the air!

Listening to my favorite swine radio station, WHOG, last night, I heard a famous pig scientist, Dr. Jehosophat LePorcine, claim he had used pattern recognition software to decode a secret message in pig DNA sequences. He claims the message translates as "Whoops. You weren’t supposed to see this." Being a bit skeptical I ran the sequences through my own pattern recognition and language mapping algorithms, translating from DNA bases to Aramiac to Pig Latin (this is the crucial step I believe LePorcine missed) and finally into to English. Amazingly, this is what the translation of the secret message revealed : "Hi Alex, it’s Brenda. Could you give me a call when you get this ? We need to talk."

Which of us has the correct interpretation ?

 

[zoobyshoe]

Which of us has the correct interpretation ?

Sorry, you lost my interest as soon as you mentioned algorithms. Very boaring.
Actually, LePorcine's interpretation has already been debunked. The DNA sequence has been determined to say:"This space reserved for wings."
(I'm also, incidently, surprised to hear that the National Geohographic Channel carries a show called Sowsquatch, since this concept is so similar to The Bovine Channel's Cowsquatch.)

Anyway, I can't express how disappointed I am that the famous Piggerson film of Hog Kong has almost certainly been proven to have been hoaxed. The trouble is that the image of that lumbering, giant yellow swine, caught nosing around the tanks of weird, purple jellyfish by the exited filmmaker, all shakey and out of focus, slowly turning to glace at the persuing documentarian as it calmly heads for cover, has been etched in my mind as the prototypical image of the beast, the sum of all the giant, yellow swine legends, since I first saw it on TV as a lad of 29 in 1934.

Although Gygax has admitted to have been the man driving the schoolbus, and despite the fact that the Geohographic Channel had him reenact the scene, demonstrating that he does, indeed, drive exactly like a pig, I don't think it proves that Hog Kong doesn't exist at all. I remain open minded about the Hymalayan stories, because who could drive a schoolbus on the slopes of Mt. Everest? Is there any hope that Hog Kong may yet be real?

 

[Huckleberry]

Discovery of Alfred Einstein revealed!
After losing his teeth in an unfortunate exploding frog incident Alfred realized that the reducing altitude of Mt. Everest was not in fact due to melting glaciers caused by global warming. He deduced that this loss is due to the eating habits of an expanding pig that resides on the highest slopes of the mountain. Material is eaten at one location and excreted at another. This relocation of material explains the rise and loss in altitude of the mountain.
The translation of Richard P. Chineyman was correct after all. In China the mountain is referred to as Qomolangma, Goddess Mother of the World. Extensive geneological research indicates that Alfred Einstein is a direct descendant of the Goddess Mother herself, which takes the form of a massive Earth eating pig.
An expedition is being funded by the Geohographic Channel to explore the sacred mountain in search for the pig, which has come to be known as Hog Kong. Hollywood movie producers and Gary Gygax fans everywhere are anxiously awaiting the results. The expedition will be headed by the world's premeire pogo stick explorer, Ashrita Furmane, later this month. Accompanying him will be several South American pygmies, a few carny folk, Dennis Ropeman, and ofcourse, a llama.
In answer to the quetion is there hope, the answer is a resounding yes!

Will they ever find Hog Kong and reveal the secrets of Qomolangma, the Goddess Mother of the World?

 

[zoobyshoe]

Will they ever find Hog Kong and reveal the secrets of Qomolangma, the Goddess Mother of the World?

We can easily calculate the odds using Richard P. Chineyman's guidelines as laid out in Quantum Jellidynamics,the strange theory of swine and jellyfish. What we need to do is determine the path of least action for the all the Hog Kongs that might be roaming the mountainside, tie all the hogs snout to tail, and then draw a jellivector from the tail of the last hog to the snout of the first. By measuring that jellivector, and squaring the length we can arrive at the probability of encountering one of these great hogs. In the event that two hogs interact, or if any particular hog happens to emit a virtual piglet (stand out of the way, these emerge really quickly), then we need to toss a jellyfish into the air and let it land in the snow. The sqiggly lines formed by the frozen tentacles are what are known as Chineyman Diagrams. All possible interactions of giant hogs and virtual giant piglets are explained by Chineyman Diagrams.


Actually, I'm confused. Everyone knows that South American Pygmies and carny-folk have been tattooing themselves for centuries with designs that are indistinguishable from Chineyman Diagrams, and, therefore, belong on this expedition. I can't make heads or tails of the inclusion of the old-fashioned pogo stick explorer. I mean, hasn't this quaint practise been abandoned?

 

[Huckleberry]

That was great!

Actually, I'm confused. Everyone knows that South American Pygmies and carny-folk have been tattooing themselves for centuries with designs that are indistinguishable from Chineyman Diagrams, and, therefore, belong on this expedition. I can't make heads or tails of the inclusion of the old-fashioned pogo stick explorer. I mean, hasn't this quaint practise been abandoned?

Actually, the inclusion of the pogo stick is important for this expedition, which is the reason Ashrita Furmane was selected to lead it. Originally develeoped in Burma for crossing muddy streets without getting your shoes dirty, the pogo stick is vital for avoiding the excrement of the Hog Kong pigs. In some places the excrement can be as deep as five feet, well over the heads of pygmies and most carny folk. Specially designed pogo sticks are needed to traverse the deeper regions of the noxious morass. Ashrita Furmane is uniquely qualified to teach the essentials of pogo stick exploration and shoeshining.

After bouncing into Kathmandu to collect equipment and obtain the weather forecast, the short explorers booked a room at the Everest Hotel. Several pygmies crashed a party in the lobby and have been detained by local authorities, who are being rather tight-lipped about the whole story. News reporters are looking for eye-witnesses to the incident. Does anyone know what happened at the Everest Hotel?

 

[Math Is Hard]

After bouncing into Kathmandu to collect equipment and obtain the weather forecast, the short explorers booked a room at the Everest Hotel. Several pygmies crashed a party in the lobby and have been detained by local authorities, who are being rather tight-lipped about the whole story. News reporters are looking for eye-witnesses to the incident. Does anyone know what happened at the Everest Hotel?

I have a friend who is a bellman at the Everest Hotel and he gave me the low-down. Once a year, they hold the Worldwide Cheesemaker's Expo at this location. In preparation for the event, the entire lobby floor had been transformed into a replica of Swiss cheese, complete with holes about two or three inches in diameter. The unwitting pygmies pogo-ed right into the middle of the event, and found themselves stuck fast in the cheese holes. Enraged, they abandoned their pogo sticks and attacked the conventioneers, gnawing at the knee caps of several prominent Belgian cheesemakers. It was quite a mess, according to my poor friend who was responsible for cleaning up the aftermath.

Speaking of cleaning up, how do those new-fangled non-suction vacuum cleaners manage to suck up dirt?

 

[Huckleberry]

Speaking of cleaning up, how do those new-fangled non-suction vacuum cleaners manage to suck up dirt?

Like a Saint Bernard licking the floor at a 5 year olds birthday party.

If Von Dutch hats are trucker hats, then why don't truckers wear them?

 

[zoobyshoe]

If Von Dutch hats are trucker hats, then why don't truckers wear them?

It's funny you should ask that quetion because just this morning the doorbell rang, which alarmed me cause I wasn't properly dressed, so, quickly putting a William Shatner mask over my head and picking up a kitchen knife, I answered it to find a contingent of prosletyzers from the Church of the Hatless Truckers and Ascendent Teamsters of the Third Estate of the Sainted Sanctum of Highway Glory who were out collecting donations and giving out literature. They were so persuasive I gave them all three old tires I had hoarded in the back yard for a rainy day, as well as the instruction manual for a telephone answering machine that had broken on me years ago. Their gratitude was heartwarming.

Recently I received the bill I'd been dreading: the credit card company wanting to be paid for the gross of William Shatner masks, complete with breasts, that I'd had specially made for me by the Breasted Gorilla And William Shatner Mask Company of Worcester, Massachusettes, USA. I don't want to tell you what it amounted to. Anyway I'm going to have to rent out the rear of the Zoobie Brush Shelter, or sell all the spare brush I've been hoarding for a rainy day to pay for it. Any other ideas?

 

[Huckleberry]

You're not the first person to have billing issues with the William Shatner Mask Company of Worcester, Massachussetts. There is a precedent legal case that went to the Supreme Court. A gross of William Shatner masks, complete with breasts, were delivered to the home of Leonard Nimoy. Nimoy complained that he did not purchase these masks and that, in fact, this was a malicious prank perpetrated against him by an angry neighbor. After refusing to wear the Spock ears and starfleet uniform for the neighbor's 5 year old son's birthday party tension between the two men increased. Nimoy claimed that the neighbor purchased his autograph from Ebay and forged his signature on the mask order.
Nimoy could provide no evidence against his neighbor and it looked as if his case would be dismissed. His attorney cleverly executed an alternative plan. He stated that any number of William Shatner masks with attached breasts are pretty gross. Gross is gross no matter how you look at it, and really, who would want to in the first place. The Supreme Court agreed and charged Nimoy for the price of one mask with breasts. He then sold the entire gross back to the William Shatner Mask Company and made a tidy profit.

Try that.

Why would someone buy A William Shatner mask with gorilla breasts in the first place?

 

[zoobyshoe]

Why would someone buy A William Shatner mask with gorilla breasts in the first place?

It's so no one will suspect your 16 mm, shakey footage of William Shatner walking calmly away from the camera in the Pacific Northwest is a hoax. Breast are a sign of scientific authenticity. Albert Einstein's rack is really what pushed everybody over into the Relativity camp.


Three or four minutes ago there was a sound from the backyard, and when I went out to investigate with a flamming torch and cudgel I discovered a herd of merkins cavorting on the back lawn. What should I do?

 

[Ivan Seeking]

Three or four minutes ago there was a sound from the backyard, and when I went out to investigate with a flamming torch and cudgel I discovered a herd of merkins cavorting on the back lawn. What should I do?

Throw them all the weiners that you have and run for your life!

How many weiners can a herd of merkins eat?

 

[zoobyshoe]

How many weiners can a herd of merkins eat?

I'm sorry, but I'm preoccupuied with the problem of how they breed. It puts me in mind of leprechauns. I've never seen a picture or heard mention of a female leprechaun, and have never been able to figure out how they reproduce.

Anyway, I've had a lot of trouble sleeping lately because of this giant, spooky, ectoplasmic apparition shaped much like Ron Popeil, that stares through the window at me at night with red, glowing eyes and always shouts, just as I'm about to drift off into sleep; "I'M JOHNNYCAKE JOHNNY! THAT'S WHAT I AM! I'M JOHNNYCAKE JOHNNY!"

The police said they don't do stray, giant ectoplasmic visitations, that that was a kinda fire department thing, but the fire department said not to bother any city services: it was federal. The FBI said they had a couple of heavily redacted x-files on people who've been attacked by ectoplasmic goo, which was probably actually escaped enzymatic laundry detergent gone feral, they could send, but that they weren't going to dispatch any agents unless someone were dead. I've discovered that if I sit by the window and tell it stories, Sheherezade-like, it goes away about 4 A.M. and I can then sleep.

I'm coming close to running out of stories. Got any good ones?

 

[Huckleberry]

You could always tell it the story of Barnaby, the Flock of Seagulls fan that lost all his hair in a terrible perming accident. Years later, while peering into the giant turtle tank at the Boston aquarium he lost his Flock of Seagulls toupee. On a lower level a group of children on a school field trip discovered the toupee drifting in the water, much to their chagrin. They began combing the aquarium in a search for the owner, but never discovered him.
Divers entered the tank to remove the offending toupee. One of the turtles had claimed it as his own personal property and would not let the divers remove it.
One of the employees in the aquarium gift shop remembered a bald man purchasing a hat with a large plush turtle with rubber flippers on top. He also said the hat was several sizes to small for the bald man. He fished through the trash and found a carbon copy of the receipt, and the name of the purchaser was none other than Barnaby. Aquarium staff often commented that the plush turtle hat closely resembled Barnaby the turtle, the new owner of Mr. Barnaby's Flock of Seagulls toupee.

Coincidence, or is some supernatural force at work in the Boston aquarium?

(Hmm, this sounded much better in my head.)

 

[zoobyshoe]

Coincidence, or is some supernatural force at work in the Boston aquarium?

Supernatural force. No question. It isn't humanly possible to hoax a situation like that. However, to remove all doubt, next time you tell the story include some mention of breasts.

Recently, after the villagers of Arles rose up and demanded I be removed to the sanitarium, I set to work on a new painting entitled Nocturnally Roving Herd Of Weird, Purple Jellyfish As Viewed From A Cell Window In The Sanitarium At Arles On A Starry Night. Imagine my frustration when I went scrabbling through my paint box for a tube of weird purple only to find there was none left. I had purple, dark purple, lavender, lilac, dahlia purple, but no weird purple.
Just then, Dr. Felix came rapping on the cell door crying "Van Zooby! Open up! A package from your brother!"
This alarmed me, since I wasn't properly dressed, and, grabbing my William Shatner mask and a kitchen knife, I stumbled toward the door, only to trip over a couple of canvasses lying out to dry. When I got back to my feet I saw to my horror that I'd sliced off one of William Shatner's ears. The bleeding was profuse, (but turned out to be vermillion red from one of the wet paintings).
Grabbing pen and paper, I sat and began..."Dear Theo, Recently, after the villagers of Arles rose up and demanded I be removed to the sanitarium, I set to work on a new painting entitled..."

Just then, Dr. Felix, still waiting at the door for me to answer, screamed "I'M JOHNNYCAKE JOHNNY! THAT'S WHAT I AM! I'M JOHNNYCAKE JOHNNY!"

This alarmed me, since I wasn't hungry, so I grabbed my William Shatner mask and a kitchen knife, and approached the door. "Who's there?" I asked.
"Bill, it's me. Leonard."
Peaking through a crack, I saw Dr. Felix wearing a Leonard Nimoy mask, holding a package.
"What's in the package, Leonard?"
"I don't have any idea."
"Do a mind meld with it."
"I am not Spock."
That, of course, was the correct answer. I knew it was safe to let him in. What, however, was in the package?

 

[Huckleberry]

Inside the package was a slice of moldy pepperoni pizza, a years supply of B2up Bust-Up bubble gum, a rusty straight razor and a note with the words "Do what the good Doctor Felix tells you. Doctor knows best. Love, Your brother Theo."
Dr. Felix asks abruptly, "Hungry?"
"Not particularly. No."
"More for me then."
Dr. Felix grabs the single slice of putrid pizza and crams a large portion of it into his Nimoy mask mouth hole. Amid the chomping and slurping noises Dr. Felix manages to say "Not wearing your double-breasted gorilla suit today?"
"Not today. I sold them all back to the Breasted Gorilla and William Shatner Mask Company of Worcester, Massachusetts. Please don't make me say it again."
"Then have some gum. It's good for you. I picked it up in Burma from a famous pogo stick explorer. He claims it will improve your disposition up to 80%."
"What is wrong with my disposition? You've never complained before."
"You've just been a little flat lately, that's all."
Taking the years supply of B2up Bust-up bubblegum I saw the rusty razor blade looking lonely by itself in the large, otherwise empty box.
"What's the razor for? And why are you staring at my chest?"
Dr. Felix takes another monster-sized bite from a blue-green, slightly luminescent portion of the pizza.
"Aren't you testy today? If you must know, I have no idea where that razor came from. Someone here at the sanitarium must have slipped it into the package while I was busy with..."
Just at that moment Dr. Felix began to choke. I quickly stepped behind him and performed the Heimlich maneuver. With the thumb side of my fist placed between his ribcage and navel I applied several rapid, upwards thrusts almost lifting him off the floor each time. With explosive force a nasty wad of pepperoniesque matter was ejected from his esophagus. It sailed across the room in a smooth arc and landed in a pile of old paint tubes.
With exasperation and a hint of fluttering in his voice Dr. Felix said "Oh, thank you. That was exhilerating! If I ever choke on anything again I hope your around. You saved my life."
I wasn't impressed. Focusing my curiosity on the expelled object I sifted through the pile of paint tubes.

What did I find?

 

[zoobyshoe]

What did I find?

The object was clearly mineral: white, hard, sharp edged. I observed a hole through the center and then it hit me: it was a small piece of a porcelain bathroom sink, the part around the porcelator.

I held it up to him, "Piece of bathroom sink".

"IT'S CALLED PICA!" Felix suddenly shouted, red faced and humiliated. "IT'S AN AUTHENTIC MEDICAL CONDITION! I CAN"T HELP IT! I AM COMPELLED TO EAT NON-FOOD OBJECTS AND SUBSTANCES!"

This alarmed me because, with the Leonard Nimoy mask over his head, the general impression created was of Spock during the Pohn Fahr. I quickly flipped my communicator open and said, quietly but urgently "Security to the bridge". I bent down slowly, never taking my eyes off him, picked up the cardboard box and, with steady, firm gaze, held it out to him.

He fell upon it savagely, mauling and ripping, stuffing piece after piece of corregated bliss into his mouth hole, moaning and swallowing and emiting sucking noises.

The security team arrived just in time. He was finishing up on the box and had started to eyeball me. "Take him to sick bay," I said dryly, trying to hide my disgust with his degraded state of mind.

As the security team strongarmed him out of my quarters, he twisted his hunger-distorted face back to me and shrieked: "THAT BOOK: TO SERVE MAN, IT'S A COOK BOOK!

What do you suppose ever became of Dr. Felix?

 

[Huckleberry]

What do you suppose ever became of Dr. Felix?

Oh, he didn't go far. He was placed in the cell right next door. At first the wild gargling and slurping sounds kept me awake all night. For weeks on end this continued. I found myself sitting by the bars chewing on the tasty rose flavored bust-up bubblegum, listening. My disposition improved 80% and I began to feel sympathy for this poor man and his pon farr ululation. It was appealing and perhaps even erotic. We held hands through the cell bars and he would nibble my fingers until they were all gone. Then one day, after eating all the non-food items in his quarters, including the bathroom toilet and all the light fixtures, the security guards came one last time. Stretched out between the leading pair of guards was the dreaded red shirt, inevitable doom for all those who don it. Tears rolled down my face, but nobody would ever see them underneath this ever-smiling William Shatner mask. Finally, I understand how William Shatner must really feel. That was the last I ever heard from Dr. Felix

With all this extra time to ponder I began to recall memories from the past. Last Halloween I accepted a dare from a drinking buddy of mine that I would spend the night in a nearby haunted house. I've never been one to believe in ghosts, but I must say that I was afraid. A few hours after dark it seemed like every creak came from a phantom footfall. Every breeze was a tortured soul moaning in lamentation. I felt as if I was being watched and every time I turned around to look behind me I thought I might see an ectoplasmic form in some dreadful visage tailor made to my innermost fears. I found I had to keep reminding myself that these things aren't real, but the cold sweat covering my body convinced me otherwise. I knew I shouldn't have watched those Love Boat reruns the night before. To calm myself I began to think that if I was blind then the darkness wouldn't be so frightening. Then I wondered...

Can a blind person be afraid of ghosts?

 

[zoobyshoe]

Can a blind person be afraid of ghosts?

It's funny you should ask that quetion because just this morning, as I was tidying up, pulling old bird wings and apple cores out of the shower drain, I became sensible of a peculiar tapping noise behind me. Whirling around, I was amazed to see a white, misty figure in sunglasses emerge slowly from the wall, preceeded by the tactile experiments of his white cane. As he passed in front of me toward the opposite wall I became aware he was muttering comfortingly to himself, something that sounded like: "I ain't afraid o' ghosts...I ain't afraid..."


Recently, when I was comfortably napping between some branches toward the top of a large ironwood tree in Ithaca, New York, USA, having superglued myself to the trunk so I wouldn't fall out if I dozed completely off, my thoughts began to drift back to my old girlfriend, Miss Sally O'Malley, and her heartbreaking struggle with a rare disorder that nearly tore her life to pieces on a daily basis.

One day when I was gazing at her lovely face, entranced, I slowly became aware in the periphery of my consciousness that all was not well. Concentrating, I scanned her more closely. Realization began to dawn, darkly, in the sewers of the math lobe of my poor zoobie brain. A lump formed in my throat, and I gasped, and feverishly began to count again. But it was no use. I had to face the shocking truth: she had three more pores on the left side of her face than the right!. SCHLONNHEGGER'S SYNDROME!

For days afterward I secretly crept away to hours of surreptitious research in medical libraries, and on the net. I made anonymous calls to liscenced physicians, Schlonnhegger's support groups, support groups for the families and friends of Schlonnhegger's sufferers. Would her offspring be at risk? Could an employer legally dismiss her for the condition? Was surgical correction a possibility? Was there ever a spontanous remission? I must have read Coping With Schlonnhegger's: A Guide For Loved Ones front to back 50 times during that grim period.

Schlonnhegger's Syndrome: asymetry in the number of pores of the facial derma

It sounded so clinical, matter-of-fact. No sense of the devestating personal repercussions and social stigma.

But I knew if it were true love, and it was, I'd stick by her through the mockery, alienation, and medical expenses.

The day was soon approaching when I would tell her I knew, that I'd counted. I was in dread, though. What if she were in denial, as so many Schlonnhegger's sufferers are, making excuses about errant crumbs on their face or stray bits of apple core picked up while cleaning shower drains. The suspence was suffocating me.

To clear my mind before broaching the subject I took a plane to Albany, New York, USA, and a shuttle bus from there to the Cornell Campus thinking I might run into my old room mate from my post-graduate days there. Locating the trench behind the utility shed, behind the little Museum of Polish Aviation where he always slept, I saw his shopping cart, but he was nowhere to be found. To kill time until his return I ambled away into the woods, roaming in a kind of foggy shock until I happened to notice a very comfortable looking ironwood tree. In a moment I was halfway to the top, thanking God I'd brought superglue.

Dozing there, my face to the sky, I was disturbed suddenly by a sharp excess of photons whose source wasn't immediately apparent. Peering into the branch above me, I made out the glint of sunlight off metal. I reached up with my long zoobie arm, grabbed the object, and brought it down for inspection: a tube of artists oil paint. Color: Weird Purple.

How did that get there?

 

[Huckleberry]

As everyone knows, tubes of 'weird purple' grow naturally on the ironwood trees of Ithaca NY. Over 200 million years ago, in the Triassic period of the Mesozoic era, all the modern day continents were formed into one land mass known as Pangea. Pangea was inhabited by the ferocious Barney dinosaurs. They resembled over-sized pigs with their bloated bodies and frumpy, jowled faces. Underneath their several layers of mouthy pudge was a cavernous, salivating maw concealing slatherous, obtuse, bony appendages used for masticating little children into a tasty grisle.

The Barney dinosaurs ruled the continent and were solely responsible for keeping the human race from populating the planet. Humanity was destroyed several times during the early mesozoic era. Humanity first evolved from small sideways flying housecats. Unfortunately the sideways flying humans couldn't see where they were going and often collided with the ironwood trees. The Barney dinosaurs quickly gathered them up and impaled them on sharp bamboo poles with fern umbrellas to decorate their cocktails.

The next wave of humanity evolved from wood eating cockroaches that burrowed into the ground and consumed the roots of the ironwood trees. Their continued survival seemed likely for some time. Then one human cockroach developed a chemical religion. By mixing certain pheremones and other bodily fluids and spitting the sweet smelling concoction in a fine mist upon the faces of other cockroaches they lost all sense of self identity and began to think with one mind. Unfortunately that mind was mentally unstable and it heard a voice. After millenia the meaning of the voice was finally deciphered and this is what the voice had said... "Hey Art, man bugs taste good." The human cockroaches perceived this as divine will and cannibalised themselves into an aesthetic extinction.

The last known rise of humanity before the present were the mysterious zoobies. Little is known about the zooby civilization. At one time it is believed they built homes in the high branches of the ironwood trees where the stumpy little claws of the Barney dinosaurs could not reach. They lived peacefully until one particularly unintelligent zooby decided to ignite his flatulent gases with a Bic lighter. (Bic has been around forever.) His home was burned to the ground and the conflageration spread like a contagion to all of the other houses. With no place to live the peaceful, funloving Zoobies were easy prey for the gluttonous Barneys. Nothing was ever heard of from the Zoobies after that day, but some believe they still exist in rural woodlands and mountainous regions throughout the world today. If they do exist then they hide very well and do not use fire or build homes and avoid all contact with other species in fear of the Barneys.

The Barneys nearly became extinct one day. One Barney survived and his name was Barney. While out hunting for Zoobies, Barney got his head stuck in a hollow ironwood log. For days his parents searched for him. A compassionate Zooby took pity on Barney and released him. Barney quickly masticated him and his family and converted them into pudge. He then began to search for home. The continents drifted apart and a massive meteor annihilated all the Barneys.

The place where Barneys died is now Ithaca NY. The chemicals from the man-bugs reacted with the decaying Barney matter to make a 'weird purple'. The trees adapted to the Barney fungus and continue to grow it to this day.

What happened to the last Barney?

 

[zoobyshoe]

What happened to the last Barney?

The last Barney went into law and from there into politics and did extremely well for himself, first becoming a Senator for the state of Indiana and then serving a term as Vice President under George Herbert Walker Bush, from 1989 to 1993.

Speaking of presidents, you may or may not remember that mysterious two weeks early in the Clinton administration when President Clinton seemed to be shunning all public appearances, and was neither photographed nor videotaped. A new book by an anonymous White House insider, The Strange Disappearance of William Jefferson Clinton claims to be the true behind the scenes account of the period that had white house staffers in a quiet frenzy, and White House PR people sweating bricks.

It seems that Clinton went into a severe depression after his election, deciding he didn't deserve it, that he was "no Jack Kennedy". He ordered the CIA to find, groom, and install a double while he, the real Clinton, slipped away to sea on an exact replica of Kennedy's PT 109, to look for Japanese submarines to confront in a demonstration of his manhood.

It isn't as silly as it sounds. As President he was privy to information the rest of us are not, and part of what he learned after taking office, is that no fewer than 7 WWII Japanese subs are still cruising the Pacific, having refused to surrender after the war, picking off shipping and private yachts.

Unbeknownst to almost all involved, a secret cell of scientists within the DOD had been experimenting with controling the US media by kidnapping journalists and implanting thought-insertion micro-processers into their brains. During the first news conference with the Clinton Double, one of these micro-processers went brezerk inside a reporter's head and he rushed the ersatz president before anyone could tackle him, and knocked the actor down, frightening him so badly that an undiagnosed heart condition he had flared up and he died within the hour.

Now the rest of the reporters had to be forcibly sequestered to prevent them from reporting that the president was dead, because, of course, he wasn't. At the same time, certain elements in the CIA were wishing he were. Surreptitious discussions took place. Several innocent looking fishing boats suddenly left the B Street pier of San Diego Harbor.

Two days later, Captain Ini Minimoto, of the Imperial Submarine "Divine Cloud", spotted two small boats through the eyepiece of his periscope. "Ichino ingiwa", he grunted to the 87 year old first mate. Suspended in the air in front of him appeared the words "Down periscope" in white lettering. "Ichino ingiwa" rasped the white haired first mate. The words "Yes, sir!" manifested from nowhere, hovering above the deck of the sub.

"Ichino ingiwa", Minimoto added, almost as an afterthought. And there it was again: "Load torpedo #1".

On the deck of the "fishing boat" a pair of high powered binoculars was trained on the plywood anachronism 500 yards away. "A bit closer, please" said the NOC to the man at the wheel, as he daintily opened the case with the letters RPG stenciled on the side.

Just then the fishing boat lifted from the water and burst into pieces amidst a flame storm before anyone aboard could even cry out.

Long shot: random, smoking debris.

Cut to: the Divine Cloud breaking the surface. It slowly starts moving toward the wreckage. A hunched, white haird figure on it's deck holds a rising sun flag.

The engine of the PT boat roars to life!

Close up: Captain Minimoto's face. He turns, alarmed, toward the engine sound. His jaw drops. He begins to shout frantically down the hatch: "ICHINO INGIWA! ICHINO INGIWA! ICHINO INGIWA!" :"DIVE! DIVE! DIVE!

Cut to:

PT Boat wheelhouse, Close up: William Jefferson Clinton. Eyes narrowed with determination.

("You know", Clinton admitted to an aid when he got back to Washington, "I couldn't decide whether to say `Smile, you bastard.' `You magnificent bastard! I read your book!' or "Do you feel lucky, punk?'")

Cut to: wide shot of the Divine Cloud. PT 109 appears from the left at very high speed, rams into the sub, cuts it in half, and continues off right.

Roiling water. Captain Minimoto breaches, comically tangled in the Japanese flag. Don't worry, he's OK.

Close up: Clinton peering back over his shoulder at the wreckage. He smiles gently. "I am a Jack Kennedy. I am."

Roll credits.

Read any good books lately?

 

[Math Is Hard]

Read any good books lately?

I've read very few good books lately, but this morning I was reminded of a story that was read to me when I was just a little tyke.

I remember once in kindergarten, this woman came to our class to read us a children's book she had written. She was a friend of our teacher, I think, and was hoping to get the book published.

The story went like this:
***
There was a little boy whose parents were going away on a very long trip. To help him pass the time, they gave him a box of crackers and told him to eat one cracker each day. When the box was empty they would be home again. They told him that it was very, very important that he obey the rules and ONLY eat one cracker per day or there would be a punishment.

So the parents went off on their trip. The little boy was very good the first two weeks, but in the third week he missed his parents terribly. He knew that when the last cracker was gone his parents would be home again so he longed to finish all the crackers. Finally he couldn't stand it anymore because he missed his parents so much. He gobbled up all the crackers at once and the box was empty. In an instant, the front door swung open and his parents were standing before him, suitcases in hand.

"Mommy! Daddy!" he cried. He was filled with such happiness to see his parents again. He jumped up and ran to them, hugging and kissing them both.

"Were you a good boy?" said the father, "Show me the box of crackers."
The boy hesitantly produced the empty box.

The father shook his head with grave dissapointment. The mother looked away sadly. "Because you have disobeyed us, you will never see us again."

And then the parents picked up their suitcases and walked away. He never saw them again.

***
My quetion is: do you think the nice lady who read us the story ever found a publisher for her book?

 

[zoobyshoe]

My quetion is: do you think the nice lady who read us the story ever found a publisher for her book?

I'm surprised you didn't know:

She sold the story to Thomas Harris, who fleshed out the character of the little boy and followed his psychological development from the early childhood incident she sketched to it's logical conclusion as the character of Buffalo Bill in The Silence of the Lambs.

Anything else?

 

[Huckleberry]

I never read a book. I don't know how to read. Edgar Cayce is my great uncle. He came to me in a dream one night and showed me how to understand books by osmosis while I sleep. At this very moment I'm asleep with my head resting against the monitor. Uncle Ed was just telling me the quetion of the life, universe, and everything.

Do you know what the quetion is?

 

[Danger]

The positive form of a regular quet.

Do new version Volkswagon Beetles float?

 

[BicycleTree]

All cars float, until they sink.

Are there any exceptions to this rule?

 

[Huckleberry]

Yes.

Last Tuesday a group of 11 Cubans were found 10 miles from the Florida Keys floating in a 1950'2 era Buick. A man named Luis Grass Rodriguez converted the old buick into a boat. Generally Cuban immigrants are returned to Cuba if they fail to make it to shore. U.S. Representative Lincoln Diaz-Balart has asked the State Department to allow Grass and his family to remain in the United States. Unfortunately, the boat-car is no more. It sank after being machine gunned by the U.S. Coast Guard.

If ham comes from pigs then why does hamburger come from cows?

 

[cronxeh]

because cows and pigs have a deal.

 

[zoobyshoe]

because cows and pigs have a deal.

And...?

 

[cronxeh]

ham = pig
hamburger = cow

now how do you get from a pig to a cow ? you apply a burger to a pig

hence, you feed your pigs with burgers, feed the pig to a cow, and you end up with a cow-hamburger.

its really quite simple

 

[Huckleberry]

Cronx, in this thread you are supposed to answer a stupid quetion with a stupid answer, then create a stupid quetion for someone else. You can't answer a quetion and not ask a quetion. Nor can you ask a quetion and then answer your own quetion without asking another.

Does that make sense?