I wasn’t blowing hot air out my cyber-butt when I said (last Posting) that all the pain and sufferance I’ve endured by getting un-evolved (or DIS-evolved) was (and is) causing me to seek legal vengeance (i.e. compensation) (or at the very least a refund). Because even though I paid that man of Neanderthal-type who did the dirty-needle deed (or two needle deeds. One per tattooed nipple), I did so under the influence of PILLS. Ergo, my Bewdy-ful Mind was (at the time) not so bewdy-ful. And so, bearing All the Above in my (now-bewdy-ful-again) mind, I thought it best if I consulted someone who knew how to consult a lawyer. I needed that someone to be someone who knew a thing or three about The Law– and who knows at least three things (minimum) about The Law better than someone who keeps getting on the wrong side of it?

Answer: A Lawyer, pro’bly.

Well, yes– BUT. Who knows at least three things about The Law better than a Lawyer who knows three things about The Law better than… a guy… who… um… Anyway, the point is I needed legal advice, and so naturally enough I went and got it off a criminal. Namely, the only criminal I know (thus far): UNCLE MIKE SPILLIGAN. (Oh, and it was also a good excuse to complete the number o’ visits I promised him {i.e. two}.)

So I phoned up the Dungeon where Michelangelo Spilligan dwells and I made a booking for a visit. The Booking Agent said she could fit me in for Thursday morning, but I firmly insisted that– for me– ANY morning was out of the question because mornings were the times of day when I was far too busy NOT WAKING UP to do something as demanding as “getting out of bed”. I also pointed out that– on those rare occasions when I did wake up in the morning– I normally did so with such a raging THROBBER that I had to spend a few quiet moments choking the phlegm out of that One Eyed Mongrel before merrily starting my day. She sympathized with my plight and said, with a bit of nobbling, she could squeeze me in for the upcoming Thursday afternoon. I had a quick check of my wall planner and saw that I had no plans to stare at a wall that afternoon, which meant I was “free”. So the deal was done.

Along came Thursday afternoon. As I walked through the turnstiles of the Prison and got my ticket punched, I felt (approximately) one set of eyes gawking at me. Or more exactly, I could feel those eyes drilling holes in my shirt– a PAIR of holes from a PAIR of eyes looking at my PAIR of nipples. Or was I just being PAIR-annoyed? I mean, it was only Jail, after all. Surely, there was nothing to be afraid of in there.

Little did I know.

Because I hadn’t been expecting the Guards– or more correctly, ONE Guard. A FEMALE Screw to be precise. Namely, that hot one I’d seen once or twice before. Now, she was the type of Screw that might appear in a Porn Movie, if the makers of those movies ever paused and thought about such things. She gave me a “come hither– and I’ll BEAT YOU SENSELESS” look which seemed, I dunno, a bit familiar somehow. When I did “go thither”, she put on a pair of latex gloves, had a summing-up squiz at my shirt, grabbed me by the newly-begat nipples, then gave ‘em a twist. While she did this, I wasn’t so distracted by my own SHRIEKING that I neglected the chance to have a quick perv at her chest (I may have been in pain, but I’m still a GUY, dammit), and what I saw there upon her (magnificent) left mammary was a name-tag screaming (back) the words:

“Hi! I’m your Screw for today,

NATASHA DE NASHA.”

What??? THE Natasha De Nasha? The Designated Bully of my Wonder Years? I was truly surprised at how SURPRISED I was at this! OBVIOUSLY that Girl would grow up to be a Screw– and a damn good one, I’m sure. And OBVIOUSLY The Gnasher would give me my (I must admit) long-overdue Nipple Cripple. Yet all this inevitable stuff didn’t help to explain how such a mono-brow girl as she once was ever grew up to be so flamin’ HOT.

When my caterwauling faded, I asked her how she knew I was her designated victim from Schooling Times. Natasha said she was the one who took my booking on the phone, and consequently (or subsequently. Or whatever) she looked at the name I gave and realized that name was mine. Of course! (I thought.) The two pieces of this jigsaw puzzle are FINALLY falling together! And for all this time (I’m still thinking here) for all this time (I repeat) she seems to have harboured a deep, dark urge for VENGEANCE against me because of the way I defied her nipple-crippling ambitions– by not having any! I further postulated (unto myself) that my bodily avoidance of her twisted urge to twist has clearly left her with such deep scars on her “mind” (so-called) that she has consequently (or subsequently) spent the rest of her life (up until now) searching for OTHER deserving males to twist– hence her job as a Screw. I didn’t keep this theory to myself, by the way. I made it known to The Gnasher, who said:

“Naaaah, I jus’ like t’ be suckin’ the cocks of guys with tattoos.”

Reader, you have never seen a man rip open his shirt as quickly as I did right then. Because, being a guy (dammit) I rarely miss a chance at grabbing (with both hands) the nearest blowjob-friendly (FEMALE) mouth, even if said mouth is in the face of a lifelong Foe. Imagine, then, my anguish when she said:

“Those aren’t a pair o’ tattoos. They’re just a couple’a useless GUY-NIPPLES, only good for cripplin’.” Then with a flick of her raven hair, she left.

Oh, POXY PLAGUES UPON YOU, Tattoo Neanderthal, for doing such a life-like job on these nipplings I never actually wanted!! That’s ANOTHER good reason for me to sue your fuckin’ beard off!! (NOTE: I’m just repeating here what I thought after she left. It reminded me of my legal thing, though…)

As I stood there thinking at the top of my brain’s voice, I was interrupted by the DING of a bell and my queue number (three point one four one five seven two six five three four nine et cetera) coming up. So I visited Mike, listening (wearily) to his endless blah-blah-blah for two minutes or so, until I finally got an edgewise word in, asking him to put me onto a halfway-decent lawyer. To this request, he gave me the name ALBIE WERDSPERT. I wrote it down.

And as I left the Dungeon that day, my ill-begotten tattoos throbbed with a vibe I’d never felt up ’til then– a vibe I planned on feeling a bit more of. Yes, now that I know The Gnasher works there, I feel I should return to prison as… a SERIAL VISITOR!!

]]> http://natarajank.com/2013/06/19/just-for-laugh-i-need-only-one-copy/ Wed, 19 Jun 2013 05:45:16 +0000 natarajan1950 http://natarajank.com/2013/06/19/just-for-laugh-i-need-only-one-copy/ A young executive was leaving the office late one evening when he found the CEO standing in front of a shredder with a piece of paper in his hand.

“Listen,” said the CEO, “this is a very sensitive and important document here, and my secretary has gone for the night. Can you make this thing work?”

“Certainly,” said the young executive. He turned the machine on, inserted the paper, and pressed the start button.

“Excellent, excellent!” said the CEO as his paper disappeared inside the machine. “I only need one copy.”

A young businessman had just started his own firm. He’d rented a beautiful office and had it furnished with antiques.

Sitting there, he saw a man come into the outer office. Wishing to appear busy, the businessman picked up the phone and started to pretend he had a big deal working. He threw huge figures around and made giant commitments.

Finally, he hung up and asked the visitor, “Can I help you?”
The man said, “Sure. I’ve been asked to install the phone line.”

Reaching the end of a job interview, the Human Resources Person asked the young MBA fresh out of MIT, “And what starting salary were you looking for?”

The candidate said, “In the neighborhood of $125,000 a year, depending on the benefits package.”

The HR Person said, “Well, what would you say to a package of 5-weeks vacation, 14 paid holidays, full medical and dental, company matching retirement fund to 50% of salary, and a company car leased every 2 years – say, a red Corvette?”

The Engineer sat up straight and said, “Wow!!! Are you kidding?”

And the HR Person said, “Certainly, …but you started it.”

source:::::babamailnet

Natarajan

“Me? How?”

Warning: once you see this, you can never unsee it. I am sorry I saw this. You have been warned.

Here is a fun guide to the language of job advertisements, or Positions Vacant as they are sometimes known.

These explanations are not my work, but have been doing the rounds of the Internet for many years.

Energetic self-starter: You’ll be working on commission.

Entry level position: We will pay you the lowest wages allowed by law.

Experience required: We do not know the first thing about any of this.

Fast learner: You will get no training from us.

Flexible work hours: You will frequently work long overtime hours.

Good organizational skills: You’ll be handling the filing.

Make an investment in your future: This is a franchise or a pyramid scheme.

Management training position: You’ll be a salesperson with a wide territory.

Much client contact: You handle the phone or make “cold calls” on clients.

Must have reliable transportation: You will be required to break speed limits.

Must be able to lift 50 pounds: We offer no health insurance or chiropractors.

Opportunity of a lifetime: You will not find a lower salary for so much work.

Planning and coordination: You book the boss’ travel arrangements.

Quick problem solver: You will work on projects months behind schedule already.

Strong communication skills: You will write tons of documentation and letters.

The morning sun shone brightly through Phillip’s sixth storey window. He opened it wide and breathed in the fresh morning air.

On the ledge beside his window stood a disheveled looking man, peering down toward the street.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you,” said Phillip.

The man said nothing. He simply stared at Phillip in surprise.

“Did you want to be alone? I mean, do you mind if I stay here a minute? I just love the air first thing in the morning,” said Phillip.

“As long as you don’t try to stop me,” said the man.

“Stop you? From what?”

“Jumping. I’m not gonna change my mind. I’m not,” said the man. A gust of wind blew and the man clung to the side of the building.

“Well, alright then. I admire your determination.”

“You do?”

“Yep. You made a decision. No second guessing. No wondering. I’m impressed,” said Phillip.

“Thank-you,” said the man nervously.

Phillip leaned out the window and basked in the sun. “I’ve always struggled with decisions. I dunno. They always get me. It’s hard to know what to do. Know what I do?”

“No.”

“I Google.”

“What?”

“I go searching for answers on Google. Think about it. The internet is the single largest repository of human knowledge in history. And Google is the gatekeeper. If I have a question, I type it in Google and in, like, point zero zero zero zero one seconds I get an answer. It’s way easier than wasting all that time worrying. All I’ve learned that’s really important comes from Google.”

“But what about the deep questions? You know, ‘why am I here?’ and ‘what’s the meaning of life?’ There are a million possible answers,” said the man on the ledge.

“That’s what’s so beautiful about it. I just pick the first one that comes up,” said Phillip.

The man carefully turned to face Phillip. “You’re not thinking for yourself. All you’re doing is replacing religion with Google.”

“Exactly. None of us think for ourself, really. We find something to place our faith in and off we go.”

“What about God?”

“You say God, I say Google. I don’t see any difference,” said Phillip.

“What about hope? That there’s something more than all this? You gotta wonder,” said the man. Another gust blew past and he clung desperately to the wall.

“If I want to know, I ask Google. See? No fuss, no muss,” said Phillip with a smile.

“Google.”

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“I’m wondering why I’m the only one on this ledge.”

“I dunno. Let me ask Google,” said Phillip. He closed the window and went over to his computer.

The eating was strictly kosher, and the entertainment was – well, not always kosher, but definitely Jewish.

By day, poolside, we laughed through games of Simon Says, led by one of the resort’s many staff “tummlers” — “tuml” means “noise” in Yiddish — all aspiring entertainers (Jerry Lewis, amongst innumerable other Jewish comedians, started as a Catskills waiter). By night, we laughed at established stand-up comics, including Myron Cohen, Buddy Hackett and Joey Bishop.

Wherever European-descended Jews have lived in modern times, their humour has penetrated the larger culture. A massively disproportionate share of successful U.S. comedians are Jewish. The same held true for Berlin in the 1920s and Russia during 75 years of Bolshevik rule. On any Saturday night at its Borscht Belt peak, 1920-1970, Catskills hotels hosted something like 500 comedy acts. And most dwelt heavily for laughs on the quintessentially Jewish schlemiel — the innocent, Woody Allen-esque underdog who somehow manages not only to survive, but even triumph against incredible odds.

[related_links /]

I assumed this was resort life for everyone, but as I later learned, gentile resorts didn’t feel obliged to have their guests rolling in the aisles every waking moment. Thou shalt laugh, and thou shalt make other people laugh are two post-Enlightenment commandments Jews observe with the fervour they once reserved for the other 613 listed in the Torah.

In her new book, No Joke: Making Jewish Humour, Harvard University Yiddish and Comparative Literature professor Ruth Wisse, a native Montrealer, opens with the question: “Why do Jews enjoy laughing at themselves?” The rest of the book supplies her fascinating answer.

No Joke is divided into five chapters that explore important sources of Jewish humour in Germany, Eastern Europe, Russia, Israel and the anglosphere.

Wisse’s departure point is the Enlightenment. Modern Jewish humour emerged from an existential tension between Jews’ minds and hearts, arising “from Baruch Spinoza’s mid-17th-century denial of any functional reciprocity between the divine and human spheres.” More plainly put: Even though it became irrational to suppose that God had personally “chosen” them, Jews remained committed to the ennobling idea of peoplehood that only such an intimate relationship could have forged.

Each chapter of Wisse’s book features biographical sketches of important humourists and jokes — both highbrow and low — typical of their time and place. Her aim is “to show that Jews joke differently in Yiddish than in English, differently amongst themselves than in the presence of non-Jews, and differently in constitutional democracies than in totalitarian states.”

JOHN MACDOUGALL/AFP/Getty Images

For an amongst-themselves example: When European Jews were still socially ostracized, many of them converted for purely expedient reasons. In one comic tale from this period, four Jews are talking frankly about their conversions. The first admits he converted to join a restricted club; the second for love of a Christian girl; the third for professional advancement. The fourth claims he converted out of belief in Christianity, whereupon the three others turn on him in exasperation: “Oh please — save that for your gentile friends.” Funny or not, the tale epitomizes the aforementioned tension between one’s solemn, spiritual affectations, and one’s true motivations.

Jews have found humour everywhere, even in existentially trying circumstances. The sobering Warsaw ghetto Yiddish witticism Wisse cites as the core of her thesis is: “God forbid that this war should last as long as we are able to endure it.”

She adds: “Yiddish humor knew that it dared not succumb to the weight of evidence militating against its very existence.”

Modern Israelis have developed their own survival-style humour, which adopts the classic Jewish form by playing on the perceived disparity between Zionist ideals and grim reality. During the Second Intifada, a joke circulated that had Sara, a worried Jerusalemite calling her Tel Aviv cousin after a seashore café bombing, and being assured that the family is safe. “And Anat?” Sara inquires after the teenager whose hangout the café had been. “Oh Anat is fine,” says the mother. “She’s at Auschwitz.” (The punch line works only if you know that today’s Israeli teenagers are routinely taken to tour the infamous Polish death camp as part of their education in modern Jewish history.)

The joke, Wisse explains, “offends both sides of the political spectrum: liberals who deny the ferocity of Arab aggression, and Israeli patriots who cannot acknowledge that Zionism does not fully safeguard the Jews.”

With time, even the worst Jewish tragedies get mined for comedy

It also illustrates Jewish humour’s defining qualities of “reversal, displacement and turning the tables,” which mock the chasm in Jewish history between our supposedly divine election as a chosen people, and the reality of continual persecution. As Wisse notes in an earlier context, “Few [religions] have had to balance such high national hopes against such a poor political record.”

With time and mainstream Jewish acceptance, even the worst Jewish tragedies may be mined for comedy. Mel Brooks’ audacious film satirizing Hitler, “The Producers,” shocked in 1968, but not today. In Larry David’s TV comedy series, “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” a Holocaust survivor farcically vies with a television reality-show “Survivor” — there’s that authentic-inauthentic chasm again — for alpha-victim status at a dinner party.

Larry David routinely spoofs the coarsening and deracination of American Jewish life, and “the foibles of a community that has no excuse for its moral failures.” His character on Curb Your Enthusiasm is “the television schlemiel who *earns* the contempt in which he is held. He is now the Jew with influence, thoughtlessly rich. The transformation of this character from harmless to hurtful demonstrates the adjustment of Jewish humor to altered conditions of power and prosperity.”

Wisse ends by encouraging other cultures to take up the example of Jewish comedy: “Let Muslims take up joking about Muhammad, Arabs satirize jihad, British elites mock their glib liberalism, and anti-Semites spoof their politics of blame.”

Could happen. And who knows? The czar’s horse might even learn to speak.

That’s an old Jewish joke punch line. Back at Grossingers, it killed.

National Post

AGENT 47: Diary

“Once I scanned my bar code, I’m only worth $14!”

Discovered a great site today where you can create your own newspaper story. Thanks to Kate’s Creative Space for introducing this fun site. This could be an interesting activity to do with the kids at school.

My story headline is:  ’Teacher Blogs her Way into Retirement’.

To write your own story check out this link.

“New couch, jerk.” My fingers smooth out the cushion fabric where her talons so carelessly knead only a moment ago.

“My bad.” She yawns and flops on her side in a pile of yellow feathers that she freed from the catnip-stuffed bird.

“You seem quite distraught about it.”

Fat glares, her green eyes glow with a nucular-evil hue. “You damaged my meniscus. Expect a call from my lawyer, lady.”

I grab my phone and do a quick search. “You have no idea what a meniscus is, do you?”

“Don’t be preposterous. Of course I do.” I step closer to her and flip my phone around so she can read the screen. Her eyes quickly scan the information. “In the joints. Huh. Well that’s certainly a surprise.” She lifts a paw to the screen and gently pushes it away, as though the small act will also shove her stupidity away as well. “I deal with the brain, not the body.”

“Don’t really deal with the brain either,” I close the webpage, quickly check Twitter, then put my phone down.

“I meant the psyche.”

“No.”

“The soul?” If anything, this back and forth gives me a solid jumping-off point. The synapses in my brain fire rapidly.

“Uh uh.” I walk past her, open my journal that’s on the desk and scribble down the first few words of an idea.

“Is it time to deal with all the debris you’ve left cluttering up the place?”

I look up, mid-thought, and scan the room. “What are you talking about? I cleaned yesterday.” I hunch over the desk again to finish writing down my idea about… “Fuck. I lost it.”

“I was going for a metaphor with the debris thing. Thought you’d appreciate it.”

“And I thought I told you I didn’t need to talk about it.”

“So you do know what I meant,” Her eyes momentarily grow wide with delight before her normal face returns. “But you need to talk about it. Be an emotional bulimic. Purge those feelings.”

I reach into the desk drawer. “That’s too much, Fat.” I pull out the laser pointer and the red dot appears by her feet.

“It’s that fucking thing again. Don’t worry, I got this.” Fat bounds and I move the pointer over by the television. She sprints and misses. Her head whips around frantically. “Where are you, you little beasty?” I point it on the cat post. When she catches sight of it she gallops and leaps, claws-first. Fat misses again, and the momentum from her landing throws her into a sideways spin. She leaps back to her feet and sees the pointer over by the window. The red spot hovers on the thin window covering. Her head bobbles as she mirrors the unsteady movement of the pointer while I laugh. Fat reaches up and bats at the dot with such force, the resulting sound from hitting the window scares the hell out of her. She jumps like she’s been shot out of a canon.

“What do you expect me to say here? I’m pissed off.” I put the laser pointer back in the drawer.

“At him.” Fat’s tone is definitive.

“No. At myself. I always think I can just have things the way I want them without considering what the other person wants.” I sit on the desktop and kick my feet up by the printer. Fat’s belly swings when she runs over to join me.

“You two wanted the same thing.”

“So I thought. Such a shame, we have great chemistry.” I lean against the wall. “He let me know that he’s actually looking for more than what I’m able to offer.”

Fat nods with what I take to be understanding, “Bigger breasts. Men, right?”

“Not at all close to what we’re talking about here, Fat. But thanks for that. He just decided he wants to settle down and have a one and only. We both know I’m not the right fit for that at the moment. Had to let the whole thing go. From three to zero like that,” I snap my fingers. “And dating a male harem didn’t even blow up in my face, high five.” I hold my palm out, she doesn’t go for it. Frankly, she hasn’t offered any input in about thirty seconds. With a bend of the neck, I see that her gaze and full attention is locked on my chest. “Do you mind?”

She blinks hard and comes back to the conversation. “Sorry, go on.”

“This shrink cred of yours is wearing awfully thin.” Fat pats my forearm with her paw until I take the hint and my fingers scratch her fur. “You know I went to lunch today with a friend of mine. He said that my problem is I don’t jump.”

“He obviously doesn’t know that you jump rope in the underground parking at night.”

“It wasn’t a literal thing, moron. He’s right. I’ve never jumped. Do you think that’s a bad thing?”

Fat’s eyes close when I scratch her neck. She’s silent for so long I think that I might have to wake her. She keeps her eyes shut, “I think that you’re fucked up through and through, but as long as you’re happy that’s all that should matter.”

“True. You can be my soul mate. We’ll get old and obese together. It’ll be so romantic, they’ll make a Disney movie about it.” I chew the inside of my cheek, “I think I’m going to stop dating for a while. This whole endeavor is exhausting.”

“Eureka!” Fat’s eyes pop open. There’s no mistaking my dry expression; Fat maintains a hopeful grin nonetheless. “I think we’ve just had our first breakthrough. Wait,” she looks pensive a moment, reading the look on my face, “you’re fibbing, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. My life is what awesome aspires to be.”

He wants to see the golf course before he decides……

I won’t embarrass him and reveal his age because it’s not an indication of his personality. I know everyone thinks their dad is the best, but mine takes the cake for sure.

In everything he’s every done he has put his family first. Any job he has taken, moving our family to the beach, and finding the best care for me when I’ve been sick, no matter how far away we may have to go.

My dad is the perfect example of only being as old as you act-I mean he spent his 50th birthday at Disney World and could not have been more happy. I’m thankful for my sense of humor that I picked up from him, although some people may not enjoy my sarcasm constantly. He’s also taught us to always follow our dreams.

Just this summer he began coaching football at our high school because it’s something that he has always wanted to do. He has also gone back to school to get his master, which will allow him to work at the school. He has always encouraged Christopher and I to do whatever will make us happy without focusing on the amount of work or money it would require.

He and my mom are my biggest supporters and I can only hope I will be able to raise a family as well as they have done. So here’s to you, Dad! I will never be able to truly express my gratitude for all that you’ve taught me!

Happy Birthday Old Man!

Keep Dancing,

Cayla