Die Krüger's se Humor

Hier is die beste uit my versameling humor. Al daardie humoristiese e-pos wat die kuberruim vol vlieg, kan jy hier kom kry. Weens spasiebeperkings op die bediener plaas ek slegs die bestes. As jy op soek is na iets spesifieks, kontak my gerus, ek het 'n GROOT versameling.

"proctor" = a member of the teaching staff of any of certain universities having the duties of enforcing discipline. 2 U.S.. (in a college or university) a supervisor or monitor who invigilates examinations, enforces discipline
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Here is a "true story" someone found regarding exams at Cambridge University. It seems that during an examination one day a bright young student popped up and asked the proctor to bring him Cakes and Ale. The following dialog ensued:

At this point, the student produced a copy of the four hundred year old Laws of Cambridge, written in Latin and still nominally in effect, and pointed to the section which read (roughly translated): "Gentlemen sitting examinations may request and require Cakes and Ale." Pepsi and hamburgers were judged the modern equivalent, and the student sat there, writing his examination and happily slurping away.

Three weeks later, the student was fined five pounds for not wearing a sword to the examination.

Five Englishmen in an Audi Quattro arrive at the Italian border. The Italian Customs agent stops them and tells them: "Itsa illegal to putta fiva people ina Quattro."

Dan was daar die laaste administrateur van SWA wat die aantygings wou ontken van synde nie lid van 'n 'n geheime organisasie nie (Broederbond). Die eerste eerste openbare vergadering waarop hy op die aantygings kon reageer was in 'n toespraak wat hy aan die Ovambos in die noorde moes maak. Daar was 'n tolk wat van engels na die inheemse taal moes tolk. Hy beplan toe om die ontkennende verklaring sommer so tussen deur te doen. Gelukkig was daar iemand wat na die tyd kon vertel wat die ovambos gehoor het. Min of meer so iets:

A few months ago, when I was picking up the children at school, another mother I knew well, rushed up to me. This mother was fuming with indignation.

Before I could answer and I didn't really have one handy ... she blurted out the reason for her question. It seemed she had just returned from renewing her driver's license at The County Clerk's office. Asked by the woman recorder to state her occupation, the lady had hesitated, uncertain how to classify herself.

"What I mean is," explained the recorder, "do you have a job, or are you just a .....?"

"We don't list 'mother' as an occupation... 'housewife’ covers it," said the recorder emphatically.

I forgot all about her story until one day I found myself in the same situation, this time at our own Town Hall. The Clerk was obviously a career woman, poised, efficient, and possessed of a high-sounding title like "Official Interrogator" or "Town Registrar."

What made me say it, I do not know. The words simply popped out. "I'm a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations."

The clerk paused, ball-point pen frozen in midair, and looked up as though she had not heard right.

I repeated the title slowly, emphasizing the most significant words. Then I stared with wonder as my pronouncement was written in bold, black ink on the official questionnaire.

"Might I ask," said the clerk with new interest, "just what you do in your field?"

Coolly, without any trace of fluster in my voice, I heard myself reply, "I have a continuing program of research (what mother doesn't) in the laboratory and in the field (normally I would have said indoors and out). I'm working for my Masters (the whole darned family) and already have four credits (all daughters). Of course, the job is one of the most demanding in the humanities (any mother care to disagree?) and I often work 14 hours a day (24 is more like it). But the job is more challenging than most run-of-the-mill careers and the rewards are more of a satisfaction rather than just money."

There was an increasing note of respect in the clerk's voice as she completed the form, stood up, and personally ushered me to the door.

As I drove into our driveway, buoyed up by my glamorous new career, I was greeted by my lab assistants - ages 13, 7,and 3. Upstairs I could hear our new experimental model (6 months) in the child-development program, testing out a new vocal pattern. I felt triumphant! I had scored a beat on bureaucracy! And I had gone on the official records as someone more distinguished and indispensable to mankind than "just another mother."

Motherhood...what a glorious career. Especially when there's a title on the door.

Does this make grandmothers "Senior Research Associates in the field of Child Development and Human Relations" and great grandmothers "Executive Senior Research Associates"?

Saddam Hussein is sitting at home when the phone rings. He picks it up and says "Hello".

The voice at the end of the phone says "Hello Mr. Hussein, it's Paddy here. I'm just ringing to let you know that we've declared war on your country."

Saddam smiles to himself, "Come on Paddy", he says, "there's no point you declaring war on us, you wouldn't stand a chance."

Paddy replies, "No, no, we've had ourselves a meeting, and we've decided to declare war on you."

So Saddam says, "OK Paddy, now listen, I've got an air force of over a thousand planes, what kind of air force have you got to match that? It'd be over in no time."

So Paddy says, "Well me lad's got himself a hot-air balloon, and me brother used to work at an airport."

"Hold on a sec, Mr. Hussein," Paddy says, "we'll just have a quick meeting." So off he goes and has a quick meeting.

"Are you still there Mr. Hussein? Yes, well we've had our meeting, and we've decided that we're still going to declare war."

So Saddam says, "Right then Paddy, well you know, as well as the air force, we've also got about a thousand tanks. How are you going to match that."

"Well," Paddy says, "I've got an old Austin, and me cousin down the road has got a tractor."

So Paddy says, "Hold on, I'll just go and have another meeting."
"Are you still there Mr. Hussein? Yes, well we've had our meeting, and we've decided that we're still going to declare war."

Saddam thinks this is just amazing, "Well how many soldiers have you got Paddy?".

"Well," says Paddy, "there's me, me kid, me 4 cousins, and they all had sons, and there's Bill down the road.... I reckon I could get together about 30."

Laughing openly now Saddam replies, "Come on Paddy, I've got 10,000 highly trained fighting men at my disposal. I think you'd better go and have another meeting."

"I will", says Paddy, "I will."
"Are you still there Mr. Hussein? Yes, well we've had our meeting, and we've decided that we're not going to declare war on you after all."

"Well, it's those 10 thousand soldiers you see. We can't declare war on you because we've not got the facilities to keep all those prisoners!"

A report has revealed that two traffic patrol officers from North Berwick were involved in an unusual incident whilst checking for speeding motorists on the A1 road between Oldhamstocks and Grantshouse. Last May, they were using a hand-held radar device to trap unwary motorists on the Edinburgh to London trunk road. One of the unnamed officers used the device to check the speed of an approaching vehicle, and was surprised to find that his target had registered a speed in excess of 300 miles per hour. The £5000 machine then seized up and could not be reset by the bemused PC's.

The radar had in fact latched on to a NATO Tornado aircraft in the North Sea, which was taking part in a simulated low-flying exercise over the Borders and Southern Scotland. Following a complaint by Sir William Sutherland, Chief Constable of the Lothian & Borders Police force to the RAF liaison office, it was revealed that the officers had a lucky escape - the tactical computer on board the aircraft not only detected and jammed the "hostile" radar equipment, but had automatically armed a Sidewinder air-to-ground missile ready to neutralise the perceived threat. Luckily the Dutch pilot was alerted to the missile status and was able to override the automatic protection system before the missile launched. The Police have so far declined to comment, although it is understood that officers will be advised to point their radar guns inland in future.

Please note that with the arrival of the new "Drive-thru" cash point machines customers will be able to withdraw cash without leaving their vehicles. To enable users to use this new facility the following procedures have been drawn up. Please read the procedure that applies to your own circumstances (i.e. MALE or FEMALE) and remember them for when you use the machine for the first time.

MALE PROCEDURE

Drive up to the cash machine.
Wind down your car window.
Insert card into machine and enter PIN.
Enter amount of cash required and withdraw.
Retrieve card, cash, and receipt.
Wind up window.
Drive off.

FEMALE PROCEDURE

Drive up to cash machine.
Reverse back the required amount to align car window to machine.
Re-start the stalled engine.
Wind down the window.
Find handbag, remove all contents on to passenger seat to locate card.
Locate make-up bag and check make-up in rear view mirror.
Attempt to insert card into machine.
Open car door to allow easier access to machine due to its excessive distance from the car.
Insert card.
Insert card the right way up.
Re-enter handbag to find diary with your PIN written on the inside back page.
Enter PIN.
Press cancel and re-enter correct PIN.
Enter amount of cash required.
Re-check make up in rear view mirror.
Retrieve cash and receipt.
Empty handbag again to locate purse and place cash inside.
Place receipt in back of cheque book.
Re-check make-up again.
Drive forward 2 meters.
Reverse back to cash machine.
Retrieve card.
Re-empty hand bag, locate card holder, and place card into the slot provided.
Re-check make-up.
Restart stalled engine and pull off.
Drive for 6 to 8 miles.
Release hand brake.

This is an accident report, which was printed in the newsletter of the British equivalent of the Workers' Compensation Board. This is the bricklayer's report, a true story. Had this guy died, he'd have walked away with a Darwin Award for sure!

Dear Sir,

I am writing in response to your request for additional information in Block no. 3 of the accident report form. I put "Poor Planning" as the Cause of my accident. You asked for a fuller explanation and I trust the following details will be sufficient.

I am a bricklayer by trade. On the day of the accident, I was working alone on the roof of a new six-story building. When I completed my work, I found I had some bricks left over which, when weighed later were found to be slightly in excess of 500lbs. Rather than carry the bricks down by hand, I decided to lower them in a barrel by using a pulley, which was attached to the side of the building at the sixth floor.

Securing the rope at ground level, I went up to the roof, swung the barrel out and loaded the bricks into it. Then I went down and untied the rope, holding it tightly to ensure a slow descent of the bricks. You will note in block no. 11 of the accident report form that my weight is 135lbs.

Due to my surprise at being jerked off the ground so suddenly, I lost my presence of mind and forgot to let go of the rope. Needless to say, I proceeded at a rapid rate up the side of the building. In the vicinity of the third floor, I met the barrel which was now proceeding downward at an equally impressive speed. This explains the fractured skull, minor abrasions and the broken collarbone, as listed in Section 3 of the accident report form.

Slowed only slightly, I continued my rapid ascent, not stopping until the fingers of my right hand were two knuckles deep into the pulley.

Fortunately by this time I had regained my presence of mind and was able to hold tightly to the rope, in spite of the excruciating pain I was now beginning to experience. At approximately the same time, however, the barrel of bricks hit the ground and the bottom fell out of the barrel. Now devoid of the weight of the bricks, that barrel weighed approximately 50 lbs. I refer you again to my weight.

As you might imagine, I began a rapid descent down the side of the building. In the vicinity of the third floor, I met the barrel coming up. This accounts for the two fractured ankles, broken tooth and severe lacerations of my legs and lower body.

Here my luck began to change slightly. The encounter with the barrel seemed to slow me enough to lessen my injuries when I fell into the pile of bricks and fortunately only three vertebrae were cracked. I am sorry to report, however, as I lay there on the pile of bricks, in pain, unable to move, I again lost my composure and presence of mind and let go of the rope and I lay there watching the empty barrel begin its journey back onto me. This explains the two broken legs.

Dear Mr Martin

Djy is my foreman en djy het your truly, Philemon Nxane instrucsons gagee om 'n honnerd bakstene post dated van die first floor na die ground floor te transport.

Nou ekke het gevat die bucket met die tou wat loop by die pulley op die second floor, ek het gatrek die bucket op tot die lappaside die first floor window en toe ekke het vashemaak die tou by die grond. Nou ekke het galaai die honnerd bakstene deur die venster in die bucket en toe ekke het afgaloop na die ground floor en het losgamaak die tou. Nou die bucket het gaweeg banja meer as ekke Philemon, but not whishing to damage the companies goods, ekke het vasgahou by die tou.

Nou die bucket het afgakom at one helluwa speed en Philemon hy gaan op at the same speed en halfway down/up/down/up, hau, halfway the two meet. Nou die bucket hy slat vir my one time for better of worse, maar wat hy is Philemon hy hou by die tou. Nou sos die bucket verder val ek gaan verder op tot lat my arms entangle word by die pulley. At het same time die bucket hy slat die grond met such great verlocity dat die bottom uitbreek en die bakstene scatter all over the place! Nou ekke Philemon weeg swaarder as die bucket en soos ekke gaat af, die bucket hy gaat op.

One more time die bucket hy slat my outta my skull en toe ekke val op die stukkende bakstene, hau, too much pain! More or less daai time ekke moes leave of my sensus gavat het, want sos ekke sit vol pyn tussen die bakstene ekke los die tou. Nou die bucket hy weeg swaarder as die tou en sos die bucket hy kom af hy crash Philemon op sy kop en condem alles wat toe nog orraait was.

Now I respectfuly request sick leave.

Yours sinserely

Philemon Nxane

In March, 1992, a man living near Boston, MA, received a bill for his as-yet-unused credit card stating that he owed $0.00. He ignored it and threw it away. In April, he received another and threw that one away too. The following month the credit card company sent him a very nasty note stating they were going to cancel his card if he didn't send them $0.00 by return post. He called and talked to them. They said it was a computer error and told him they'd take care of it.

The following month, he decided that it was about time that he tried out the troublesome credit card, figuring that if there were purchases on his account it would put an end to his ridiculous predicament.

However, in the first store that he produced his credit card in payment for his purchases, he found that his card had been cancelled. He called the credit card company, who apologised for the computer error once again and said that they would take care of it. The next day he got a bill for $0.00 stating that payment was now overdue.

Assuming that, having spoken to the credit card company only the previous day, and that the latest bill was yet another mistake, he ignored it, trusting that the company would be as good as their word and sort the problem out. The next month, he got a bill for $0.00 stating that he had 10 days to pay his account or the company would have to take steps to recover the debt.

Finally, giving in, he thought he would play the company at their own game and mailed them a check for $0.00. The computer duly processed his account and returned a statement to the effect that he now owed the credit card company nothing at all.

A week later, the man's bank called him asking him what he was doing writing a check for $0.00. After a lengthy explanation the bank replied that the $0.00 check had caused their check processing software to fail. The bank could not now process ANY checks from ANY of their customers that day because the check for $0.00 was causing the computer to crash.

The following month, the man received a letter from the credit card company claiming that his check had bounced and that he now owed them $0.00, and, unless he sent a check by return of post, they would be taking steps to recover the debt.

Three sons left home, went out on their own and prospered. Getting back together, they discussed the gifts they were able to give their elderly mother.

The first said, "I built a big house for our mother." The second said, "I sent her a Mercedes with a driver." The third smiled and said, "I've got you both beat. You remember how mom enjoyed reading the Bible? And you know she can't see very well. So I sent her a remarkable parrot that recites the entire Bible. It took elders in the church 12 years to teach him. He's one of a kind. Mama just has to name the chapter and verse, and the parrot recites it."

"Milton," she wrote one son, "The house you built is so huge. I live in only one room, but I have to clean the whole house."

"Gerald," she wrote to another, "I am too old to travel. I stay most of the time at home, so I rarely use the Mercedes. And the driver is so rude!"

"Dearest Donald," she wrote to her third son, "You have the good sense to know what your mother likes. The chicken was delicious."

The US standard railroad gauge (distance between the rails) is 4 feet 8.5 inches. That's an exceedingly odd number.

Why was that gauge used? Because that's the way they built them in England, and English expatriates built the US railroads.

Why did the English build them like that? Because the first rail lines were built by the same people who built the pre-railroad tramways, and that's the gauge they used.

Why did 'they' use that gauge then? Because the people who built the tramways used the same jigs and tools that they used for building wagons, which used that wheel spacing.

Okay! Why did the wagons have that particular odd wheel spacing? Well, if they tried to use any other spacing, the wagon wheels would break on some of the old, long distance roads in England, because that's the spacing of the wheel ruts.

So who built those old rutted roads? The first long distance roads in Europe (and England) were built by Imperial Rome for their legions. The roads have been used ever since. And the ruts? Roman war chariots first made the initial ruts, which everyone else had to match for fear of destroying their wagon wheels and wagons. Since the chariots were made for, or by Imperial Rome, they were all alike in the matter of wheel spacing.

Thus, we have the answer to the original question. The United States standard railroad gauge of 4 feet, 8.5 inches derives from the original specification for an Imperial Roman war chariot.

Specifications and bureaucracies live forever. So, the next time you are handed a specification and wonder which horse's rear came up with it, you may be exactly right. Because the Imperial Roman war chariots were made just wide enough to accommodate the back ends of two war-horses.

There's an interesting extension to the story about railroad gauges and horses' behinds. When we see a Space Shuttle sitting on its launch pad, there are two big booster rockets attached to the sides of the main fuel tank. These are solid rocket boosters, or SRBs. Thiokol makes the SRBs at their factory at Utah. The engineers who designed the SRBs might have preferred to make them a bit fatter, but the SRBs had to be shipped by train from the factory to the launch site. The railroad line from the factory had to run through a tunnel in the mountains. The SRBs had to fit through that tunnel. The tunnel is slightly wider than the railroad track, and the railroad track is about as wide as two horses behinds.

So, the major design feature of what is arguably the world's most advanced transportation system was determined by the width of a Horse's rear!

A man is flying in a hot air balloon and realizes he is lost. He lowers the balloon and spots a man down below. He descended a bit more and shouted:

"Excuse me, can you help me? I promised a friend I would meet him half an hour ago, but I don't know where I am."

The man below says: "You are in a hot air balloon hovering approximately 30 feet above the ground. You are between 40 and 42 degrees north latitude and between 58 and 60 degrees west longitude."

"Well, everything you told me is technically correct, but I have no idea what to make of your information and is is of no use to anyone, and the fact is I am still lost."

"Well," said the man, "you don't know where you are or where you are going. You made a promise which you have no idea how to keep, and you expect me to solve your problem. The fact is you are exactly in the same position you were in before we met, but now, somehow, it's my fault."

It has come to our attention that a few copies of the local South African edition of Windows 98 may have accidentally been shipped outside South Africa. If you have one of the South African editions you may need some help understanding the commands. The South African edition may be recognised by a background picture of a Mageu bottle superimposed on an Orlando Pirates flag. This version is shipped with a Black Label screen saver. Meanings of the most common commands:

OK = Samblief
Cancel = Aikona
Undo = Au, mistake!
Redo = Aikona, no mistake!
Save = Ekke ek bere hom
Find = Ekke ek soek hom
File not found = Sorry, djy het hom gevaloor
Help = Ah dunno
Start = Stat
Settings (preset in this edition) = Tokkelossie sa goet, los yt!
Run = Hamba
Personal Folder = My Thieengs
Shut Down = Tja-eila
You have e-mail = Djy het gakry e-male

Some programs that are exclusive to "e-Windows 98":

MS Wed = the word processor
Scretsh Peppa = Notepad
Boom Box = CD player
e-Explora = Internet Explorer
Pitchas = Paint
Stockvel = PC Accounting Software
Shebeen = Shortcut to the website of the local off-sales and prices
Fafi = game replacing Solitaire

The Recycle Bin is labelled "Dastben". Control Panel, which is disabled, is known as "Ingozi - los hom hierdie butten!".

We regret any inconvenience if you received a copy of this version. Please return it to Microsoft for a refund.

My dear Bank Manager, I am writing to thank you for bouncing the cheque with which I endeavoured to pay my plumber last month.

By my calculations some three nano-seconds must have elapsed between his presenting the cheque, and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honour it.

I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my entire salary, an arrangement which, I admit, has only been in place for eight years. You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account by way of penalty for the inconvenience I caused your bank. My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to re-think my errant financial ways.

You have set me on the path of fiscal righteousness. No more will our relationship be blighted by these unpleasant incidents, for I am restructuring my affairs in 1999, taking as my model the procedures, attitudes and conduct of your very own bank.

I can think of no greater compliment, and I know you will be excited and proud to hear it. To this end, please be advised about the following changes:

First, I have noticed that whereas I personally attend to your telephone calls and letters, when I try to contact you I am confronted by the impersonal, ever-changing, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become.

From now on I, like you, chose only to deal with a flesh and blood person. My mortgage and loan repayments will, therefore and hereafter, no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank by personal cheque, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee of you branch, whom you must nominate.

You will be aware that it is an offence under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope.

Please find attached an Application for Contact Status which I require your chosen employee to complete. I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me, there is no alternative.

Please note that all copies of his/her medical history must be countersigned by a Justice of the Peace, and that the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof.

In due course I will issue your employee with a PIN number which he/she must quote in all dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modelled it on the number of button presses required to access my account balance on your phonebank service.

As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Let me level the playing field even further by introducing you to my new telephone system, which you will notice, is very much like yours.

My Authorised Contact at your bank, the only person with whom I will have any dealings, may call me at any time and be answered by an automated voice.

By pressing the buttons on the phone, he/she will be guided through an extensive set of menus:

to make an appointment to see me,
to query a missing repayment,
to make a general complaint or inquiry, and so on.

The contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service. While this may on occasion involve a lengthy wait, uplifting music will play for the duration. This month I have chosen the refrain from The Best of Woody Guthrie:

Oh the banks are made of marble
With a guard at every door
And the vaults are filled with silver
That the miners sweated for!

After twenty minutes of that, our mutual contact will probably know it off by heart. On a more serious note, we come to the matter of cost.

As your bank has often pointed out, the ongoing drive for greater efficiency comes at a cost - a cost which you have always been quick to pass on to me. Let me repay your kindness by passing some costs back. First, there is the matter of advertising material you send me.

This I will read for a fee of $20 per A4 page. Inquiries from your nominated contact will be billed at $5 per minute of my time spent in response. Any debits to my account, as, for example, in the matter of the penalty for the dishonoured cheque, will be passed back to you.

My new phone number service runs at 75 cents per minute (even Woody Guthrie doesn't come free), so keep your inquiries brief and to the point.

Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement.

May I wish you a happy, if ever-so-slightly less prosperous, New Year.

Your humble client.

Notes From An Inexperienced Chili Taster Named FRANK, who was visiting Texas: Recently I was honored to be selected as an outstanding "Famous Celebrity" in Texas, to be a judge at a chili cook-off, because no one else wanted to do it. Also the original person called in sick at the last moment, and I happened to be standing there at the judge's table asking directions to the beer wagon when the call came.

I was assured by the other two judges (Native Texans) that the chili wouldn't be all that spicy, and besides they told me I could have free beer during the tasting, so I accepted.

Chili # 1: Mike's Maniac Mobster Monster Chili
JUDGE ONE: A little too heavy on tomato. Amusing kick.
JUDGE TWO: Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.
FRANK: Holy smokes, what the hell is this stuff? You could remove dried paint from your driveway with it. Took me two beers to put the flames out. Hope that's the worst one. These hicks are crazy.

Chili # 2: Arthur's Afterburner Chili
JUDGE ONE: Smoky (barbecue?) with a hint of pork. Slight Jalapeno tang.
JUDGE TWO: Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken seriously.
FRANK: Keep this out of reach of children! I'm not sure what I am supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to give me the Heimlich maneuver. Shoved my way to the front of the beer line.

Chili # 3: Fred's Famous Burn Down the Barn Chili
JUDGE ONE: Excellent firehouse chili! Great kick. Needs more beans.
JUDGE TWO: A beanless chili, a bit salty, good use of red peppers.
FRANK: This has got to be a joke. Call the EPA, I've located a uranium spill. My nose feels like I have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now and got out of my way so I could make it to the beer wagon. Barmaid pounded me on the back, now my backbone is in the front part of my chest.

Chili # 4: Bubba's Black Magic
JUDGE ONE: Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing.
JUDGE TWO: Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish or other mild foods, not much of a chili.
FRANK: I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste it. Sally, the bar maid, was standing behind me with fresh refills so I wouldn't have to dash over to see her.

Chili # 5: Linda's Legal Lip Remover
JUDGE ONE: Meaty, strong chili. Cayenne peppers freshly ground, adding considerable kick. Very impressive.
JUDGE TWO: Chili using shredded beef; could use more tomato. Must admit the cayenne peppers make a strong statement.
FRANK: My ears are ringing, and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed paramedics. The contestant seemed hurt when I told her that her chili had given me brain damage. Sally saved my tongue by pouring beer directly on it from a pitcher. Sort of irritates me that one of the other judges asked me to stop screaming.

Chili # 6: Vera's Very Vegetarian Variety
JUDGE ONE: Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of spice and peppers.
JUDGE TWO: The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and garlic. Superb.
FRANK: My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous flames. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except Sally.

Chili # 7: Susan's Screaming Sensation Chili
JUDGE ONE: A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.
JUDGE TWO: Ho Hum, tastes as if the chef threw in canned chili peppers at the last moment. I should note that I am worried about Judge Number 3. He appears to be in a bit of distress.
FRANK: You could put a grenade in my mouth and pull the pin, and I wouldn't feel it. I've lost the sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it is made of rushing water. My clothes are covered with chili which slid unnoticed out of my mouth at some point. Good! At autopsy they'll know what killed me. I've decided to stop breathing, it's too painful, and I'm not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air I'll just suck it in through the 4 inch hole in my stomach.

Chili # 8: Helen's Mount Saint Chili
JUDGE ONE: A perfect ending, this is a nice blend chili, safe for all, not too bold but spicy enough to declare its existence.
JUDGE TWO: This final entry is a good, balanced chili, neither mild nor hot. Sorry to say that most of it was lost when Judge # 3 fell and pulled the chili pot on top of himself.
FRANK: --------------
(editor's note: Judge # 3 was unable to report).

While browsing through some dust-covered archival material in the recesses of the Roman Section of the British Museum, a researcher recently came across a tattered parchment.

After some effort he translated it and found that it was a letter from a man called Plutonius with the title of "Magister Fastorium," or keeper of the calendar, to one Cassius. It was dated, strangely enough, 1 B.C., January 7 -- or 2000 years ago (remember, there was no year zero). The text of the message follows:

Dear Cassius,

Are you still working on the Y zero K problem? This change from BC to AD is giving us a lot of headaches and we haven't much time left. I don't know how people will cope with working the wrong way around. Having been working happily downwards forever, now we have to start thinking upwards. You would think that someone would have thought of it earlier and not left it to us to sort it all out at this last minute.

I spoke to Caesar the other evening. He was livid that Julius hadn't done something about it when he was sorting out the calendar. He said he could see why Brutus turned nasty.

We called in the consulting astrologers, but they simply said that continuing downwards using minus BC won't work. As usual, the consultants charged a fortune for doing nothing useful.

As for myself, I just can't see the sand in an hour glass flowing upwards. We have heard that there are three wise men in the East who have been working on the problem, but unfortunately they won't arrive until it's all over. Some say the world will cease to exist at the moment of transition.

Anyway we are still continuing to work on this blasted Y zero K problem and I will send you a parchment if anything further develops.

Vale,
Plutonius

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 been 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 am 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 garbage truck, and I paid those incompetent thieves $600.

And Elaine is thinking: He's angry. And I don't blame him. I'd be angry, too. 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.... scumballs.

And Elaine is thinking: Maybe I'm just 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, a person I enjoy being with, a person I truly do care about, a 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 warranty. I'll take their warranty and ................

"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, 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.

(Elaine, deeply moved, touches his hand.)

"Oh, Roger, do you really feel that way?" she says.

"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 when 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.

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?"

And that's the difference between men and women.

The Americans and Russians at the height of the arms race realised that if they continued in the usual manner they were going to blow up the whole world. One day they sat down and decided to settle the whole dispute with one dog fight. They would have five years to breed the best fighting dog in the world and which ever side's dog won would be entitled to dominate the world.

The Russians found the biggest meanest Doberman and Rottweiler female dogs in the world and bred them with the biggest meanest Siberian wolves. They selected only the biggest and strongest puppy from each litter, removed his siblings which gave him all the milk. After five years they came up with the biggest meanest dog the world had ever seen. It's cage needed steel bars that were five inches thick and nobody could get near it.

When the day came for the dog fight, the Americans showed up with a strange animal. It was a nine foot long Dachshund. Everyone felt sorry for the Americans because they knew there was no way that this dog could possibly last ten seconds with the Russian dog.

When the cages were opened up, the Dachshund came out of it's cage and slowly waddled over towards the Russian dog. The Russian dog snarled and leaped out of it's cage and charged the American dachshund. But, when it got close enough to bite the Dachshund's neck, the Dachshund opened it's mouth and consumed the Russian dog in one bite. There was nothing left at all of the Russian dog.

The Russians came up to the Americans shaking their heads in disbelief. "We don't understand how this could have happened. We had our best people working for five years with the meanest Doberman and Rottweiler female dogs in the world and the biggest meanest Siberian wolves."

"That's nothing", the Americans replied. "We had our best plastic surgeons working for five years to make an alligator look like a Dachshund."

Pick cat up and cradle it in the crook of your left arm as if holding a baby. Position right forefinger and thumb on either side of cat's mouth and gently apply pressure to cheeks while holding pill in right hand. As cat opens mouth pop pill into mouth. Allow cat to close mouth and swallow.

Retrieve pill from floor and cat from behind sofa. Cradle cat in left arm and repeat process.

Retrieve cat from bedroom, and throw soggy pill away.

Take new pill from foil wrap, cradle cat in left arm holding rear paws tightly with left hand. Force jaws open and push pill to back of mouth with right fore-finger. Hold mouth shut for a count of ten.

Retrieve pill from goldfish bowl and cat from top of wardrobe. Call spouse from garden.

Kneel on floor with cat wedged firmly between knees, hold front and rear paws. Ignore low growls emitted by cat. Get spouse to hold head firmly with one hand while forcing wooden ruler into mouth. Drop pill down ruler and rub cat's throat vigorously.

Retrieve cat from curtain rail, get another pill from foil wrap. Make note to buy new ruler and repair curtains. Carefully sweep shattered figurines and vases from hearth and set to one side for gluing later.

Wrap cat in large towel and get spouse to lie on cat with head just visible from below armpit. Put pill in end of drinking straw, force mouth open with pencil and blow down drinking straw.

Check label to make sure pill not harmful to humans, drink glass of water to take taste away. Apply band-aid to spouse's forearm and remove blood from carpet with cold water and soap.

Retrieve cat from neighbor's shed. Get another pill. Place cat in cupboard and close door onto neck to leave head showing. Force mouth open with dessert spoon. Flick pill down throat with elastic band.

Fetch screwdriver from garage and put cupboard door back on hinges. Apply cold compress to cheek and check records for date of last tetanus jab. Throw Tee-shirt away and fetch new one from bedroom.

Ring fire brigade to retrieve cat from tree across the road. Apologize to neighbor who crashed into fence while swerving to avoid cat. Take last pill from foil-wrap.

Tie cat's front paws to rear paws with garden twine and bind tightly to leg of dining table, find heavy duty pruning gloves from shed. Push pill into mouth followed by large piece of fillet steak. Hold head vertically and pour 2 pints of water down throat to wash pill down.

Get spouse to drive you to the emergency room, sit quietly while doctor stitches fingers and forearm and removes pill remnants from right eye. Call furniture shop on way home to order new table.

Arrange for SPCA to collect cat and ring local pet shop to see if they have any hamsters.

How To Give A Dog A Pill

1. Wrap it in bacon.

The following question appeared in a physics degree exam at the University of Copenhagen:

One enterprising student replied: "You tie a long piece of string to the neck of the barometer, then lower the barometer from the roof of the skyscraper to the ground. The length of the string plus the length of the barometer will equal the height of the building."

This highly original answer so incensed the examiner that the student was failed immediately. The student appealed, on the grounds that his answer was indisputably correct, and the university appointed an independent arbiter to decide the case.

The arbiter judged that the answer was indeed correct, but did not display any noticeable knowledge of physics. To resolve the problem it was decided to call the student in and allow him six minutes in which to verbally provide an answer, which showed at least a minimal familiarity with the basic principles of physics.

For five minutes the student sat in silence, forehead creased in thought. The arbiter reminded him that time was running out, to which the student replied that he had several extremely relevant answers, but couldn’t make up his mind which to use.

"Firstly, you could take the barometer up to the roof of the skyscraper, drop it over the edge, and measure the time it takes to reach the ground. The height of the building can then be worked out from the formula H = 1/2gt squared (height equals half times gravity time squared). But bad luck on the barometer."

"Or if the sun is shining you could measure the height of the barometer, then set it on end and measure the length of its shadow. Then you measure the length of the skyscraper’s shadow, and thereafter it is a simple matter of proportional arithmetic to work out the height of the skyscraper."

"But if you wanted to be highly scientific about it, you could tie a short piece of string to the barometer and swing it like a pendulum, first at ground level and then on the roof of the skyscraper. The height is worked out by the difference in the gravitational restoring force (T = 2 pi sq. root of l over g)."

"Or if the skyscraper has an outside emergency staircase, it would be easier to walk up it and mark off the height of the skyscraper in barometer lengths, then add them up."

"If you merely wanted to be boring and orthodox about it, of course, you could use the barometer to measure air pressure on the roof of the skyscraper, compare it with standard air pressure on the ground, and convert the difference in milliners into feet to give the height of the building."

"But since we are constantly being exhorted to exercise independence of mind and apply scientific methods, undoubtedly the best way would be to knock on the janitor’s door and say to him ‘I will give you this nice new barometer, if you will tell me the height of this skyscraper'."

The tribal wisdom of the Dakota Indians, passed on from one generation to the next, says that when you discover you are riding a dead horse, the best strategy is to dismount.

However, in modern business and government, because of the heavy investment factors to be taken into consideration, often other strategies have to be tried with dead horses, including the following:

Buying a stronger whip.
Changing riders.
Threatening the horse with termination.
Appointing a committee to study the horse.
Arranging to visit other sites to see how they ride dead horses.
Lowering the standards so that dead horses can be included.
Appointing an intervention team to reanimate the dead horse.
Creating a training session to increase the riders load share.
Reclassifying the dead horse as living-impaired.
Change the form so that it reads: "This horse is not dead."
Hire outside contractors to ride the dead horse.
Harness several dead horses together for increased speed.
Donate the dead horse to a recognised charity, thereby deducting its full original cost.
Providing additional funding to increase the horse's performance.
Do a time management study to see if lighter riders would improve productivity.
Purchase an after-market product to make dead horses run faster.
Declare that a dead horse has lower overhead and therefore performs better.
Form a quality focus group to find profitable uses for dead horses.
Rewrite the expected performance requirements for horses.
Promote the dead horse to a supervisory position.

Die Krüger's se Humor

Indeks

University Traditions

Spietkop

Overloaded

Nie lid van 'n geheime organisasie nie

A Mother's Job Description

Flying Rules

Ireland declares war on Saddam Hussein

Dangerous Traffic Radar

Drive through ATM

Ongeluksverslag

The actual credit card joke

It's the thought that counts

The Impact of the Roman Empire on Space Shuttle Design

Holiday Fruitcake

Management

South African edition of Windows 98

Letter to My Bank

Chilli Taster

YzeroK - The Change from BC to AD

The Difference Between Men and Women

Battle of the Dogs

How To Give A Cat A Pill

A simple question of mathematics

Horse Politics