Coffee Klatch

A young man visited his sister who was married to a farmer in a poor district of the country. Since there were limited accommodations, he was required to sleep with his young nephew.

When the young man came into the bedroom, he saw the little boy kneeling at the side of the bed with his head bowed.

Thinking this was the child’s religious upbringing, he decided to present a good example and knelt at the other side of the bed with his head bowed.

The child looked up and said, “Whatcha doin’?”

“Why, the same thing you’re doing,” replied the uncle.

“Ma’s gonna be real mad,” said the boy. “The pot’s on this side.”

[If you’re having a hard time figuring this one out, try reading it aloud.]

Wants pawn term dare worsted ladle gull hoe lift wetter murder inner ladle cordage honor itch offer ledge dock florist. Disc ladle gull orphan worry ladle rat cluck wetter putty ladle rat hut, end fur disc raisin pimple cauldron ladle rat rotten hut.

Wan moaning, rat rotten hut’s murder colder inset. “Ladle rat rotten hut, heresy ladle basking winsome burden barter end shirker cockles. Tick disc ladle basking Tudor cordage offer groin murder, hoe lifts honor udder site other florist. Shaker lake, done stopper laundry wrote, end yonder nor sorghum stenches done stopper torque wet strainers.”

“Hoe cake, murder,” resplendent ladle rat rotten hut. Den sea ticker ladle basking an stuttered oft. Honor wrote Tudor cordage offer groin murder, ladle rat rotten hut mitten anomalous woof.

“Wail, wail, wail,” set disc wicket woof. “Effervescent ladle rat rotten hut! Wares or putty ladle gull goring wizard ladle basking?”

“Aroma goring tumor groin murder’s,” reprisal ladle gull. “Grammar’s seeking bet. Armor ticking arson burden barter end shirker cockles.”

“Oh, hoe! Heifer peasant woke,” setter wicket woof. Butter taught tomb shelf, “Oil tickle shirt court Tudor cordage offer groin murder. Oil ketchup wetter letter, end den oh bore!”

Soda wicket woof tucker shirt court, end whinney retched a cordage offer groin murder, picket inner winnow end sore debtor pore oil worming worse lion inner bet. Inner flesh disc abdominal woof lipped honor betting adder rope. Zany pool dawn a groin murder’s nut cup and gnat gun, any curdle dope inner bet.

Inner ladle wile, ladle rat rotten hut a raft adder cordage an ranker dough ball.

“Comb ink, sweat hard,” setter wicket woof disgracing is verse. Ladle rat rotten hut entity bet rum, end stud buyer groin murder’s bet.

“Oh, grammar!” crater ladle gull. “Wart bag icer gut! A nervous sausage bag ice!”

“Butter toe lucky chew whiff, doll ink,” whiskered disc ratchet woof wither wicket small.

“Oh, grammar! Water bag noise! A nervous sore suture anomalous prognosis.”

“Butter day small your whiff,” inserter woof, ants mouse worse waddling.

“Oh, grammar! Water bag mousey gut! A nervous sore suture bag mouse!”

Daze worry on forger nut gull’s lest warts. Oil offer sodden trolling offer carvers an sprinkling otter bet, disc curl end bloat Thursday woof ceased pore ladle rat rotten nut an garbled erupt.

Mural: Yonder nor sorghum stenches shut ladle gulls stopper torque wet strainers!

Have you ever wondered how to say “cow” in Sanskrit? Or Cherokee? There’s a website that has a list of the word for “cow” in 539 different languages. Many of the listings have the IPA (International Phonetic Alphabet) pronunciation of the word as well as some basic information like where the language is/was spoken.

http://www.arrakis.es/~eledu/justcows.htm

(By the way, in Sanskrit it’s “Go” or “Gauh” and in Cherokee it’s “Wahga.”)

Now you know.

Here’s a cool new technology that I found out through Topher’s blog. It’s a new way for car doors to work, where the door actually slides under the car rather than swinging out.  And it sounds like they can even retrofit your car with these doors! There’s a nice little video about it on their website: http://www.disappearing-car-door.com/index.html

This speaks for itself. (But what does it say?)

So the boys were digging into Easter Baskets this morning. One of the things they got was a chocolate egg with a peep inside. The time came for hunting for eggs outside, so everyone got up and ran outside, leaving their candy on the floor. When the hunt was done, everyone came in and Blaise’s peep was missing. There was only one possible culprit: Mrs. Peel, our 3-year-old Yorkie-Poo.

She normally doesn’t like things like that (or almost ANY people food), so we guessed she must have grabbed it to chew on, like she does with little stuffed animals that she finds. We looked in her kennel, and, sure enough, there it was! Alaric was given the task of getting a picture of her to document the event, probably for a scrapbook. Without thinking, he put his own “peep-on-the-half-shell” down on the floor near her and went for the camera. While he was two steps away, she grabbed HIS and ran off!

Easter pfun for everyone!

With the possible exception of Santa Claus himself, there is not a busier mammal on the face of the earth than the Easter Bunny. Once a year, the Easter Bunny hops into the homes of hundreds of millions of boys and girls all over the globe, dropping off chocolates, candy, and eggs as part of the celebration of Easter. America Online spent a few minutes with the Easter Bunny as he was preparing for this year’s task, for a tell-all, no-holds-barred interview. If you thought you knew the Easter Bunny, you just may be surprised.

America Online: Thanks for talking to us.

Easter Bunny: No problem. Do you mind if I eat while we talk? (takes out a packet of small green pellets) I’ve been in a rush recently.

AOL: Go right ahead. We’ve got a list of questions here, compiled from our members, and I’ll just go down the list if you don’t mind.

EB: Ready when you are.

AOL: The first question comes from Ted, in Dayton, Ohio. He writes: “We all know that Santa’s Workshop is located at the North Pole. Does the Easter Bunny have a workshop, and if so, where is it located?”

EB: Well, Ted, the answer is yes, I do have a workshop. It’s located in San Bernardino, California.

AOL: San Bernardino?

EB: That’s right.

AOL: You have to understand that most people would have figured some place like Easter Island.

EB: Have you *been* to Easter Island? What a rock! It’s the single most isolated piece of land on the planet. By the time we shipped fresh eggs there, we’d have chickens. Besides, San Bernardino has the sort of motivated labor pool we need.

AOL: Elves?

EB: Laid-off aerospace workers.

AOL: They would seem to be a little overqualified.

EB: Maybe. But now we have some lovely chocolate stealth bombers.

AOL: Our next question comes from Cindy, in Tempe. She writes: “Why is the Easter Bunny a bunny? Why couldn’t it have been the Easter Kitty, or the Easter Puppy?”

EB: That’s a very good question. In fact, in the late 70s, we as an organization decided to play around with the whole “bunny” thing by recruiting prominent local animals to deliver Easter baskets. In 1978, when the experiment was at its height, we had an Easter Bunny, an Easter Coyote, an Easter Manatee and an Easter Komodo Dragon.

AOL: What happened?

EB: It just didn’t work out. The komodo dragon ate the eggs, the coyote just flaked out, and the manatee, if I may say so, was just about as dumb as a stick. There were some other problems with the program, too. The less we talk about the whole Easter Man-Eating Bengali Swamp Tiger episode, the better. Now we stick with bunnies. We know bunnies. We can work with bunnies. Bunnies don’t eat anyone.

AOL: Bob in Honolulu asks: “Is there is just one Easter Bunny? Moreover, has the same Easter Bunny been the Easter Bunny for the last couple of millennia?”

EB: The fact of the matter is that there are quite a few Easter Bunnies, and we’ve never made a secret about that. Unlike the Santa Claus operation, which works under the improbable assumption that one guy delivers all those presents -

AOL: Are you saying that Santa is a sham?

EB: I didn’t say that. I never said that. What I am saying is that *we* don’t work under the same sort of constraints. I mean, think about it. One bunny delivering baskets to several hundred million homes across the planet? The friction from the atmosphere alone would turn the poor guy into a bunny briquette. There’d be hideous charcoal smudges all over the baskets. “Easter Bunny” is a job description, not a proper name. It’s like “Postal Carrier,” except our employees very rarely become disgruntled.

AOL: So why are you THE Easter Bunny?

EB: Because I’m boss. You’re not an Easter Bunny until I say you are.

AOL: How does one become an Easter Bunny?

EB: Well, it’s not just hopping down the bunny trail, I’ll tell you. First, for reasons already explained, you have to be a bunny. After that, we have a psychological evaluation and a battery of physical tests you have to pass. We can’t afford to have an Easter Bunny cramp up at the beginning of his run.

AOL: Any famous rabbits turned down for the job?

EB: I don’t want to name names. But one bunny who’s making a living in the breakfast cereal industry, we had to let go. Any time a child would try to get an Easter basket from him, he’d back away and start snarling. He was a silly rabbit. Easter baskets are for kids.

AOL: He seems to have gotten better since then.

EB: Prozac helps.

AOL: Albert from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, wants to know what are the occupational hazards of being the Easter Bunny.

EB: There are several. Large dogs are always a problem, of course: one moment you’re delivering a basket of goodies, the next, a rottweiler named Pinochet is on you like a meat-filled sock. Nervous homeowners with guns wing a couple of bunnies a year, as do edgy cops and private security guards. We don’t even bother trying to deliver to the children of militia members anymore; first they’ll plug you for being on their land, then they’ll make you into jerky and a pair of gloves. But you know what our number one problem is?

AOL: What?

EB: Sliding glass doors. Sometimes we’ll just forget they’re there. Man, that’s embarrassing.

AOL: Here’s an interesting question, from Amy, in New York City. She writes: “How does the Easter Bunny get along with Santa Claus? It seems like Santa gets all the attention.” And I have to say, I did notice some tension earlier, when you brought him up.

EB (Looking uncomfortable): Well, you know, look. I don’t want to say anything bad about the guy. He does what he does, and I do what I do. Professionally, we get along fine.

AOL: But privately?

EB: Is that tape recorder turned off?

AOL: Uh… sure.

EB: He’s a big ol’ pain in this bunny’s bottom. For one thing, he’s a prima donna: always me, me, me, where’s my highball, where’s my corned beef sandwich, tell this dumb bunny to get his own dressing room. I’d rather be trapped in a sack with Joan Crawford. For another, he’s totally paranoid of other large men. He thinks that Luciano Pavarotti is trying to move into his territory. Last year it was John Goodman. He actually danced when Orson Welles kicked it, waving his pistol and bellowing “Rosebud!” from the top of his lungs.

AOL: Wow. He seems a little scary.

EB: You think? And yet he gets all the publicity. Why? We do the same job. Mine’s actually tougher, since I’m moving perishable stuff. You can’t have bad eggs or stale chocolate, you know. Folks wouldn’t stand for it. I have to maintain strict quality control. The only food product he has to worry about is fruitcake. You could tile the Space Shuttle with fruitcake.

AOL: We’re sure you have your own fans.

EB: It’s like opening for the Beatles, is all. And he *is* the walrus, if you know what I mean.

AOL: One final question, from Pat, in Rockford, Illinois; “Does the Easter Bunny actually lay eggs? How does that happen, since the Easter Bunny is both male and a mammal?”

EB: Well, platypuses are mammals, and they lay eggs. So it’s not impossible.

AOL: That still leaves the male part.

EB: We’re quibbling on details, here.

AOL: Maybe there should be an Easter Platypus.

EB: Sorry. We tried that in ‘78.

Here are Ten Common Full-Time Employee Illnesses:

1. The Macy’s One-Day Sale Flu.
2. The Drivers License Renewal Appointment 24-Hour Virus.
3. The Friday-Afternoon-Start-The-Weekend-Early Sudden Unbearable Stomach Pains.
4. The I’m Looking for a New Job and I Don’t Know How Long it’s Going to Take, but I Want to Stay on the Payroll Until Then Mysterious Infection.
5. The My Boyfriend’s Got the Week Off so Suddenly I’m too Contagious to Come in to the Office Disease.
6. The I Need a Hair Cut and My Stylist Doesn’t Make Evening Appointments Bout of Influenza.
7. The There’s No Federal Holidays for Two Months and I Want a Day Off Sickness.
8. The It’s Spring Break and I Want to Pretend I’m a Teenager Again General Ailment.
9. The I’ve Messed Up Royally and I Won’t Come in to Face the Music Terminal Illness.
10. The I Really AM Sick and I’ve Got the Doctor’s Bills and the Completed Medical Expense Reimbursement Forms to Prove It Infirmity.

A man was blissfully driving along the highway, when he saw the Easter Bunny hopping across the middle of the road. He swerved to avoid hitting the bunny, but unfortunately the rabbit jumped in front of his car and was hit. The basket of eggs went flying all over the place. Candy, too.

The driver, being a sensitive man as well as an animal lover, pulled over to the side of the road, and got out to see what had become of the bunny carrying the basket. Much to his dismay, the colorful bunny was dead. The driver felt guilty and began to cry.

A woman driving down the same highway saw the man crying on the side of the road and pulled over. She stepped out of her car and asked the man what was wrong.

“I feel terrible,” he explained. “I accidentally hit the Easter Bunny and killed him. What should I do?”

The woman told the man not to worry. She knew exactly what to do. She went to her car trunk, and pulled out a spray can. She walked over to the limp dead bunny, and sprayed the entire contents of the can onto the little furry animal. Miraculously the Easter Bunny came back to life, jumped up, picked up the spilled eggs and candy, waved its paw at the two humans and hopped on down the road. 50 yards away the Easter Bunny stopped, turned around, waved and hopped on down the road another 50 yards, turned waved, hopped another 50 yards and waved again!

The man was astonished. He said to the woman, “What in heaven’s name is in your spray can?”

The woman turned the can around so that the man could read the label. It said:

An Irishman walks into a bar and orders three glasses of Guinness, drinking a sip from each one and working his way through them. Noticing this odd ritual, the bartender explains that the beer goes flat when poured and informs the man his beer would be much fresher if he ordered one glass at a time.

The Irishman explains he began this custom with his two brothers, who have moved to America and Australia, respectively. Each of them orders three beers at a time, as a way of remembering all the time they spent drinking together.

The man becomes a regular at the pub, well-known for always ordering three beers at once. One day he walks in and orders only two beers. Assuming the worst, a hush falls among the other patrons.

When the Irishman returns to the bar to order his second round, the bartender quietly offers his condolences. The man looks confused for a moment, and then explains, “No, everyone’s fine. I gave up beer for Lent.”