A Spanish teacher was explaining to her class that in Spanish, unlike English, nouns are designated as either masculine or feminine.
"House"
For instance, is feminine:
"La casa."
"Pencil,"
However, is masculine:
"El lapiz."
A student asked,
"What gender is 'computer'?"
Instead of giving the answer, the teacher split the class into two groups, male and female, and asked them to decide for themselves whether "computer" should be a masculine or a feminine noun.
Each group was asked to give four reasons for its recommendation.
The men's group decided that "computer" should definitely be of the feminine gender ("la computadora") because:
1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic.
2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else.
3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible later retrieval; and
4. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.
(This gets better!)
The women's group, however, concluded that computers should be masculine ("el computador") because:
1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on.
2. They have a lot of data but still can't think for themselves.
3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time, they ARE the problem; and
4. As soon as you commit to one, you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model.
The women won.
Three men arrive at the gates of heaven, St. Peter looks upon them and says “Though you are all good men, you have sins to absolve before I can let you enter the great kingdom!” So St. Peter takes them off to purgatory. ….
….
The first man had an addiction to sεx. St. Peter took this man to a room; inside were hundreds of women, fully nudе. The man runs into the room excited as can be as St. Peter says, ” I’ll be back in 99 years to see if you’ve learned your lesson.”
The second man is a serious alcoholic. St. Peter takes this man to his room and inside there was an endless supply of every type of alcohol imaginable. St. Peter says again, “I’ll be back in 99 years to see if you’ve learned your lesson.”
The third man was a chronic stoner. St. Peter takes him to his room, which is filled with endless amounts of marijuana, bongs, and pipes. St. Peter again says, ” I’ll be back in 99 years to see if you’ve learned your lesson.”
99 years pass and St. Peter returns to the first room, the sεx addict inside is so relieved, he repents on the spot. St. Peter allows him into heaven.
The alcoholic speeds out the door as St. Peter opens it. He begs for forgiveness and is allowed in.
St. Peter opens the stoner’s door only to find him joint in one hand, pipe in the other, rocking feverishly. The pothead looks up at St. Peter shaking and says, ” Hey, you got a light, man?”
Something for you under 45’s to look forward to: …
Here’s how bad it can get… …
When I turned 55, along with my geezer discount for auto insurance and my free intro membership to AARP, my doctor suggested a range of medical tests. One of these was the inspection for polyps. I made an appointment for 8 am on a Monday morning. …
…
I turned up on time, leaving behind in my bathroom, a stack of empty Fleet bottles. (You over-50’s know what I mean.) The doc looked at me blankly and said, “Why are we here?” and I told him. “A colonoscopy.” …
…
He said, “Oh, Chr!st, I knew there was a reason I didn’t want to come into work today.”
The instrument is a long black hose about 1/2″ in diameter, a black box and a video monitor. A little Vaaseline, and in she goes. On the monitor, it looked like a pink subway tunnel; thankfully, clean as a whistle. Then the doc “pumped me up with air,” and I felt like a mylar party balloon. The tunnel on the screen gets really wide, and then we start to move again. After a few minutes, doc gets excited and says, “Wow! Sixty centimeters!” I know that means about two feet. I can feel this little parasite crawling around under my liver. Ultimately, he pronounces that I will not die soon, not of воwеl cancer anyway, and starts to withdraw Mr. Вuтт-cam.
Ten minutes later, I am waiting in the lobby for the elevator. I slowly realize that all that air that was pumped into me is preparing for its escape. The elevator shows up. There are ten or twelve people on it. … I get on. … The elevator is hot and crowded and I am squeezed between two heavy folk. The air begins to escape, not at all quietly.
People are trying to find an unoccupied corner of the elevator to escape the symphony from my bun tuba. … Panic is close. … There is no smell, since it was only air, but the noise more than makes up for it. One woman seems about to vомiт.
It took more than six hours, (in “subjective time units,”) to reach the ground floor. The door opens and the disgusted mob in the elevator flees with undignified haste. I walk from the elevator and hear a child behind me say, “Boy, did that man ever fаrт!”
“Shush, honey, he was just here to see the doctor about it. Don’t make fun of him. He’s sick.”
The rest of the way home, I am treated to a sphincterhorn concerto in the privacy of my own car. Key of G♭.
Be warned, those of you in your late 40’s. Someday you too will face the same embarrassment.
Female newscaster, “So, Mr. Jones, what are you going to do with these children on this adventure holiday?”
Mr. Jones, “We’re going to teach them climbing, canoeing, archery, shooting…”
Female newscaster, “Shooting! That’s a bit irresponsible, isn’t it?”
Mr. Jones, “I don’t see why; they’ll be properly supervised on the range.”
Female newscaster, “Don’t you admit that this is a terribly dangerous activity to be teaching children?”
Mr. Jones, “I don’t see how, we will be teaching them proper range disipline before they even touch a firearm.”
Female newscaster, “But you’re equipping them to become violent killers.”
Mr. Jones, “Well, you’re equipped to be a рrоsтiтuте, but you’re not one, are you?”