It’s Friday its hot here and due to get even hotter. We should be in the mid 80s for this time of year but we’re in the mid to high 90s and this weekend triple digits are forecast with a heat index of roughly 5 more degrees from excessive humidity. Let’s just say that my new morning beverage of choice is iced coffee and leave it at that shall we? The crockpot is getting one hell of a work out this week that’s for sure.

Now before I bust out in non evaporating sweat….

LET’S LAUGH

Honestly I can tell you for a fact the smell of coffee beats the HELL out of the smell of Napalm in the morning- that stuff just reeks!

Sandra: Do you ever miss the ex?
Cindy: OH! All the time! You wouldn’t believe how much!
Sandra: Wow! I didn’t think you cared about him at all.

Cindy: Wait a minute! Did you say “ex” or “sex”?

There has been a big change over the years in woman’s undergarments and especially their panties.
The main difference is in older times you had to move the panty to see the ass but now you have to move the ass to see the panty !

Dick and Sandra were planning to go on a second honeymoon for their 50th wedding anniversary.
Sandra said, “Will we go to all the same places that we did on our first honeymoon?”
“Uh huh,” said Dick.
“Will we do all the things that we did on our first honeymoon?” asked Sandra.
“Uh huh,” said Dick.
“And will we make love like we did on our first honeymoon?” asked Sandra.
“That’s right,” said Dick, “except this time I get to sit on the side of the bed and cry, ‘It’s too big, it’s too big!'”

A blonde was hunched over the bar, toothpick in hand, spearing futilely at the olive in her drink. A dozen times the olive eluded her. Finally, another patron, who had been watching intently from the next stool, became exasperated and grabbed the toothpick.
“Here, this is how you do it.” he said, as he easily skewered the olive.
“Big Deal,” muttered the blonde. “I already had him so tired out, he couldn’t get away.

No English dictionary has been able to explain the difference between the two words COMPLETE and FINISHED, in a way that’s easy to understand.

Some people say there is no difference between COMPLETE & FINISHED. I beg
to differ because, there is :

When you marry the right woman, you are “COMPLETE”.
And when you marry the wrong one, you are “FINISHED”!

And when the right one catches you with the wrong one, you are …

“COMPLETELY FINISHED” !!! 

Turkey

A game warden was driving down the road when he came upon a young boy carrying a wild turkey under his arm.

He stopped and asked the boy, ‘Where did you get that turkey?’

The boy replied, ‘What turkey?’

The game warden said, ‘That turkey you’re carrying under your arm.’

The boy looks down and said, ‘Well, lookee here, a turkey done roosted under my arm!’

The game warden said, ‘Now look, you know turkey season is closed, so whatever you do to that turkey, I’m going to do to you.

If you break his leg, I’m gonna break your leg. If you break his wing,

I’ll break your arm. Whatever you do to him, I’ll do to you.

So, what are you gonna do with him?’

The little boy said, ‘I guess I’ll just kiss his butt and let him go!’

Cold Tomato Soup (Zuppa di Pomodoro Fredda)

3 Tbs (45 ml) extra-virgin olive oil, plus additional for garnish
1/2 onion, chopped
2 lbs (900 g) ripe tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and coarsely chopped
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
1-2 cups (250-500 ml) chicken stock, vegetable stock, or water
1 cucumber, peeled, seeded, and diced
About 4 oz (110 g) goat cheese

Heat the oil in a pot over moderate heat and saute the onion until tender but not brown, about 5 minutes. Add the tomatoes and season with salt and pepper. Saute for 5 minutes, then lower the heat, add the stock, and simmer covered for 30 minutes.

Puree the soup in an electric blender or food processor and set aside to cool. Refrigerate until ready to serve. Garnish with the cucumber, a dollop of goat cheese,
and a drizzle of olive oil immediately before serving.

Serves 4 to 6.

Mom is working in the farmhouse kitchen when dad enters with his first erection in years. “Mom, get into bed!” he says. She takes off her apron, puts all the ingredients and utensils away, washes her hands, gets into bed… but too late. Dad has withered away.

“Ya know, we can’t have this happen again,” says dad.
“Next time I get one of these I’ll ring the fire bell so you can start getting ready when you hear it. When I get to the house, we’ll be right.”

A year goes by. Mom’s in the kitchen. She hears the fire bell. She goes through all the preparations. Dad comes pounding into the house, through the kitchen, into the
bedroom where mom lies naked waiting for him. He looks her over and says,

“Get up, ya oversexed fool, the barn’s on fire!”

Did I read that sign right?
TOILET OUT OF ORDER. PLEASE USE FLOOR BELOW

In a Laundromat:
AUTOMATIC WASHING MACHINES: PLEASE REMOVE ALL YOUR CLOTHES WHEN THE LIGHT GOES OUT

In a London department store:
BARGAIN BASEMENT UPSTAIRS

In an office:
WOULD THE PERSON WHO TOOK THE STEP LADDER YESTERDAY PLEASE BRING IT BACK OR FURTHER STEPS WILL BE TAKEN

In an office:
AFTER TEA BREAK STAFF SHOULD EMPTY THE TEAPOT AND STAND UPSIDE DOWN ON THE DRAINING BOARD

Outside a second-hand shop:  WE EXCHANGE ANYTHING – BICYCLES, WASHING MACHINES, ETC. WHY NOT BRING YOUR WIFE ALONG AND GET A WONDERFUL BARGAIN?

Notice in health food shop window:  CLOSED DUE TO ILLNESS

Spotted in a safari park (I sure hope so):
ELEPHANTS PLEASE STAY IN YOUR CAR

Seen during a conference:
FOR ANYONE WHO HAS CHILDREN AND DOESN’T KNOW IT, THERE IS A DAY CARE ON THE 1ST FLOOR

Notice in a farmer’s field:
THE FARMER ALLOWS WALKERS TO CROSS THE FIELD FOR FREE, BUT THE BULL CHARGES.

Message on a leaflet:
IF YOU CANNOT READ, THIS LEAFLET WILL TELL YOU HOW TO GET LESSONS

On a repair shop door:
WE CAN REPAIR ANYTHING. (PLEASE KNOCK HARD ON THE DOOR – THE BELL DOESN’T WORK)

Its Friday, its hot and nobody want to get worked up or think too hard (LEAST OF ALL impish dragon) so today just a little humorous food for thought.

When imagination threatens to go haywire

JORDAN FENSTER entertainment editor at the New Haven Register Published: Tuesday, June 07, 2011

I was sitting on the toilet the other day at work and heard a repetitive beeping. I immediately assumed it was a bomb.

I did not call the police — not out of any doubt that the offending noise did, in fact, come from an explosive device, but out of fear the police would find me with my pants down around my ankles. So, after finishing my, um business (realizing too late that the flush could be the trigger mechanism), I bravely set off to find the device. I closed my eyes and followed my ears, letting the beep guide me ever closer to its source.

It was one of those automatic urinals. Apparently it was out of batteries or something.
I tell this (regrettably true) story to illustrate how much of a slave to my imagination I am, and the level of paranoia I experience on a daily basis. There’s a little mathematical formula I worked out to scientifically explain the phenomenon from which I suffer: Paranoia + Imagination (minus common sense) = sitting on a toilet with your pants around your ankles and calling the bomb squad.

To help, I put together a little graph. See that dip? that’s that momentary flash of common sense, that little voice inside that says, “Jordan, what kind of idiot are you? You’re in a bathroom at a newspaper office and you think someone has planted a bomb? Get real, moron.” Notice, however, how precipitously it jumps back up there. Common sense is like that dog that warns you the hurricane is coming, but all you hear is barking.

The events of Sept. 11, 2001 have had a deleterious effect on my paranoia — or, actually the exact opposite. I was by nature a paranoid lunatic before witnessing first-hand the second plane crash, but that event (and others) served to fortify the walls of my paranoia. What was a little outpost in the wilderness is now a neurotic army base.
I tend to duck and cover every time I hear a low-flying plane. I also tend to drink more since 2001, but I’m not sure the two things are connected.

My overactive imagination, however, I blame not on my parents alone but on how, in society, we raise our kids. We teach them to draw, to paint, to write, to sing and, worst of all, to interpret and analyze. We tell our kids to look into the sources behind statements and ideas, to use metaphor and meaning and to pick apart concepts like so many Thanksgiving turkeys.

Bad idea. We’d be smarter to limit their imaginations, teach them that cigars are just cigars, not phallic symbols in any way, to call a spade a spade and be done with it.
This is why America is losing the innovation war — rather than teach our kids to do, we’re teaching our kids to dream. Better we had a race of automatons without the capacity for any more than rudimentary imaginations.

Otherwise, soon enough, we’ll have a nation of guys with their pants around their ankles, and too much work for bomb squads. Now, now, I am just kidding. I of course take pride in my imagination and encourage it in my own children. Imagination is what makes every trip to the bathroom an adventure. Imagination is what drives our will to succeed, to hope, to change our miserable lives.

Wait … what’s that smell? I gotta go call the cops.