The Special Category

Anagrammy Awards > Voting Page - Special Category

An optional explanation about the anagram in green, the subject is in black, the anagram is in red.

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e-mail to: ALL MY FRIENDS


Hi Friends!

You HAVE to read this and pass it on! I am already carrying out No.3!

(1) Telemarketers:
Say 3 words: "Hold on please..."
Do this, put down your phone and walk off (instead of hanging-up), and it will make each call so long that boiler-room sales will grind to a halt. When you eventually hear the phone-company's "beep-beep" tone, go back and hang up your handset, as it has now efficiently completed its task. These 3 words will help eliminate phone-soliciting.

(2) Do you ever get those annoying phone calls where no one is there? This is a telemarketing technique! A machine makes calls and records the time of day a person answers. This is used to ascertain the best time for a "real" salesman to call back and find someone in. If ever you get a silent call, hit your hash button rapidly, 6 or 7 times. This confuses the mechanical caller and kicks your number from its system!

(3) Junk Mail:
When you get "ads" enclosed with utility bills, return the "ads" with your payment. Let the sending companies throw their own junk mail away. When you receive those "pre-approved" letters for credit cards and loans, do not discard the "return" envelope, as most of these are "postage-paid". It costs them more than the regular 24p postage, BUT ONLY IF THEY RECEIVE THEM BACK. It costs them nothing if you throw them away! Postage was 29p before our last increase. So, why not get rid of some of your other junk mail and put it in their postage-paid return envelopes? For example; send an ad for a local chimney cleaner to American Express, or a pizza voucher to Citibank. If you got nothing else that day, then send their blank application back! If you want it to be anonymous, don't put your name on anything you return. You can even send the envelope back empty if you want to keep them guessing! It is still costing them 24p; and every 24p mounts up!

Banks and credit card companies are currently getting a lot of their own junk back in the mail, but we need to OVERWHELM them with 1,000s! Let THEM see what it's like to get loads of junk mail, and best of all they're paying for it...Twice!

The Royal Mail also stuffs local adverts through your mailbox. I put them back in their own Post Boxes. Good fun, eh?!
Let's keep our postal service busy since they say e-mails cut into their profits, which means they have to increase costs again.

If enough people follow these tips, they'll work!


e-mail to: ALL MY FRIENDS


Hello Merrymakers!

Now that the New Year is upon us, I'd just like to extend my thanks and appreciation to all of you who've thoughtfully taken the time and trouble to send me those well-chosen "Forwards" over the past 12 months.

Thank you all for making me feel so safe, happy, blessed and healthy. My added thanks to the people who sent me the e-mail about rats' crap in the glue on envelopes, as I now have to go get a wet towel every time I seal my envelopes. Also, I love Dr Peppers yet, just because of your concern, I must scrub the top of every single can I open just in case the shopkeeper had some dry piddle (or worse!) on his hands.

I no longer drink Coca Cola because I know that it can remove toilet stains, which isn't a particularly appealing characteristic. Not to mention the zippy fact that it eats-away a T-Bone steak in about 3 days! Furthermore, I no longer check the coin returns on pay phones because my finger could be pricked with an infected needle-tip that may be riddled with AIDS. I don't use deodorants just in case they cause cancers, even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day.

I don't go to shopping centres because some psycho might drug me with a cologne sample, nor do I eat KFCs because their "chickens" are actually terrible mutant freaks with no eyes or feathers.

I no longer worry about my soul because at the last count, I had 36,324 angels looking out for me.

Thanks to you, I've learned that God will only answer my prayers if I forward these e-mails to twenty of my friends and make a wish within thirty minutes. I no longer have any savings because I just gave them all to a sick girl on the internet who is about to die horribly in some third-world hospital (for the 372,294th time).

In fact, I no longer possess any money at all - but that will change once I receive the phenomenal sums that Microsoft and AOL are quickly sending me for participating in their special online e-mail-system program.

Yes, I want to express my thanks to you all so much for doggedly looking out for me that I will now return the favour!

If you don't send this e-mail off to at least 124,000 people in the next twenty minutes, a huge donkey with teeth like razor blades will promptly turn up and rip your privates clean off at 5PM this afternoon. I know this will happen because it actually happened to a friend of my next-door neighbour's mother-in-law's second husband's cousin's beautician's sister's dog.

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Barry, Maurice and Robin Gibb

Its just your jive talkin'
You're telling me lies, yeah
Jive talkin'
You wear a disguise
Jive talkin'
So misunderstood, yeah
Jive talkin'
You really no good

Oh, my child
You'll never know
Just what you mean to me
Oh, my child
You got so much
You're gonna take away my energy

With all your jive talkin'
You're telling me lies, yeah
Good lovin'
Still gets in my eyes
Nobody believes what you say
Its just your jive talkin'
That gets in the way

Oh my love
You're so good
Treating me so cruel
There you go
With your fancy lies
Leavin me lookin
Like a dumbstruck fool
With all your

Jive talkin'
You're telling me lies, yeah
Jive talkin'
You wear a disguise
Jive talkin'
So misunderstood, yeah
Jive talkin'
You just ain't no good

Love talkin'
Is all very fine, yeah
Jive talkin'
Just isn't a crime
And if there's somebody
You'll love till you die
Then all that jive talkin'
Just gets in your eye

Jive talkin'
You're telling me lies, yeah
Good lovin'
Still gets in my eyes
Nobody believes what you say
It's just your jive talkin'
That gets in the way

Love talkin'
Is all very fine, yeah
Jive talkin', just isn't a crime
And if there's somebody
You'll love till you die
Then all that jive talkin'
Just gets in your eye

"Yo Tone" Bliar

You say I'm freeloadin'?
You talkin' jive!
Me an' Cherie
Like livin' our lives,
Eat out in style,
We just lay in the sun,
In Bee Gee Robin's villa,
- The guy is such fun!

Yes, you'll
Never know
Just what it really cost,
Jugglin' jumbo-jet
Voyages to Miami,
I'll very likely see a loss!

Don't talk of scroungin',
It ain't my bag,
I like good green livin'
- Just like Johnny Two-Jags;
You should never ever,
Believe all those lies,
- I ain't too greedy,
You just talkin' jive!

You, you, you'll never know,
The guilt that I go thru,
Yes I'd easily donate
My full holiday rate
Yet my host just won't let me
(I don't like to refuse);
I don't like...

Free livin'
You just talkin' trash,
Me an' Cherie
Just value our cash,
Okay, I'm star-struck
That I won't deny
But I ain't very greedy,
You just talkin' jive!

Easy joyridin'
Is what they'll say,
I guess they're jealous
'bout every global holiday,
Yes, it ain't easy
To juggle my time,
But I go anyway,
To save me a dime

Yo, joy-killer!
You killing my glee
No talkin' jive,
Or no knighthood you'll see!
Don't go dissin'
My lovely, lovely Cherie,
See, the lady's more than
A woman to me!

Joy! Livin' like royalty
Without a holiday bill!
(As Saddam Hussein
In jail was killed)
Hey you!
No more jive talkin',
Jive talkin' at me!
Viva Tony!
Viva Cherie!

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Days by Philip Larkin

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.


How many birthdays have you seen?
Count bright candles on the cake;
They are your age.
Slice it with a knife
Divide the spoils to hand.
Dying people want a small remnant
Or those wishing life were over
Party with quiet bravery,
Death ever-present.

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The Last Ten Years - Kenny Rogers

Oh, the last ten years, it's been quite trip
Over thirty-six-hundred spins around without a cosmic slip
But within the realm of our atmosphere
We're 'bout as out of whack as we've ever been in a million years.

We watched the Y2K scare in a panic
An' we watched as time proved Nostrodamus wrong
An' we watched as Mother Nature shook the planet
An' cellular replaced the telephone.

We lost Charlie Brown, Ray Charles an' Johnny Cash
We even lost Superman.

Well, the last ten years, look at the hills we've climbed
The best golfer's black, the best rapper's white an' it's about damn time
But we best beware, there's a brand new fight, you see
An' I hate to say we might be our own worst enemy

We watched Oklahoma sifting through the damage
An' we watched a US President get caught
We watched shareholders watch their savings vanish
We all cried when we watched those towers fall

We lost Minnie Pearl, Ron Reagan and Sam Ahan
We even lost Superman.

Expensive gas an' free downloads
The dot-com boom, an' reality shows
What's gonna happen next is anybody's guess

Satellite radio and hybrid cars
Hand-held computers an' a trip to Mars
It's all become a part of who we are
In the last ten years.

In the last ten years
We lost George Harrison, John Paul and June Carter-Cash
Hell, we even lost Superman.

Gonna miss you, Chris.

The Last Two Terms - narrated by George Bush

Oh, the last two terms have been such a blast
Tony Blair, John Howard and Rice - they're sucking up my ass.
An' it's a hunch because you'll all agree
I've been the most crappy screwball joke in history.

We watched as I appeared to get promoted
We saw as Al was concerned numbers were wrong
We watched as I won again when not really voted
An' kept that rich house in which I don't belong.

We lost the Reps' House, the Senate, Afghanistan
We even lost that Arabian

Well the last two terms, hear me quote lexically
"I've coined new words like misunderstanding and Hispanically",
An' "More of our imports come from overseas"
I've verbalised "They misunderestimated me!"

We watched as when the towers were crushed
I let the Bin Laden rulers escape our town.
We watched as a state was flushed
An' I screwed the help as I watched the damn fools drown.

We lost the Reps' House, the Senate, Afghanistan
We even lost that Arabian

Token French laws, army policy
Crappy drug harborers and perjury
What's gonna happen next - wiser Hillary Clinton as our pres?

Shit Pakistan, Korean and European names
My ranch, hoax nuclear bomb games
They're all to do with what I've been
In the last two terms.

In the last two terms
We lost the Reps' House, the Senate, Afghanistan
Hell, we even lost that Arabian

Gonna miss you, George!

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The Tale Of Peter Rabbit

ONCE upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter. They lived with their Mother in a sand-bank, underneath the root of a very big fir tree.

"NOW, my dears," said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, "you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don't go into Mr. McGregor's garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor."

"NOW run along, and don't get into mischief. I am going out."

THEN old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella, to the baker's. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five currant buns.

FLOPSY, Mopsy, and Cottontail, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries; BUT Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr. McGregor's garden and squeezed under the gate!

FIRST he ate some lettuces and some French beans; and then he ate some radishes; AND then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.

BUT round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but Mr. McGregor!

MR. McGREGOR was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages, but he jumped up and ran after Peter, waving a rake and calling out, "Stop thief!"

PETER was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate. He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes.

AFTER losing them, he ran on four legs and went faster, so that I think he might have got away altogether if he had not unfortunately run into a gooseberry net, and got caught by the large buttons on his jacket. It was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.

PETER gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself.

MR. McGREGOR came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon the top of Peter; but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind him. AND rushed into the toolshed and jumped into a can. It would have been a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had not had so much water in it.

MR. McGREGOR was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the toolshed, perhaps hidden underneath a flower-pot. He began to turn them over carefully, looking under each.

Presently Peter sneezed-- "Kertyschoo!" Mr. McGregor was after him in no time, AND tried to put his foot upon Peter, who jumped out of a window, upsetting three plants. The window was too small for Mr. McGregor, and he was tired of running after Peter. He went back to his work.

PETER sat down to rest; he was out of breath and trembling with fright, and he had not the least idea which way to go. Also he was very damp with sitting in that can.

After a time he began to wander about, going lippity-- lippity--not very fast, and looking all around.

HE found a door in a wall; but it was locked, and there was no room for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath. An old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying peas and beans to her family in the wood. Peter asked her the way to the gate, but she had such a large pea in her mouth that she could not answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry.

THEN he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became more and more puzzled. Presently, he came to a pond where Mr. McGregor filled his water-cans. A white cat was staring at some gold-fish; she sat very, very still, but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it were alive. Peter thought it best to go away without speaking to her; he had heard about cats from his cousin, little Benjamin Bunny.

HE went back towards the tool-shed, but suddenly, quite close to him, he heard the noise of a hoe--scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch. Peter scuttered underneath the bushes. But presently, as nothing happened, he came out, and climbed upon a wheelbarrow, and peeped over. The first thing he saw was Mr. McGregor hoeing onions. His back was turned towards Peter, and beyond him was the gate!

PETER got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow, and started running as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some black-currant bushes. Mr. McGregor caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not care. He slipped underneath the gate, and was safe at last in the wood outside the garden.

MR. McGREGOR hung up the little jacket and the shoes for a scare-crow to frighten the blackbirds.

PETER never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir-tree.

He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the floor of the rabbit-hole, and shut his eyes. His mother was busy cooking; she wondered what he had done with his clothes. It was the second little jacket and pair of shoes that Peter had lost in a fortnight!

I AM sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening. His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to Peter! "One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time."

BUT Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries, for supper.


The Tale Of Tony The Poodle

Once upon a time there was a fawning poodle whose name was Tony. He resided in a breathtaking grace-and-favour Ivory Tower in a nice place called Downing Street in a backwater country named Great Britain, with Cherie, his money-grabbing, grasping, grafting, supermarket-sweeping, barking-mad bitch (aka 'The Wicked Witch'), and their two tabby cats named Major and Thatcher. He kept a staff of two hundred, including a butler, and owned a bankrupt political party called New Labour. (Or so he was actually owned by Robber Brown).

Now Tony the Poodle didn't do much except lie in the sun (or anywhere else for that matter) whilst planning his so-called "Legacy"...or the next junket or freebie trip away.

"Yo Tone...!", said his bestest friend ever, George the Dumb Ass, from an oil-guzzling place named the United States of America, "We're goin' on a trip into that bastard Mr Hussein's backyard...the truth is, mah paw had a bit of an, um...episode there fifteen years ago...ah sure am gonna kick that wretched A-rab mofo from here to Kingdom Come!"

"Oh good! Goody gumdrops! That'd be cool, George!" said the Poodle. "But, erm, hold on a minute, don't you think know...we Western superpowers should attempt the appropriate sanctions, or get, like, a watertight United Nations Resolution or something first?"

"What? Better forget it!" replied the swaggering, brainless, bible-thumping, half-drunk warmonger George. "After September Eleven? Remember the Twin Towers! And the Pentagon! A watertight new-nited what? Bugger that! I-raqland here we come!"

"OK, fine...whatever you want, George...just whatever you want!" went Tony the Poodle, gushingly, humping George's leg.

But first, the Poodle went out to do the shopping. He bought a plectrum, a purple jacket and trousers, two apartments in Bristol, a bottle of champagne, a wreath for David Kelly (the scapegoat), a tin of whitewash for his trusted friend Hutton the Porker, fragrant strawberries and cream and a double cheeseburger for George's breakfast, got some travel brochures, two shotguns, and two Bee Gees CDs.

Tony the Poodle liked the Bee Gees very much...he sometimes went on free trips to Florida with his new friend Robin the Chipmunk. Tony the Poodle knew the proper chords to Robin and his brother Dobbin's song Stayin' Alive on his shining Fender Stratocaster guitar. He also had some friends named Sir Clifford of Barbados and Mr Silvio Ravioli di Toscana, and he visited them for frequent free holidays...and wristwatches, too!

Now Tony and George told the whole wide world that Mr Hussein, the "Butcher of Baghdad", had some weapons of mass destruction which could be deployed within forty-five minutes! Both the Poodle and the Dumb Ass knew that this was an utter crock of garbage, but, together with the Hebrews, told everyone that it was true nonetheless.

Then the Poodle went begging...he rounded up all together his select mega-rich business entrepreneur "friends", then in return for lots and lots of cash, which he needed both to go and sort-out Mr Hussein, and also to repay the huge mortgage on the latest kennel, he gave the wealthy benefactors a lot of big, impressive-sounding but worthless titles (or "peerages") which they could attach to their names, such as "Sir" or "Lord" . (Or at least OBE or CBE.)

However, a nice honest policeman named Mr. Yates thought that this was altogether very naughty, so he chased after Tony the Poodle with a great big stick, the better to arrest him with. He caught up with him, and attempted to grab him...but he was covered from head to toe in a somewhat slippery substance called Teflon, and he was thus able to escape from the clutches of the poor Mr. Yates, and then to squeeze under the gate in the Yard. What a perfect embarrassment!

One summer month, the Dumb Ass and the Poodle jumped on a fast Jumbo plane together, then went east to I-raqland to find and then capture Mr. Hussein. With malice aforethought, they bombarded, battered, and blanketed the I-raqland infrastructure for months and months...a major laser-targeted battle called 'Operation Shock-and-Awe'. They even knocked over a huge statue of Mr. Hussein. Then one unforgettable night, on a little farm, they found THE fallen Mr. Hussein, unkempt, hiding down a hole in the ground, frightened, so they pulled him out by his ears, shone a bright torch into his mouth, then threw him into a dark, damp A-rab prison.

Then afterwards, Mr. Hussein was put in front of some judges from I-raqland who had been told just what to say by the Dumb Ass.

Furthermore, that horrible A-rab Mr. Hussein was at last charged with Crimes Against Humanity for the Dujail massacre of one-hundred-and-forty-eight innocent civilians, found guilty, sentenced to death, then he, together with his half-brother Barzan, was hanged at Camp Cropper in Baghdad's protected Green Zone, photographed on a mobile phone...then the power-mad statesman George the Dumb Ass and his mate Tony the Poodle lived happily together, nuclear-powered, for ever.

The End.

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Tony Blair is on an official visit to a hospital in Edinburgh. Accompanied by his wife Cherie, of course, plus several doctors and nurses, the local Health Trust managers, police, his bodyguards and all the usual Labour advisors and flunkeys, he enters a ward full of patients that have no obvious signs at all of any injuries or illnesses, and he proceeds to go over and make his usual hollow small-talk with the first patient that he sees.

The patient glares at the Prime Minister for a second or two, then bellows at him: "Fair fa your honest sonsie face, great chieftain o' the puddin' race, ahoon them a ye take yer place, painch, tripe or thairm, as langs my airm!"

Blair, despite of course being a fellow Scot, is a little confused by this outburst, and so he just nods, says "Er, thanks", grins nervously, and then moves rapidly on. He then goes over to the gentleman in the next cubicle, who suddenly sits bolt upright in his bed, and who then, wild-eyed, shouts at Blair: "Some hae meat an canna eat, and some wad eat that want it. But we hae meat an we can eat, so let the Lord be thankit!"

By now even more confused, and his pearly-white grin now rictus-like, Blair coughs nervously, then moves swiftly on to the next patient, who stands up on his bed, his back to the wall, and immediately begins to holler at a very worried-looking Blair: "Wee sleekit, cowerin, timrous beasty, o the panic in thy breasty, thou needna start awa sae hastie, wi bickering brattle."

By now seriously troubled by what he has experienced, Blair turns to one of the doctors accompanying him around the hospital, and asks rather concernedly: "Well, erm...look, doctor, but't understand at all...what IS this place, is it like...some kind of mental ward, or something?"

"Och no, Prime Minister, now don't you be silly..." replies the doctor, "...this is the Serious Burns Unit!"

Scottish actor Sir Sean Connery was once a guest on 'Parkinson', and bragged on about his libido...that despite being seventy-two years of age, he had to have sexual intercourse three times a night. Cilla Black was also a guest, and looked utterly fascinated. After the show, still missing her late husband Bobby, she said: "Sir Sean, now I 'ope I'm not being inappropriate...but it's just that I'd luv to 'ave it off with yer! Let's shoot back to my 'ouse, we could 'ave a lorra lorra laughs!"

Sir Sean was tempted, so they went to her place. Once indoors, after a few glasses of wine, they ripped their clothes off, went to bed, and had an hour of mad, passionate, romantic, orgasmic intimate lovemaking... no inhibitions. Afterwards, Sir Sean says, "You think that romp wash good? Jusht let me shleep an hour, and we can have better shex. But on one condition...while I'm shleeping, could ye hold ma ballsh in your left hand and ma wullie in your right hand". Cilla looks a bit confused, but says "Ok, chuck!"

Connery sleeps an hour, awakens, and they have a similar, but even better torrid procreation session than before, on and on...contorting like two dirty rabbits. After, Sir Sean, perspiring profusely, says: "Shilla, that wash dishtinctly divine! Wonderful, I admit! But couldn't you let me shleep TWO hoursh? We can have the besht shex ever! But you'll have to..."

- "...I know, Sean", Cilla replied "...yer want me to 'old onto yer bat and isn't a problem, hun".

She complies with the routine. The results are terrific, absolutely terrific! Mindblowing! Once finished, Sir Sean, worn-out, lit a post-bonk cigarette, and she asked him, "Sean, now tell me 'oldin yer nads in one 'and, and yer cock in the other one...does it really stimulate yer that much?"

Sir Sean muttered "No, not particularly, Shilla, but lasht time I shlept with a shcousher, she shtole ma damned wallet!".

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I've scrambled these instructions a bit to compose a word-search quiz.

Various classic artists are grouped here; You should mark each name by circling it
(including both backward ones and diagonal ones).

Once thoroughly solved, arranging all our remaining letters correctly might reveal
a highly honorable artist (those seeking a template, scroll down).


[Adams, Basquiat, Bosch, Botticelli, Caravaggio, Cezanne, Chagall, Cole, Constable, Corot, Dali, Degas, Donatello, DaVinci, ElGreco, Escher, Ernst, Giotto, Goya, Haring, Hirst, Ingres, Kahlo, Magritte, Manet, Matisse, Michelangelo, Miro, Mondrian, Monet, Munch, Nolde, Picasso, Pollock, Poussin, Raphael, Ray, Rembrandt, Renoir, Rodin, Rossetti, Rubens, Seurat, Sisley, Tintoretto, Turner, VanDyck, VanGogh, Vermeer, Warhol, Whistler, Wyeth]

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The Solution