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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Frances Faye

I went to a dance with my sister Kate
Everybody there thought she danced so great
I realized a thing or two
When I got wise to something new

When I looked at Kate, she was in a trance
And then I knew it was in her dance
All the boys are going wild
Over sister Katie's style

Oh, I wish I could I shimmy like my sister Kate
She shimmies like a jelly on a plate
My mama wanted to know last night
What makes the boys think Kate's so nice

Now all the boys in the neighborhood
They know that she can shimmy and it's understood
I know that I'm late, but I'll be up-to-date
When I shimmy like my sister Kate
I mean, when I shimmy like my sister Kate

Now I can shimmy like my sister Kate
I know that I'm real late
I think I'll do a real shimmy dance
Dancing like my sister Kate
Sweet papa, just like my sister Kate

Miss P. Middleton

I went to a wedding with my sister Kate,
Everyone thought we looked oh so great,
The one teeny thing to rain on my parade?
She was the bride and I was the maid!

When I saw my sis' walking down the aisle,
I could only salute her style,
Kate now has this nice, neat name:
She is a Duchess, yet I'm just a dame.

I wish I could marry like my sister Kate,
Katie's tied the knot with a royal mate,
Ma, she thinks I may soon be hooked,
Westminster Abbey she's already booked!

Now I'm a major hit, I share Kate's fame!
Stylists like me and my slinky frame,
I've gone global I can take my pick,
Many men think I'm the hottest chick,
Many men think I'm the hottest chick.

Now I will twinkle like my sister Kate,
Ha! Who wants the Royal Willy as a mate?
When Katie is kissing the potential king,
I'll be the sister with celebrity zing!

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Sonnet 106 is anagrammed being relevant to the original in three ways: the first two are the poem itself and the acrostic (Go preserve time).

The final constraint is quite different from the first two: in addition to the first letters making an acrostic, each first word does as well, so the two constraints "cross over" each other. Unfortunately, such a phrase cannot exist naturally, so I had to create one myself.

The phrase is:
"Guilty of pushing reality early supplies enmity really vast; encourage tide in more entirety."

When in the chronicle of wasted time,
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights,
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed,
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring,
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

Guilty folk who best abuse the prize
Of the valuable new day to sweat and hop,
Pushing their bluff to playhouses unwise,
Reality is off; snobbish bite is on top.
Early on is the quiet rise of the sun;
Supplies our help in housework and play.
Enmity is downward, dead, fixed, and precisely done.
Really nothing to nauseate the shy ease of day!
Vast is the noon, working through to ace folk.
Encourage the world to free the right whole.
Tide is about at near-bedtime's yoke,
In which what fun, vivid beam be in control!
More successes heaved, I offer a degree:
Entirety off the spongy Wisdom Tree.

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[Taking words in each line corresponding to the rhyme scheme (123 231 312) yields another sentence, in both original and source text. Jeremiah 33:3 and Proverbs 2:4 are both about hidden wisdom.]

Just as these lines that merge to form a key
Are as chess squares; when month and day are four;
Don't risk another chance to move to mate.
One game is real and one's a metaphor.
Untold times this wisdom's come too late.
Battle of White has raged on endlessly.
Everywhere Black will strive to seal his fate.
Continue a search for thirty-three and three.
Veiled forever is the secret door.

Please heed this word soon. Listen here to me.
Renew; find that head enthroned. When? May five,
Or the masters the Earth can't take shall teem.
Versed in old oracles, rook and knight strive.
Each just a member in a royal scheme.
Resurrected heroine, again free--
Be safe; game that system or lose. (Too, scream.)
Still quest for two and four, that's how to see.
Stay victorious; stay cool and alive.


Trying to look up a Bible verse is the right idea, but there's no further significance to 5/5 (other than today's date). As far as the original goes, there are two acrostics; reading straight down spells "J'adoube C.V." (C. V. being the protagonists' initials, and "J'adoube" is French for "I adjust," a rather technical piece of chess jargon.) Then, taking the first, third, fifth...letter of each line reads "Jeremiahh," with the last letter doubled I assume just to fill in all the lines. So, the hint is in the eighth line; Jeremiah 33:3 is "Call to me and I will answer you, and will tell you great and hidden things that you have not known."

Then, in the anagram, the right verse to check is Proverbs 2:4, "If you seek it [wisdom] like silver, and search for it as hidden treasures--" The second acrostic is found by taking the ninth, eighth, seventh...letters, spelling out "E. N. adjusts."

View as chess puzzle here.

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When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
`Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'
But I was one-and-twenty
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
`The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.'
And I am two-and-twenty
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

When she was young and nutty
Nasty Sarah Palin told:
Put 'em in the crosshairs
Don't retreat; reload!
I weaved a bridge to nowhere
An insane warden of a state
I view Russia from my windows
Wait, I refudiate.

When she was young and nutty
"Death panel" was a dig
Nunlike, mews: "You betcha!"
Feathers on a pig.
A ninny nut ran as veep
Skyways downed a moose
Indeed the tart aint witty, young
But bovine, vain, obtuse.

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How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man ?
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand ?
Yes, how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned ?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

Why must savannas wither away
Only to bloom imbibed in rain?
So, why must vanished memories surface anew
Only to hide masked-off from the pain?
Why must a newborn baby bellow she's free
Only to remain safe in chains?
The answers, amen, dwell in the end
The answers dwell in the end.

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by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I am leading a quiet life
in Mike's Place every day
watching the champs
of the Dante Billiard Parlor
and the French pinball addicts.
I am leading a quiet life
on lower East Broadway.
I am an American.
I was an American boy.
I read the American Boy Magazine
and became a boy scout
in the suburbs.
I thought I was Tom Sawyer
catching crayfish in the Bronx River
and imagining the Mississippi.
I had a baseball mit
and an American Flyer bike.
I delivered the Woman's Home Companion
at five in the afternoon
or the Herald Trib
at five in the morning.
I still can hear the paper thump
on lost porches,
I had an unhappy childhood.
I saw Lindberg land,
I looked homeward
and saw no angel.
I got caught stealing pencils
from the Five and Ten Cent Store
the same month I made Eagle Scout.
I chopped trees for the CCC
and sat on them.
I landed in Normandy
in a rowboat that turned over.
I have seen the educated armies
on the beach at Dover.
I have seen Egyptian pilots in purple clouds
shopkeepers rolling up their blinds
at midday
potato salad and dandelions
at anarchist picnics.

I am reading 'Lorna Doone'
and a life of John Most
terror of the industrialist
a bomb on his desk at all times.
I have seen the garbagemen parade
in the Columbus Day Parade
behind the glib
farting trumpeters.
I have not been out to the Cloisters
in a long time
nor to the Tuileries
but I still keep thinking
of going.
I have seen the garbagemen parade
when it was snowing.
I have eaten hotdogs in ballparks.
I have heard the Gettysburg Address
and the Ginsberg Address.
I like it here
and I won't go back
where I came from.
I too have ridden boxcars boxcars boxcars.
I have travelled among unknown men.
I have been in Asia
with Noah in the Ark.
I was in India
when Rome was built.
I have been in the Manger
with an Ass.
I have seen the Eternal Distributor
from a White Hill
in South San Francisco
and the Laughing Woman at Loona Park
outside the Fun House
in a great rainstorm
still laughing.
I have heard the sound of revelry
by night.
I have wandered lonely
as a crowd.
I am leading a quiet life
outside of Mike's Place every day
watching the world walk by
in its curious shoes.

I once started out
to walk around the world
but ended up in Brooklyn.
That Bridge was too much for me.
I have engaged in silence
exile and cunning.
I flew too near the sun
and my wax wings fell off.
I am looking for my Old Man
whom I never knew.
I am looking for the Lost Leader
with whom I flew.
Young men should be explorers.
Home is where one starts from.
But Mother never told me
there'd be scenes like this.
Womb -weary
I rest
I have travelled.
I have seen goof city.
I have seen the mass mess.
I have heard Kid Ory cry.
I have heard a trombone preach.
I have heard Debussy
strained thru a sheet.
I have slept in a hundred islands
where books were trees.
I have heard the birds
that sound like bells.
I have worn grey flannel trousers
and walked upon the beach of hell.
I have dwelt in a hundred cities
where trees were books.
What subways what taxis what cares!
What women with blind breasts
limbs lost among skyscrapers
I have seen the statues of heroes
at carrefours.
Danton weeping at a metro entrance
Columbus in Barcelona
pointing Westward up the Ramblas
toward the American Express
Lincoln in his stony chair
And a great Stone Face
in North Dakota.
I know that Columbus
did not invent America.
I have heard a hundred housebroken Ezra Pounds.
They should all be freed.
It is long since I was a herdsman.
I am leading a quiet life
in Mike's Place every day
reading the Classified columns.
I have read the Reader's Digest
from cover to cover
and noted the close identification
of the United States and the Promised Land
where every coin is marked
In God We Trust
but the dollar bills do not have it
being gods unto themselves.
I read the Want Ads daily
looking for a stone a leaf
an unfound door.
I hear America singing
in the Yellow Pages.
One could never tell
the soul has its rages.
I read the papers every day
and hear humanity amiss
in the sad plethora of print.
I see where Walden Pond has been
drained to make an amusement park.
I see they're making Melville
eat his whale.
I see another war is coming
but I won't be there to fight it.
I have read the writing
on the outhouse wall.
I helped Kilroy write it.
I marched up Fifth Avenue
blowing on a bugle in a tight platoon
but hurried back to the Casbah
looking for my dog.
I see a similarity between dogs and me.
Dogs are the true observers
walking up and down the world
thru the Molloy country.
I have walked down alleys
too narrow for Chryslers.
I have seen a hundred horseless milkwagons
in a vacant lot in Astoria.
Ben Shahn never painted them
but they' re there
askew in Astoria.
I have heard the junkman's obbligato.
I have ridden superhighways
and believed the billboard's promises
Crossed the Jersey Flats
and seen the Cities of the Plain
And wallowed in the wilds of Westchester
with its roving bands of natives
in stationwagons.
I have seen them.
I am the man.
I was there.
I suffered somewhat.
I am an American.
I have a passport.
I did not suffer in public.
And I'm too young to die.
I am a selfmade man.
And I have plans for the future.
I am in line
for a top job.
I may be moving on
to Detroit.
I am only temporarily
a tie salesman.
I am a good Joe.
I am an open book
to my boss.
I am a complete mystery
to my closest friends.
I am leading a quiet life
in Mike's Place every day
contemplating my navel.
I am a part
of the body's long madness.
I have wandered in various nightwoods.
I have leaned in drunken doorways.
I have written wild stories
without punctuation.
I am the man.
I was there.
I suffered
I have sat in an uneasy chair.
I am a tear of the sun.
I am a hill
where poets run.
I invented the alphabet
after watching the flight of cranes
who made letters with their legs.
I am a lake upon a plain.
I am a word
in a tree.
I am a hill of poetry.
I am a raid
on the inarticulate.
I have dreamt
that all my teeth fell out
but my tongue lived
to tell the tale.
For I am a still
of poetry.
I am a bank of song.
I am a playerpiano
in an abandoned casino
on a seaside esplanade
in a dense fog
still playing.
I see a similarity
between the Laughing Woman
and myself.
I have heard the sound of summer
in the rain.
I have seen girls on boardwalks
have complicated sensations.
I understand their hesitations.
I am a gatherer of fruit.
I have seen how kisses
cause euphoria.
I have risked enchantment.

I have seen the Virgin
in an appletree at Chartres
And Saint Joan burn
at the Bella Union.
I have seen giraffes
in junglejims
their necks like love
wound around the iron circumstances
of the world.
I have seen the Venus Aphrodite
armless in her drafty corridor.
I have heard a siren sing
at One Fifth Avenue.
I have seen the White Goddess dancing
in the Rue des Beaux Arts
on the Fourteenth of July
and the Beautiful Dame Without Mercy
picking her nose in Chumley's.
She did not speak English.
She had yellow hair
and a hoarse voice
and no bird sang.
I am leading a quiet life
in Mike's Place every day
watching the pocket pool players
making the minestrone scene
wolfing the macaronis
and I have read somewhere
the Meaning of Existence
yet have forgotten
just exactly where.
But I am the man
And I'll be there.
And I may cause the lips
of those who are asleep
to speak.
And I may make my notebooks
into sheaves of grass.
And I may write my own
eponymous epitaph
instructing the horsemen
to pass.

Life - a Reminiscence

David Sean Bourke (age forty-nine):

I was born at a young age in Homerton, in East London, of
Irish descent. I moved to Hemel Hempstead in Hertfordshire,
and from five, home was in Swiss Cottage, a Viennese-Jewish
refugee enclave in North London. As a nipper, I went to
George Eliot, a wonderful primary school...I cherish my
happy childhood memories there! Then I went to Haverstock
Comprehensive, a tough, harsh school a mile away in Chalk
Farm. My form teacher was Alan Scrivener. It was in the
early Seventies then, in the "glam" era...I had long hair
and I even used to wear high-heeled boots like I was David
Bowie or Marc Bolan! A heterosexual, but naively unaware of
what a vain, effeminate fairy I looked, I was chased and
beaten up by the girls. I mean, boys didn't even consider
me fair game! It was hell...a sheer hell. I misbehaved. I
failed in most of my exams.

At about thirteen-ish, I got into motorbikes. I used to hop
on a thirty-one bus and I'd beeline to F.H. Warr (a Harley-
Davidson dealer in Kings Road in Chelsea) and stare, while
in awe, at the massive, powerful, shining machines in their
window. I knew everything about them...except how to ride
one! I wanted to be Barry Sheene or Evel Knievel. I could
even recite gear ratios, external dimensions, engine
measurements, bore and stroke, for an Electra Glide, a Cafe
Racer, a the top of my vacant, juvenile
head. No use to anyone. Years on, I have still never ridden
a motorbike!

At fourteen I forgot about bikes, as I got into guitars. I
read up on the subject. I knew my stuff. I couldn't even
play one to any degree, but I knew all the model names,
numbers, values, good or bad points of each "axe" brand,
expensive and cheap. At fifteen, I switched to playing a
bass, as they had fewer strings to think about. Or maybe it
just suited my introvert personality. I left Haverstock,
then I worked in a shop (Chappell of Bond Street) selling
the things, where I met famous rock stars such as Carlos
Santana, Tom Robinson, Steve Howe, John Entwistle, Trevor
Horn, and Mark King on an almost daily basis. Which I
thought nothing of, this was just what a seventeen /
eighteen / nineteen-year-old did. I went skiing in Austria
annually. I got engaged at twenty-two to Terrie Smith, a
lovely, beautiful honey-blonde girl with whom I was
besotted (and had been for years before we became an item).
A shame it didn't work out with her...we split up, and
shaken, that night I smashed a car backwards into a brick
wall, and I got severe whiplash. It took me ages before I
got over the unbearable heartache, the anguish, the sheer
pain...oh man, I still miss that car!

Meanwhile, I played the bass in a bunch of under-rehearsed
and unremembered bands, with various haircuts...'The Outsiders',
'Pressure', 'Dance Macabre' (goth gloom, similar to Bauhaus),
'The Chance' (or "No Chance"! - a Shepherds Bush "mod
revival" favourite album is 'Quadrophenia' by The
Who), then 'Coda' (Queen/Van Halen-ish stadium rock
anthems...without a stadium!), 'The Marquee No-Stars',
'The Shout' (heavy Welsh blues)...none of them ever got
anywhere. (The bands, not haircuts. Well both, when I come
to think!). I played as a pianist in a cover band called
Self Inflicted...I remember an unimpressed landlord of a
bar in Holborn where we played...he thought I was SO bad,
he said, his eyes heavenwards, "If I ever see Dave near a
piano in here ever again, I shall superglue his fingers

In the Eighties, I was made redundant as a guitar salesman,
and hence I signed on the dole. I sat idle on my backside
for a while. I learned Italian and Dutch. I studied sharks,
whales and dolphins. I joined a scuba diving club. I played
underwater hockey nationwide for Hampstead. I tried hashish
...and I inhaled! I even tried hallucinogens. Then my
sister Jackie bought me a calligraphy set for my birthday,
despite (or perhaps because of) my illegible handwriting. I
experimented, and before long, I could write Georgian-style
script. Likewise, Olde English. Then a shop in Kensington
asked me to paint them a massive fascia sign. I did,
despite never having done one before. It didn't look half
bad. "I can do this!", I thought...and I've worked doing
"this" for a "living" ever since...all cut vinyl now though,
I no longer do painted ones.

Watching 'Have I Got News For You' in the mid-Nineties, I
was amazed when Ian Hislop pointed out 'Virginia Bottomley'
was an anagram of "I'm an evil Tory bigot". Unbelievable!
I had it verified on pen and paper. I endeavoured to create
a few anagrams myself...I failed to do anything memorable.
Then a few months later (in a branch of W.H. Smith...Bromley
South, if I am not mistaken), I saw a PC magazine with a
free cover CD that had a trial of a program called 'Anagram
Genius'. Oh, what fun! I used up all the ten trial runs in
half an hour. Being shrewd (and mean...too mean to actually
purchase a full version of said program) it didn't take
long to work out I could get around this by deleting a
particular file, and a manual reset of the PC date to a
month earlier. I didn't tell William Tunstall-Pedoe (the
software creator), but he realised. High on adrenaline,
here is where my life started to go downhill. Creating
anagrams started taking precedence over work. Before long,
I'd stare at a screen all day, wide awake at midnight, I'd
be awake all night...I'd fall asleep exhausted, as the
hours vanished. Every morning, I awakened, and I'd pop over
to a postbox and send my creations to a newspaper (the
Daily Mail) who occasionally printed one, and sent me a ten-
pound book token. I think I had at least seventy tokens
before even they got bored and stopped printing anagrams
for a while. I needed an outlet for my "creativity" though.
Eventually I'd start to meet with people driven with the
same dreadful friends like Michael Tully,
Chris Sturdy, Mike Keith, Anna Shefl (alias "Lardy"), and
Phil Carmody, who I had met through an online group called
A.A. (alt.anagrams). We'd meet once, even twice a year in a
bar...The Metropolitan in Baker Street, London. We'd
invariably compare tales of household woe caused by our
unexplainable antisocial compulsion. Over the years, I must
have squandered whole months and haemorrhaged thousands as
I preferred to sit, pissed, impoverished, composing anagrams
...some simple, some mammoth, thousands of letters long...
some inane, infantile and tasteless (a hallmark I maintain!),
some driven by a sheer hatred of Tony Blair. The American
president, George W. Bush was a frequent victim, but I
didn't despise him, maybe he was just an obvious target.
Meanwhile, the Mail rang up...they were going to print
anagrams again, and would I please furnish them with a few
ideas with which to get started? No tokens this time, though!
Apart from which, it is nigh-on impossible to get anything
published in the Mail these days, as there is another
irredeemable, hardened veteran anagram headcase in Kent
...Tony Crafter from Sevenoaks. It seems he sneaks his ones
in each and every day!

What achievements! WHAT achievements? In consequence, I have
become an obnoxious, misanthropic, impoverished, unshaven,
shuffling under-achiever, a serial philanderer, a habitual
skiver, a pariah, a heavy absinthe drinker. I'm a horrible
husband to dear Catherine. Ah, the shame, the shame! I now
live in the Asian area in Rochester, in financial upheaval.
Anyway, as I am a vegetarian non-smoker, maybe I shall live
an extremely long time...either that, or it will just seem
like it! And William Tunstall-Pedoe? He has much to answer
for, damn him!

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Tips for Camping

A hot rock placed in your sleeping bag will keep your feet extra warm. A hot enchilada works just as well, but the cheese sticks between your toes.

A two-man pup tent does not include two men or a pup.

Acupuncture was invented by the camper who startled a porcupine in his sleeping bag.

Always carry a deck of playing cards when you hike in unfamiliar territory. If you find yourself lost or alone, simply sit down and begin to play a quiet game of solitaire, and someone will soon come along to reach in and place the red nine on the black ten. Happens every time!

Bear bells provide an extra element of safety for hikers in grizzly bear country, but the tricky part is getting them on the bears.

Check the washing instructions before purchasing any duds to be worn camping, and buy only those that read, "Beat on a rock in the stream."

Get even with the bear who raided your food bag by kicking his favorite stump apart and eating all the ants.

In emergency situations, you can survive in the wilderness by shooting small game with a slingshot made from the elastic waistband of your underwear.

It's entirely possible to spend your whole vacation on a winding mountain road following behind a large motor home.

Lint from your navel makes a handy fire starter, but remove lint from navel before lighting the match.

That rain garb made of a sports industry vinyl type that "breathes" enables a camper to prevail and remain dry in cloudbursts. But a rain suit that sneezes or belches adds nothing to the wilderness experience.

No venison? Make old worn knit socks into a winning jerky by frying them over the fire.

Take this simple test to see if you qualify for solo camping. Shine your flashlight in one ear. If the beam shows out the other ear instantly, don't go into the woods alone.

The very best backpack is named after a national park or mountain range. Steer clear of the one named after the landfill.

The guitar of the irritating teenager in the next campsite can make perfect kindling.

You can compress the diameter of a rolled-up sleeping bag by running over it with your car.

You can duplicate the midwinter warmth of a down-filled bedroll by climbing into a plastic garbage bag crammed with a dozen ducks.

You'll rarely be awakened by the call of a wayward loon if you have an unlisted number.

You won't be lost or worry when you remember that moss always grows on the north side of the compass.

Whenever camping or picnicking, always wear a long-sleeved shirt. It gives you something to wipe your nose on.

When using a popular public campground, putting a tuba on your picnic table will keep the campsites on either side of you vacant.

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Jim and Patricia were eighty years old and had been married for sixty years. Although they were far from rich, they did manage to get by because Jim watched their pennies.

Despite their age, they were in quite good health, largely due to Patricia's insistence on organic food, with daily exercise, for the last decade.

But their good health didn't help them when they went on holiday one day and their plane crashed, sending them up to Heaven.

They reached the pearly gates, and St. Peter escorted them inside. He took them to a beautiful mansion, furnished in gold and fine silks, with a fully stocked kitchen and a running waterfall in the master bath. A maid was hanging their favourite clothes in a closet. They gasped in astonishment when he said, 'Welcome to Heaven. This will be your home now.'

Jim asked how much all this was going to cost. 'Why, nothing,' St. Peter smiled, 'remember, this is your reward in Heaven.'

Jim looked out the window and saw a championship golf course, finer and more beautiful than any course on Earth. 'Wow! And what are the fees for that?' he queried.

'This is Heaven,' St. Peter replied. 'You can play for nothing all day.'

Then they went to the clubhouse and saw a sumptuous buffet lunch, with every imaginable cuisine laid out before them, from seafood to steaks to exotic desserts and free flowing beverages.

'Don't even ask,' said St. Peter. 'This is Heaven, it is all free for you to enjoy.'

Jim looked round and glanced nervously at Patricia. 'Well, where are the low fat and low cholesterol foods and the decaffeinated tea?' he enquired.

That's the best part,' St. Peter replied. 'You can eat and drink as much as you like of whatever you want and you will not get fat or sick. This is Heaven!'

'No gym to work out at?' said Jim

'Not unless you want to,' was the answer.

'No testing my sugar or blood pressure or...'

'No. Never again. All you will do here is enjoy yourself.'

Jim glared at Patricia and said, 'You and your f****ing Bran Flakes. We could have been here ten years ago!'

An Irish farmer named Fergus had a motor accident. In court, the lorry company's highly expensive lawyer was questioning Fergus.

'Did you say to the police at the scene of the accident, 'I'm fine'? asked the lawyer.

Fergus responded: 'Well, I'll explain to you what happened. I had just loaded my favourite cow, Mabel, safely onto the...'

'I didn't ask you for any unnecessary details', the lawyer interrupted. 'Just answer the question. Did you not say, at the scene of the accident, 'I'm fine!'?'

Fergus said, 'Well, I had just got Mabel safely onto the trailer and I was driving off down the road...'

The lawyer interrupted again, saying, 'Your Honour, I am just trying to establish the fact that, after the accident, this man stated to the police officer at the scene that he was fine. But now, several weeks after the accident, he's trying to sue my client. I believe he is a fraud. Please tell him he must answer the question.'

By this time, the Judge was very interested in Fergus's reply and he politely explained to the lawyer: 'I'd like to hear what he has to say about his favourite cow, Mabel. He may speak'

Fergus thanked the Judge and proceeded. 'Well as I was saying, I had just loaded Mabel, my favourite cow, safely onto the trailer and was driving her down the road, when this huge lorry came speeding through a stop sign and hit my trailer in the side. I was thrown out into one ditch and Mabel was thrown off into another. I was hurt very badly, with a sore head and did not really feel like moving. However, I could hear poor Mabel moaning and groaning. I knew she was in terrible pain just by those groans.

Soon after the accident, a policeman on a motorbike turned up. He could hear poor Mabel's feeble moans and groans so he went over to see her. After looking at her and seeing her injured condition, he took out his gun and shot her between the eyes.'

'Then the policeman came across the road, gun still in hand, looked at me, and asked me, 'How are you feeling?'

'Now what the fook would you have said?'

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Brother John entered the "Monastery of Silence" and the kind Abbott said, "This is a silent monastery; you are welcome here as long as you like, but you may not speak for five years, until I direct you to speak." Brother John had lived in the monastery five years when the Abbott said to him, "Brother John, as you have been here for five years now, you may speak two words."

He answered, "Hard bed."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the Abbot said. "We will be happy to get you a softer bed."

After another five years had passed, the Abbot called Brother John into his office. "You may say two words."

"Cold food," said Brother John, and the Abbott reassured him that the meals would be warmer in the future.

The Abbott again called Brother John into the office on his fifteenth anniversary at the monastery, "You may say only two words today."
v"I quit!" he announced.

"I'm not at all surprised - you've done nothing but complain since you got here!"

There is a traditional story about a noteworthy monastery that is balanced majestically on the edge of a cliff several hundred feet in the air. The only means for anybody - whether monk, doctor, missionary or tourist on their honeymoon - to reach that monastery area is not on foot, but to be suspended in a bamboo or wood basket maneuvered by hand by several trustworthy Brothers whose job it is to pull with all of their strength. Obviously, the journey up the steep hairy cliff is terrifying, too!

One heavy tourist became very afraid about half-way up as he noticed the rope by which he was suspended was terribly frayed and he was doomed to death! In a justifiably trembly hoarse voice he asked an anonymous inhabitant who joined him in the wood basket, "Ah, do they change that threadbare rope every so often?" He deliberated a moment and brusquely offered, "You goose! Just when it has broken!"


Waylayed by weather on a foggy evening, a bubbly Nun came to a stony monastery and requested sanctuary for the night. Fortunately, she was just in time to be invited to dinner, and joined the Brothers' table to ravenously enjoy a lot of the most aromatic fried fish and potato chips anybody had ever been served.

Later, after dinner, she went to the kitchen on the way to her room to praise the chef. "Hello..."
vShe was greeted by two Brothers. "Ahoy, Sister," one said. "I am Brother Bartholomew, and this is Brother John."

"I'm pleased to meet you both! I would like to thank you for a notably fabulous dinner! Your fish and potato chips may easily be the tastiest I or anybody have ever had before!" the Nun praised. "By the way, just out of curiosity, which of you cooked what?"

"Well, I am a fish friar," Brother John revealed. She turned to Brother Bartholomew and reasoned, "So, you must be a... " "Yes, afraid so," he said, "I am a chip monk."

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chansons innocentes, i
by e(dward) e(stlin) cummings [1923]

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

balloonMan whistles


will June 12
the spirit
of freedom?

i watched ferdinandmagellan come
innocent minds

unshorn whiteMan shall gobble
up and down

i witnessed the unitedstatesofnorthamerica come
justice's blindfold drawn,

canny whiteMan shall gobble
up and down

i saw generalaguinaldo come
mr. (short) memory's
39 steps downtrodden

conquerors then
assassins all

whiteMan shall gobble