"I've sure gotten old! I've had two bypass surgeries, a hip replacement,
New knees, fought prostate cancer and diabetes.
I'm half blind,but I wear glasses,
Can't hear anything quieter than a jet engine,
Take 40 different medications that
Make me dizzy, winded, and subject to blackouts.
Have bouts with dementia ..
Have poor circulation;
Hardly feel my hands and feet anymore.
Can't remember if I'm 89 or 98.
Have lost all my friends. But, thank God,
I still have my driver's license." Ain't life grand?
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The women’s mystique has been exposed,again!
Why Women take so long in the Bathroom, another mystery in life is answered and likely will raise no further questions .Besides, do you really need to know so much? The women’s mystique has been exposed, that should be enough in humble opinion!
*if you find this offends you all, I am sorry I am sure, I didn’t write it, I am sharing this, because its funny, not if your in pain of eliminating a full water bottle and you are doing a happy dance in front of the washroom door and singing “please hurry, please hurry” .
Once a upon a time; When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied.
Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall.
You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter, the wait has been so long you are about to wet your pants! The dispenser for the modern 'seat covers' (invented by someone's Mom, no doubt) is handy, but empty.
You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there was one, but there isn't - so you carefully, but quickly drape it around your neck, (Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR! ), yank down your pants, and assume ' The Stance.'
In this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold 'The Stance.'
To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, 'Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!' Your thighs shake more.
You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that's still in your purse. (Oh yeah, the purse around your neck, that now, you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same time). That would have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail
Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work. The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topples backward against the tank of the toilet. 'Occupied!' you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT .
It is wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.
You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because, you're certain her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear, 'You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get.'
By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose against the inside of the bowl that sprays a fine mist of water that covers your butt and runs down your legs and into your shoes. The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.
At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.
You can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting.
You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it??) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and tell her warmly, 'Here, you just might need this.'
As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used, and left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks, 'What took you so long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?'
This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with a public restrooms (rest??? you've GOT to be kidding!!). It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked questions about why women go to the restroom in pairs.
It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex under the door! AMEN TO THAT!
This HAD to be written by a woman! No one else could describe it so accurately!
Send this to all women that need a good laugh AND, don't forget to have a mammogram!!!!!! It could save your life!
A Friend Is Like A Good Bra...
Hard to Find
Supportive
Comfortable
Always Lifts You Up
Never Lets You Down or Leaves You Hanging
And Is Always Close To Your Heart!!!
Share this with a friend
*if you find this offends you all, I am sorry I am sure, I didn’t write it, I am sharing this, because its funny, not if your in pain of eliminating a full water bottle and you are doing a happy dance in front of the washroom door and singing “please hurry, please hurry” .
Once a upon a time; When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied.
Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall.
You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter, the wait has been so long you are about to wet your pants! The dispenser for the modern 'seat covers' (invented by someone's Mom, no doubt) is handy, but empty.
You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there was one, but there isn't - so you carefully, but quickly drape it around your neck, (Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR! ), yank down your pants, and assume ' The Stance.'
In this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold 'The Stance.'
To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, 'Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!' Your thighs shake more.
You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that's still in your purse. (Oh yeah, the purse around your neck, that now, you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same time). That would have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail
Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work. The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topples backward against the tank of the toilet. 'Occupied!' you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT .
It is wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.
You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because, you're certain her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear, 'You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get.'
By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose against the inside of the bowl that sprays a fine mist of water that covers your butt and runs down your legs and into your shoes. The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.
At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.
You can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting.
You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it??) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and tell her warmly, 'Here, you just might need this.'
As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used, and left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks, 'What took you so long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?'
This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with a public restrooms (rest??? you've GOT to be kidding!!). It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked questions about why women go to the restroom in pairs.
It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex under the door! AMEN TO THAT!
This HAD to be written by a woman! No one else could describe it so accurately!
Send this to all women that need a good laugh AND, don't forget to have a mammogram!!!!!! It could save your life!
A Friend Is Like A Good Bra...
Hard to Find
Supportive
Comfortable
Always Lifts You Up
Never Lets You Down or Leaves You Hanging
And Is Always Close To Your Heart!!!
Share this with a friend
Sunday, December 6, 2009
I found Religion building the Kids playset!
Sunday, May 03, 2009
In any case another true story written to the playset company to say what a pain in the nutz this was!!.Not all company's tell you how long it will take or how smart you have to be,one thing for sure you learn is how much tolerance you have for pain.
Anyway they should say,"it will take you 6 beers to read and assembly this appartus,per day,per each helper" believe me,this will not take away from the technical guist of the instructions and someone that can read would help.
Hello folks (ladies and gentlemen):
I, thought I would write you people and tell you about your play set I, fortunately now own and purchased from Walmart. The old adage says; “if you have kids, they need a play set”.
The reason we purchased this play set is because my wife and I are raising up our 3 grandkids and we took custody of the little beavers, rather than them go to foster care..
Having, said that, I did willing buy this apparatus from Walmart of my own free will and only because of the cost (which was well priced, in my humble opinion), after opening the kit I should have return the bits and pieces and been done with it. They looked a little thin for vigorous use.You get what you pay for.(so don't buy it).
But, of course you made it very clear in your instruction manual, in the form of a disclaimer, which amounts to “covering your ass with paper”. I guess you are obliged to do this with the amount of people looking to sue you at the drop of the hat.
But, the grandkids were so excited about having this equipment; it would make me feel like a shit heel if I returned it. The youngest one is 2 years old and I really can’t visualize this play set in action, but they did the inventory and announced its all here and when can we play on It.?
Folks, even with an adult helping me, (really wasn’t), because I had to redo what we screwed up afterwards, it took me 4 days to finish. The days went by quickly and the grandkids were on site offering help and encouragement and taking off with the tools.
Thank goodness the manual was well laid out and in a logical sequence which makes we think this was done a female engineer that already knew what was going to happen.*(there is a reason this job sheet is numbered) I found religion on this assembly, because I have the patience of Job and Wisdom of Solomon (meaning, I wouldn’t be doing this again for a long time or any time………..soon).
I asked the helper to help someone else, the grandkids were the sole helpers with me and their Nana was there at times, I never muttered any cuss words…out loud, that is and we finished on Sunday.
We wanted to thank you for the opportunity to do things to-gether and I am sure that the kids will enjoy playing on it as much as they did helping out. Now, I am missing a few screws,nuts and bolts, but that’s ok, because I am still finding the ones the beavers had thrown around in the yard.
Again, thank you, I would only recommend this to people whom are technically inclined and have a sense of imagination that will defy anything this play set can throw at them, because it will certainly test your limits. And that’s a good thing, sometimes, but not always….Amen.
Thank you for your time,
Bob, the builder and the 3 beavers as the helpers
“It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new. But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful.There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power,also the beginning of wisdom is to desire it"." Life is full of mysteries and unanswered questions,what you do about it,will prove how curious you are about finding out. “It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly.............you can guess the rest?.
This Should be a warning for all kit builders..."a certain age of wisdom is required and you should have taken a trades course in school and passed,you should be able to read and measure,you should ask for help and if you can't do it....thats too bad for you alls.
P.S I would to include this added note now that we have had the play set for over a year,its a piece of shit and I wouldn't advise you all in buying it.I bought it at Walmart and I should bought the playset from the Beaver (Canadian eh) store for a few dollars more,it had real wood from Canada in it.
P.S.: 2012; we have dismantled this playset because the bolts holding it were rusting from the inside and begining to shrink in diameter. So,in 5 years this set would have begun to fall apart and thats what the life expentency is.??.,so check your sets out,they even tell you that in the set of instructions. aka (shit happens)
In any case another true story written to the playset company to say what a pain in the nutz this was!!.Not all company's tell you how long it will take or how smart you have to be,one thing for sure you learn is how much tolerance you have for pain.
Anyway they should say,"it will take you 6 beers to read and assembly this appartus,per day,per each helper" believe me,this will not take away from the technical guist of the instructions and someone that can read would help.
Hello folks (ladies and gentlemen):
I, thought I would write you people and tell you about your play set I, fortunately now own and purchased from Walmart. The old adage says; “if you have kids, they need a play set”.
The reason we purchased this play set is because my wife and I are raising up our 3 grandkids and we took custody of the little beavers, rather than them go to foster care..
Having, said that, I did willing buy this apparatus from Walmart of my own free will and only because of the cost (which was well priced, in my humble opinion), after opening the kit I should have return the bits and pieces and been done with it. They looked a little thin for vigorous use.You get what you pay for.(so don't buy it).
But, of course you made it very clear in your instruction manual, in the form of a disclaimer, which amounts to “covering your ass with paper”. I guess you are obliged to do this with the amount of people looking to sue you at the drop of the hat.
But, the grandkids were so excited about having this equipment; it would make me feel like a shit heel if I returned it. The youngest one is 2 years old and I really can’t visualize this play set in action, but they did the inventory and announced its all here and when can we play on It.?
Folks, even with an adult helping me, (really wasn’t), because I had to redo what we screwed up afterwards, it took me 4 days to finish. The days went by quickly and the grandkids were on site offering help and encouragement and taking off with the tools.
Thank goodness the manual was well laid out and in a logical sequence which makes we think this was done a female engineer that already knew what was going to happen.*(there is a reason this job sheet is numbered) I found religion on this assembly, because I have the patience of Job and Wisdom of Solomon (meaning, I wouldn’t be doing this again for a long time or any time………..soon).
I asked the helper to help someone else, the grandkids were the sole helpers with me and their Nana was there at times, I never muttered any cuss words…out loud, that is and we finished on Sunday.
We wanted to thank you for the opportunity to do things to-gether and I am sure that the kids will enjoy playing on it as much as they did helping out. Now, I am missing a few screws,nuts and bolts, but that’s ok, because I am still finding the ones the beavers had thrown around in the yard.
Again, thank you, I would only recommend this to people whom are technically inclined and have a sense of imagination that will defy anything this play set can throw at them, because it will certainly test your limits. And that’s a good thing, sometimes, but not always….Amen.
Thank you for your time,
Bob, the builder and the 3 beavers as the helpers
“It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new. But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful.There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power,also the beginning of wisdom is to desire it"." Life is full of mysteries and unanswered questions,what you do about it,will prove how curious you are about finding out. “It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly.............you can guess the rest?.
This Should be a warning for all kit builders..."a certain age of wisdom is required and you should have taken a trades course in school and passed,you should be able to read and measure,you should ask for help and if you can't do it....thats too bad for you alls.
P.S I would to include this added note now that we have had the play set for over a year,its a piece of shit and I wouldn't advise you all in buying it.I bought it at Walmart and I should bought the playset from the Beaver (Canadian eh) store for a few dollars more,it had real wood from Canada in it.
P.S.: 2012; we have dismantled this playset because the bolts holding it were rusting from the inside and begining to shrink in diameter. So,in 5 years this set would have begun to fall apart and thats what the life expentency is.??.,so check your sets out,they even tell you that in the set of instructions. aka (shit happens)
Thursday, November 26, 2009
The Church and the Squirrels
Now I don't care who you are, this is funny right there!
There were five houses of religion in a small Texas town:
The Presbyterian Church, the Baptist Church, the Methodist Church , the Catholic Church, and the Jewish Synagogue.
Each "church-house" was over-run with pesky squirrels.
One day, the Presbyterian Church called a meeting to decide what to do about the squirrels. After much prayer and consideration, they determined that the squirrels were predestined to be there and they shouldn't interfere with God's divine will.
In The BAPTIST CHURCH, the squirrels had taken up habitation in the baptistery. The deacons met and decided to put a cover on the baptistery and drown the squirrels in it. The squirrels escaped somehow and there were twice as many there the next week.
The Methodist Church got together and decided that they were not in a position to harm any of God's creation. So, they humanely trapped the Squirrels and set them free a few miles outside of town. Three days later, the squirrels were back.
But -- The Catholic Church came up with the best and most effective solution. They baptized the squirrels and registered them as members of the church. Now they only see them on Christmas, Ash Wednesday, Palm Sunday and Easter.
Not much was heard from the Jewish Synagogue, where they took one squirrel and had a short service with him called 'circumcision'. They haven't seen a squirrel on the property since.
There were five houses of religion in a small Texas town:
The Presbyterian Church, the Baptist Church, the Methodist Church , the Catholic Church, and the Jewish Synagogue.
Each "church-house" was over-run with pesky squirrels.
One day, the Presbyterian Church called a meeting to decide what to do about the squirrels. After much prayer and consideration, they determined that the squirrels were predestined to be there and they shouldn't interfere with God's divine will.
In The BAPTIST CHURCH, the squirrels had taken up habitation in the baptistery. The deacons met and decided to put a cover on the baptistery and drown the squirrels in it. The squirrels escaped somehow and there were twice as many there the next week.
The Methodist Church got together and decided that they were not in a position to harm any of God's creation. So, they humanely trapped the Squirrels and set them free a few miles outside of town. Three days later, the squirrels were back.
But -- The Catholic Church came up with the best and most effective solution. They baptized the squirrels and registered them as members of the church. Now they only see them on Christmas, Ash Wednesday, Palm Sunday and Easter.
Not much was heard from the Jewish Synagogue, where they took one squirrel and had a short service with him called 'circumcision'. They haven't seen a squirrel on the property since.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Ear Infection a visit to the Doctor's.
Ear Infection
This is so true!
They always ask at the doctor's reception why you are there, and you have to answer in front of others what's wrong and sometimes it is embarrassing.
There's nothing worse than a Doctor's Receptionist who insists you tell her what is wrong with you, in a room full of other patients.
I know most of us have experienced this, and I love the way this old guy handled it.
A 75-year-old man walked into a crowded waiting room and approached the desk.
The Receptionist said, 'Yes sir, what are you seeing the Doctor for today?'
'There's something wrong with my dick', he replied.
The receptionist became irritated and said, 'You shouldn't come into a crowded waiting room and say things like that. '
'Why not, you asked me what was wrong and I told you,' he said.
The Receptionist replied; 'Now you've caused some embarrassment in this room full of people.
You should have said there is something wrong with your ear or something and discussed the problem further with the Doctor in private.'
The man replied, 'You shouldn't ask people questions in a roomful of strangers if the answer could embarrass anyone.
The man walked out, waited several minutes, and then re-entered.
The Receptionist smiled smugly and asked, 'Yes??'
'There's something wrong with my ear,' he stated.
The Receptionist nodded approvingly and smiled, knowing he had taken her advice.
'And what is wrong with your ear, Sir?'
'I can't piss out of it,' he replied.
The waiting room erupted in laughter.
Mess with seniors and you're going to lose!
This is so true!
They always ask at the doctor's reception why you are there, and you have to answer in front of others what's wrong and sometimes it is embarrassing.
There's nothing worse than a Doctor's Receptionist who insists you tell her what is wrong with you, in a room full of other patients.
I know most of us have experienced this, and I love the way this old guy handled it.
A 75-year-old man walked into a crowded waiting room and approached the desk.
The Receptionist said, 'Yes sir, what are you seeing the Doctor for today?'
'There's something wrong with my dick', he replied.
The receptionist became irritated and said, 'You shouldn't come into a crowded waiting room and say things like that. '
'Why not, you asked me what was wrong and I told you,' he said.
The Receptionist replied; 'Now you've caused some embarrassment in this room full of people.
You should have said there is something wrong with your ear or something and discussed the problem further with the Doctor in private.'
The man replied, 'You shouldn't ask people questions in a roomful of strangers if the answer could embarrass anyone.
The man walked out, waited several minutes, and then re-entered.
The Receptionist smiled smugly and asked, 'Yes??'
'There's something wrong with my ear,' he stated.
The Receptionist nodded approvingly and smiled, knowing he had taken her advice.
'And what is wrong with your ear, Sir?'
'I can't piss out of it,' he replied.
The waiting room erupted in laughter.
Mess with seniors and you're going to lose!
Friday, November 13, 2009
the Newfie went to Heaven!!!
Three men, a Torontonian, an Albertan and a Newfie, were out
riding in the car when it crashed into a tree. Before anyone knew
it, the three men found themselves standing before the pearly
gates of Heaven, where St. Peter and the Devil were standing
nearby.
"Gentlemen," the Devil started, "Due to the fact that Heaven is
now overcrowded, St. Peter has agreed to limit the number of
people entering Heaven. If anyone of you can ask me a question
which I don't know or cannot answer, then you're worthy enough to go to Heaven; if not, then you'll come with me to hell."
The Torontonian then stepped up, "OK, give me the most
comprehensive report on Socrates' teachings. "With a
snap of his fingers, a stack of paper appeared next to
the Devil. The Torontonian read it and concluded it
was correct. "Then, go to hell!" With another snap of
his fingers, the Torontonian disappeared.
The Albertan then asked, "Give me the most complicated Formula you can ever think of!" With a snap of his fingers, another stack of paper appeared next to the Devil. The Albertan read it and reluctantly agreed it was correct.
"Then, go to hell!" With another snap of his fingers,
the Albertan disappeared, too.
The Newfie then stepped forward and said, "Bring me a chair!" The Devil brought forward a chair. The Newfie continues, "Drill 7 holes on the seat. " The Devil did just that.
The Newfie then sat on the chair and let out a very loud fart. Standing up, he asked, "Which hole did my fart come out from?" The Devil inspected the seat and said, "The third hole from the right." "Wrong," said the Newfie, ‘It was
from me arse-hole!" And the Newfie went to Heaven!!!
riding in the car when it crashed into a tree. Before anyone knew
it, the three men found themselves standing before the pearly
gates of Heaven, where St. Peter and the Devil were standing
nearby.
"Gentlemen," the Devil started, "Due to the fact that Heaven is
now overcrowded, St. Peter has agreed to limit the number of
people entering Heaven. If anyone of you can ask me a question
which I don't know or cannot answer, then you're worthy enough to go to Heaven; if not, then you'll come with me to hell."
The Torontonian then stepped up, "OK, give me the most
comprehensive report on Socrates' teachings. "With a
snap of his fingers, a stack of paper appeared next to
the Devil. The Torontonian read it and concluded it
was correct. "Then, go to hell!" With another snap of
his fingers, the Torontonian disappeared.
The Albertan then asked, "Give me the most complicated Formula you can ever think of!" With a snap of his fingers, another stack of paper appeared next to the Devil. The Albertan read it and reluctantly agreed it was correct.
"Then, go to hell!" With another snap of his fingers,
the Albertan disappeared, too.
The Newfie then stepped forward and said, "Bring me a chair!" The Devil brought forward a chair. The Newfie continues, "Drill 7 holes on the seat. " The Devil did just that.
The Newfie then sat on the chair and let out a very loud fart. Standing up, he asked, "Which hole did my fart come out from?" The Devil inspected the seat and said, "The third hole from the right." "Wrong," said the Newfie, ‘It was
from me arse-hole!" And the Newfie went to Heaven!!!
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
To Whoever Gets My Dog
To Whoever Gets My Dog
They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.
But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did.
But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner. See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter
told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too. Maybe we were too much alike.
For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls - he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes. I guess I didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff, that I'd get him new things once he settled in. But it became pretty clear pretty soon that he wasn't going to.
I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew, ones like "sit" and "stay" and "come" and "heel," and he'd follow them - when he felt like it. He never really seemed to listen when I called his name - sure, he'd look in my direction after the fourth or fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go back to doing whatever. When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh and then grudgingly obey.
This just wasn't going to work.. He chewed a couple shoes and some unpacked boxes. I was a little too stern with him and he resented it, I could tell. The friction got so bad that I couldn't wait for the two weeks to be up, and when it was, I was in full-on search mode for my cell phone amid all of my unpacked stuff. I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes for the guest room, but I also mumbled, rather cynically, that the "dog probably hid it on me."
Finally I found it, but before I could punch up the shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys from the shelter.. I tossed the pad in Reggie's direction and he snuffed it and
wagged, some of the most enthusiasm I'd seen since bringing him home. But then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like that? Come here and I'll give you a treat." Instead, he sort of glanced in my direction - maybe "glared" is more accurate - and then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down. With his back to me.
Well, that's not going to do it either, I thought. And I punched the shelter phone number.
But I hung up when I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that, too. "Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice."...........
_______________________________________
To Whoever Gets My Dog:
Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. If you're reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter. He knew something was different. I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip, but this time... it's like he knew something was wrong. And something is wrong... which is why I have to go to try to make it right.
So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.
First, he loves tennis balls. the more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hordes them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't matter where you throw them, he'll bound after it, so be careful - really don't do it by any roads. I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.
Next, commands. Maybe the shelter staff already told you, but I'll go over them again: Reggie knows the obvious ones - "sit," "stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand signals:
"back" to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your hand out right or left. "Shake" for shaking water off, and "paw" for a high-five. He does "down" when he feels like lying down - I bet you could work on that with him some more. He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business.
I trained Reggie with small food treats. Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.
Feeding schedule: twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in the evening. Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.
He's up on his shots. Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when he's due. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet.. Good luck getting him in the car - I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.
Finally, give him some time. I've never been married, so it's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain.. He just loves to be around people, and me most especially, Which means that this transition is going to be hard, with him going to live with someone new.
And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you....His name's not Reggie.
I don't know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his name was Reggie. He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no
doubt, but I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I'd never see him again.. And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everything's fine. But if someone else is reading it, well... well it means that his new owner should know his real name. It'll help you bond with him. Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems.
His real name is Tank. Because that is what I drive.
Again, if you're reading this and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the news. I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I couldn't left Tank with.... and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq , that they make one phone call to the shelter... in the "event" ... to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then he made good on his word.
Well, this letter is getting too downright depressing, even though, frankly, I'm just writing it for my dog. I couldn't imagine if I was writing it for a wife and
kids and family, but still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family.
And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me. That unconditional love from a dog is what I took with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who would do terrible things... and to keep those terrible people from coming over here. If I had to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He was my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.
All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. I don't think I'll say another good-bye to Tank, though.. I cried too much the first time. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.
Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight - every night - from me.
Thank you, Paul Mallory
_____________________________________
I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago
and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.
I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.
"Hey, Tank," I said quietly.
The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.
"C'mere boy."
He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months.
"Tank," I whispered.
His tail swished...
I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him.
"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me." Tank reached up and licked my cheek. "So what daya say we play some ball? His ears perked again. "Yeah?
Ball? You like that? Ball?" Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next room.
And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.
They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.
But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did.
But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner. See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter
told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too. Maybe we were too much alike.
For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls - he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes. I guess I didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff, that I'd get him new things once he settled in. But it became pretty clear pretty soon that he wasn't going to.
I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew, ones like "sit" and "stay" and "come" and "heel," and he'd follow them - when he felt like it. He never really seemed to listen when I called his name - sure, he'd look in my direction after the fourth or fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go back to doing whatever. When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh and then grudgingly obey.
This just wasn't going to work.. He chewed a couple shoes and some unpacked boxes. I was a little too stern with him and he resented it, I could tell. The friction got so bad that I couldn't wait for the two weeks to be up, and when it was, I was in full-on search mode for my cell phone amid all of my unpacked stuff. I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes for the guest room, but I also mumbled, rather cynically, that the "dog probably hid it on me."
Finally I found it, but before I could punch up the shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys from the shelter.. I tossed the pad in Reggie's direction and he snuffed it and
wagged, some of the most enthusiasm I'd seen since bringing him home. But then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like that? Come here and I'll give you a treat." Instead, he sort of glanced in my direction - maybe "glared" is more accurate - and then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down. With his back to me.
Well, that's not going to do it either, I thought. And I punched the shelter phone number.
But I hung up when I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that, too. "Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice."...........
_______________________________________
To Whoever Gets My Dog:
Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. If you're reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter. He knew something was different. I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip, but this time... it's like he knew something was wrong. And something is wrong... which is why I have to go to try to make it right.
So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.
First, he loves tennis balls. the more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hordes them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't matter where you throw them, he'll bound after it, so be careful - really don't do it by any roads. I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.
Next, commands. Maybe the shelter staff already told you, but I'll go over them again: Reggie knows the obvious ones - "sit," "stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand signals:
"back" to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your hand out right or left. "Shake" for shaking water off, and "paw" for a high-five. He does "down" when he feels like lying down - I bet you could work on that with him some more. He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business.
I trained Reggie with small food treats. Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.
Feeding schedule: twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in the evening. Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.
He's up on his shots. Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when he's due. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet.. Good luck getting him in the car - I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.
Finally, give him some time. I've never been married, so it's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain.. He just loves to be around people, and me most especially, Which means that this transition is going to be hard, with him going to live with someone new.
And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you....His name's not Reggie.
I don't know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his name was Reggie. He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no
doubt, but I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I'd never see him again.. And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everything's fine. But if someone else is reading it, well... well it means that his new owner should know his real name. It'll help you bond with him. Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems.
His real name is Tank. Because that is what I drive.
Again, if you're reading this and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the news. I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I couldn't left Tank with.... and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq , that they make one phone call to the shelter... in the "event" ... to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then he made good on his word.
Well, this letter is getting too downright depressing, even though, frankly, I'm just writing it for my dog. I couldn't imagine if I was writing it for a wife and
kids and family, but still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family.
And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me. That unconditional love from a dog is what I took with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who would do terrible things... and to keep those terrible people from coming over here. If I had to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He was my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.
All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. I don't think I'll say another good-bye to Tank, though.. I cried too much the first time. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.
Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight - every night - from me.
Thank you, Paul Mallory
_____________________________________
I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago
and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.
I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.
"Hey, Tank," I said quietly.
The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.
"C'mere boy."
He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months.
"Tank," I whispered.
His tail swished...
I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him.
"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me." Tank reached up and licked my cheek. "So what daya say we play some ball? His ears perked again. "Yeah?
Ball? You like that? Ball?" Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next room.
And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
A letter to the lender
After all that research it is no doubt you wished to paid.
Dear Sir:
In reply to your request for payment,I wish to inform you that the present condition of my bank account makes it almost impossible.
My shattered financial condition is due to federal laws,provincial laws,county laws,village laws,brother-in-laws,sister-in-laws, and out-laws.
Through these laws I am compelled to pay income tax,property tax,business tax,amusement tax,head tax,cosmetic tax,tobacco tax,alcohol tax,gas tax,inheritance tax,food tax,light tax,excise tax,car tax,garbage tax,water tax,sewer tax,telephone tax,sales tax,transportation tax,and the hidden tax.
I am also required to contribute to every charity,society, or organization which the genius man is capable of bringing to life;to the hospital expansion,to minor hockey,to figure skating,to senior hockey,to the curling fund,to the United Fund,to the Centennial Fund,to the Red Cross,the White Cross,the Blue Cross,.the Purple Cross,and the Double Cross.
For my own safety I am required to carry life insurance,health insurance,accident insurance,fire insurance,property insurance,liability insurance,earthquake insurance,tornado insurance,old age insurance,and unemployment insurance.
My business is so governed that it is no easy matter to find out who owns it. I am inspected,expected,suspected,disrespected,rejected,dejected,examined,re-examined,required,summoned,fined,commanded,and compelled,until I provide an inexhaustible supply of money,for every known need,desire, and hope of the human race.
Simply because I refuse to donate to something or other I am boycotted,talked,lied about,held up held down and robbed until I am almost ruined.
I can tell you honestly that expect for a miracle that happened,I could not enclose this cheque for payment.The wolf that comes to the my door nowadays just had pups in my kitchen. I sold the pups and her is the money.
Now Ian what were you saying about your black socks??.
Your sheppen shearer from over ohm
Bruce
PS one day I will write you a serious note,perhaps and perhaps not.
Dear Sir:
In reply to your request for payment,I wish to inform you that the present condition of my bank account makes it almost impossible.
My shattered financial condition is due to federal laws,provincial laws,county laws,village laws,brother-in-laws,sister-in-laws, and out-laws.
Through these laws I am compelled to pay income tax,property tax,business tax,amusement tax,head tax,cosmetic tax,tobacco tax,alcohol tax,gas tax,inheritance tax,food tax,light tax,excise tax,car tax,garbage tax,water tax,sewer tax,telephone tax,sales tax,transportation tax,and the hidden tax.
I am also required to contribute to every charity,society, or organization which the genius man is capable of bringing to life;to the hospital expansion,to minor hockey,to figure skating,to senior hockey,to the curling fund,to the United Fund,to the Centennial Fund,to the Red Cross,the White Cross,the Blue Cross,.the Purple Cross,and the Double Cross.
For my own safety I am required to carry life insurance,health insurance,accident insurance,fire insurance,property insurance,liability insurance,earthquake insurance,tornado insurance,old age insurance,and unemployment insurance.
My business is so governed that it is no easy matter to find out who owns it. I am inspected,expected,suspected,disrespected,rejected,dejected,examined,re-examined,required,summoned,fined,commanded,and compelled,until I provide an inexhaustible supply of money,for every known need,desire, and hope of the human race.
Simply because I refuse to donate to something or other I am boycotted,talked,lied about,held up held down and robbed until I am almost ruined.
I can tell you honestly that expect for a miracle that happened,I could not enclose this cheque for payment.The wolf that comes to the my door nowadays just had pups in my kitchen. I sold the pups and her is the money.
Now Ian what were you saying about your black socks??.
Your sheppen shearer from over ohm
Bruce
PS one day I will write you a serious note,perhaps and perhaps not.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
DOG spelled backwards is GOD
This was sent to me thru e-mail from the sister-in-law and I get misty eyed every time I read it. It seems like a true story and the word DOG spelled backwards is: GOD. I want to share it with you; for your soul and peace of mind, it sure is a real great story.
Watch out!
You nearly broadsided that car!' My father yelled at me. 'Can't you do anything right?' Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn’t prepared for another battle.
'I saw the car Dad... Please, don't yell at me when I'm driving.' My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then, turned away and settled back. At home, I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.
What could I do about him? Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions and had placed often.
The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess. The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day, I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating
room. He was lucky; he survived.
But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders.
Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned and then
finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was
satisfactory. He criticized everything I did.
I became frustrated and moody. Soon, I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session, he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad’s troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.
The next day, I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed
in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In, vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, ‘I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.' I listened as she read.
The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to
the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens.
Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one, but rejected one after the other for various reasons, too big, too small, too much hair.
As I neared the last pen, a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of
the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world’s aristocrats.
But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. 'Can you tell me about him?' The officer looked, and then shook his head in puzzlement.
'He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone
would be right down to claim him; that was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.' He
gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in, I turned to the man in horror. 'You mean you're going to kill him?' 'Ma'am,' he said gently, 'that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog.' I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. 'I'll take him,' I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house, I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. 'Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!' I said excitedly.
Dad looked, and then wrinkled his face in disgust. 'If I had wanted a dog, I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it' Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. 'You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!' Dad ignored me... 'Did you hear me, Dad?' I screamed. At those words, Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.
We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when, suddenly, the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw. Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then, Dad was on his knees, hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together, he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then, late one night, I was startled to feel Cheyenne’s cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night.
I woke Dick, put on my robe, and ran into my father's room. Dad; lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later, my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I
wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I
silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The; morning of Dad's funeral dawned, overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I
walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog that had changed his life.
And, then, the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. 'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.' 'I've often thanked God for sending that angel,' he said. For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article.
Cheyenne’s unexpected appearance at the animal shelter… his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father… and the proximity of their deaths. And, suddenly, I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all. Life is too short for drama & petty things, so laugh hard, love truly, and forgive quickly. Live While You Are Alive. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity. Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second time.
But do share this with someone.. Lost time can never be found
Watch out!
You nearly broadsided that car!' My father yelled at me. 'Can't you do anything right?' Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn’t prepared for another battle.
'I saw the car Dad... Please, don't yell at me when I'm driving.' My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then, turned away and settled back. At home, I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.
What could I do about him? Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions and had placed often.
The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess. The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day, I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating
room. He was lucky; he survived.
But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders.
Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned and then
finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was
satisfactory. He criticized everything I did.
I became frustrated and moody. Soon, I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session, he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad’s troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.
The next day, I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed
in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In, vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, ‘I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.' I listened as she read.
The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to
the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens.
Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one, but rejected one after the other for various reasons, too big, too small, too much hair.
As I neared the last pen, a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of
the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world’s aristocrats.
But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. 'Can you tell me about him?' The officer looked, and then shook his head in puzzlement.
'He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone
would be right down to claim him; that was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.' He
gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in, I turned to the man in horror. 'You mean you're going to kill him?' 'Ma'am,' he said gently, 'that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog.' I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. 'I'll take him,' I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house, I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. 'Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!' I said excitedly.
Dad looked, and then wrinkled his face in disgust. 'If I had wanted a dog, I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it' Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. 'You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!' Dad ignored me... 'Did you hear me, Dad?' I screamed. At those words, Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.
We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when, suddenly, the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw. Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then, Dad was on his knees, hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together, he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then, late one night, I was startled to feel Cheyenne’s cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night.
I woke Dick, put on my robe, and ran into my father's room. Dad; lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later, my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I
wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I
silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The; morning of Dad's funeral dawned, overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I
walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog that had changed his life.
And, then, the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. 'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.' 'I've often thanked God for sending that angel,' he said. For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article.
Cheyenne’s unexpected appearance at the animal shelter… his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father… and the proximity of their deaths. And, suddenly, I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all. Life is too short for drama & petty things, so laugh hard, love truly, and forgive quickly. Live While You Are Alive. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity. Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second time.
But do share this with someone.. Lost time can never be found
Saturday, August 29, 2009
thank you for bouncing my check
Dear Sir:
I am writing to with which I endeavoured to
pay my plumber last month. By my calculations, three ‘nanoseconds’ must
have elapsed between his presenting the check and the arrival in my account
of the funds needed to honour it. I refer, of course, to the automatic
monthly deposit of my Social Security check, an arrangement which, I
admit, has been in place for only eight years.
You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and
also for debiting my account $30 by way of penalty for the inconvenience
caused to your bank.
My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused
me to rethink my errant financial ways. I noticed that whereas I personally
attend to your telephone calls and letters, when I try to contact you, I am
confronted by the impersonal, overcharging, pre-recorded, faceless entity
which your bank has become.
From now on, I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood
person. My mortgage and loan payments will therefore and hereafter no
longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank by check, addressed
personally and confidentially to an employee at your bank whom you must
nominate. Be aware that it is an offence under the Postal Act for any other
person to open such an envelope.
Please find attached an Application Contact Status which I require your
chosen employee to complete. I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in
order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me,
there is no alternative.
Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be
countersigned by a Notary Public, and the mandatory details of his/her
financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be
accompanied by documented proof.
In due course, I will issue your employee with a PIN number which he/she
must quote in dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than
28 digits but, again, I have modelled it on the number of button presses
required of me to access my account balance on your phone bank service. As
they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
Let me level the playing field even further. When you call me, press
buttons as follows:
1– To make an appointment to see me.
2– To query a missing payment.
3– To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there.
4– To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping.
5– To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature.
6– To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home.
7– To leave a message on my computer (a password to access my computer is
required. A password will be communicated to you at a later date to the
Authorized Contact.)
8– To return to the main menu and to listen to options 1 through 7.
9– To make a general complaint or inquiry, the contact will then be put on
hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service.
While this may, on occasion, involve a lengthy wait uplifting music will
play for the duration of the call.
Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an
establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement and may I
wish you a happy, if ever so slightly less prosperous, New Year.
I am writing to with which I endeavoured to
pay my plumber last month. By my calculations, three ‘nanoseconds’ must
have elapsed between his presenting the check and the arrival in my account
of the funds needed to honour it. I refer, of course, to the automatic
monthly deposit of my Social Security check, an arrangement which, I
admit, has been in place for only eight years.
You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and
also for debiting my account $30 by way of penalty for the inconvenience
caused to your bank.
My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused
me to rethink my errant financial ways. I noticed that whereas I personally
attend to your telephone calls and letters, when I try to contact you, I am
confronted by the impersonal, overcharging, pre-recorded, faceless entity
which your bank has become.
From now on, I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood
person. My mortgage and loan payments will therefore and hereafter no
longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank by check, addressed
personally and confidentially to an employee at your bank whom you must
nominate. Be aware that it is an offence under the Postal Act for any other
person to open such an envelope.
Please find attached an Application Contact Status which I require your
chosen employee to complete. I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in
order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me,
there is no alternative.
Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be
countersigned by a Notary Public, and the mandatory details of his/her
financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be
accompanied by documented proof.
In due course, I will issue your employee with a PIN number which he/she
must quote in dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than
28 digits but, again, I have modelled it on the number of button presses
required of me to access my account balance on your phone bank service. As
they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
Let me level the playing field even further. When you call me, press
buttons as follows:
1– To make an appointment to see me.
2– To query a missing payment.
3– To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there.
4– To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping.
5– To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature.
6– To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home.
7– To leave a message on my computer (a password to access my computer is
required. A password will be communicated to you at a later date to the
Authorized Contact.)
8– To return to the main menu and to listen to options 1 through 7.
9– To make a general complaint or inquiry, the contact will then be put on
hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service.
While this may, on occasion, involve a lengthy wait uplifting music will
play for the duration of the call.
Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an
establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement and may I
wish you a happy, if ever so slightly less prosperous, New Year.
Monday, August 10, 2009
A letter to Pat (wtf is this all about?)
Wednesday, November 30, 2005,
The date of inspiration and application.Yes,another real letter to a friend of mine that is mostly corny humor.I was under the influence of a malted beverage,several.
Folks,if after reading this and maybe several times more,you don't know wtf is going on,then guess what,you didn't need to know in the first place,you nosey fat bastard!!.That, will describe almost everybody,aren't words wonderfull?.
Dear Pat:
What do you get for a man that has most everything technical in toys, to express gratitude for friendship and methodological help with the far side of computers? A, gift that will be a useful thing, yet natural enough to entertain your very exceptional inquisitiveness as well.
To choose something that brings us back to an era when we had no such thing as computers and we were encouraged to use our minds to solve the simplest math to the most challenging phasing of atomic matter on paper. Let me ramble on and perhaps I can describe how I chose to get this gift for you.
Get a drink and sit down in a cosy chair, this might take a while or not, depends on fast you read this letter. The purpose is to inform you of trivial stuff and useless information that for some reason we may require it to answer a question in the future, like in a game of Trivial Pursuit, perhaps.
Well, Pat you know you have dazzled me and numerous others with your intelligence and very exceptional observations of life in this region of little variation (which means you may be not from here after all, It has been written and confirmed so, therefore its…true).
Does the name W-O-O-D-F-O-R-D sound familiar? An, area known for, small burning bushes for some apparent reason.
Listen, if at any time, you feel over whelmed, you can put this down and read it later, and if you’re not too busy perhaps the subtle and coy nuisances will unravel themselves to you, like in the prisoner of Azkaban or not.
Sorry, I digress ,You are no doubt aware that we (you and I) are a real pair of unique people that have exposed many subjects on the earth and examined the mysterious space dimension beyond our sight, but not our minds.
For example:, analog to digital conversions, time warps, theory of family relativity, and scientific best guess, such as water into wine and finally explanations of hi tech science too often opaque elsewhere, like the internet and the speed of light.(where did the time go?)
We have drunk the golden nectar from the Gods that have provided our minds eye with a clear vision and deep understanding, making us one with the universe, mostly when we are in the zone of mind melding, reformatting a hard drive, or simply sharing malted beverages, is there any difference of opinion?, I don’t think so, save your breath.
You have a far side to you, Jon Luc Pate`. Know yourself well; be one within, listen and the forces that bewitch you, it’s like having an epiphany, like the one that struck me as I write this elemental letter.
This came so logically to me the words just flowed to the page and I had to laugh as I could see your face and you would be thinking, holy shit, the Zbig has really lost it this time. Read on.
You are sensitive about the fact that there is so little material to challenge your psyche and character and I have listened and thought what the hell I am I going to do to solve this problem?. I have asked and received this knowledge in a stroke. I must have recovered because I am still here;
Anyway I have sought out this question and began my hunt in earnest to bring you a challenge worthy of your self-ness. Then I remembered you mention the Mensa Test, hence, something of incalculable knowledge to be read well and see the way of the force. Simple, yet satisfying.
Listen, if at any time, you feel over whelmed, you can put this down.
But, first, some vital stuff to be familiar with, as you know, you disregard it instantaneously.
*This, is factual and hopeless, too many addictives in the beer, again. That explains a lot now, dough nut, why we get impulsive and rampant at the mouth at times.
*Scientists revealed that beer contains small traces of female hormones. To prove their theory, the scientists fed 12 men 12 pints of beer each and observed that 100% of them gained weight, talked excessively without making sense, became emotional, and couldn't drive. No further testing is planned.
Sorry, I digress, you might feel like reading this again, you may, nose` a problemo` signor`. Do it, the truth will set you free, find out who-you-are Jock-u-lair. By now you are wondering dozen this person have too much time on his hands?
The answer is a maybe, so what, time has no relevance to the length of the subject written, discussed or disused, and why computers came to be transporters to the far side, remember Bill Gates, Jon luc? He had too much time on his hands and look where it got him.
The best answer is to experiment on your self, Pat and find out. What are my genuine limits, do I need to know, does any one else need to know, does this mean that I am as smart as I am or am I smarter than I was or in fact was I smarter to begin with, am I the product of my colon-iz-ation or the sum of all my fears OR, is some nuc-kow-ski freakin` body playing hockey with my head, man?.
Listen, if at any time, you feel over whelmed.
I found this item and my sincere thinking is that this will challenge your mind and give it the exercise it deserves. And you can’t judge a book by its cover, rather by what is contained within, so I hear.
Please translate the introduction carefully, it gives clues to many of the answers and don’t be afraid about feeling like an old kid, because you recognize age knows no genius.
Consequently, no genius knows his age, only his strengths, are you getting this ok? You can walk away if want, I guarantee not to tell any one, nothing about nothing ,it never happened, this communiqué will burn up in 30 seconds anyway.
However, if you decide otherwise, please enjoy and I can assist you with this task, I could consider this an honour and duty to help you all full fill your density. (In other words 2b as thick as a brick)
Thank you fur your in-dull-gents on this matter, may all the orifices bewitch you, Jon Luc Pate`
Your unassuming, modest, humble, indefatigable, multipurpose, petulant and steadfast servant and having said that, I rest myself and you say what??
(canuunderstandanyofthis) Listen
Zee-big`-e-`nuff`-fur- u?
The date of inspiration and application.Yes,another real letter to a friend of mine that is mostly corny humor.I was under the influence of a malted beverage,several.
Folks,if after reading this and maybe several times more,you don't know wtf is going on,then guess what,you didn't need to know in the first place,you nosey fat bastard!!.That, will describe almost everybody,aren't words wonderfull?.
Dear Pat:
What do you get for a man that has most everything technical in toys, to express gratitude for friendship and methodological help with the far side of computers? A, gift that will be a useful thing, yet natural enough to entertain your very exceptional inquisitiveness as well.
To choose something that brings us back to an era when we had no such thing as computers and we were encouraged to use our minds to solve the simplest math to the most challenging phasing of atomic matter on paper. Let me ramble on and perhaps I can describe how I chose to get this gift for you.
Get a drink and sit down in a cosy chair, this might take a while or not, depends on fast you read this letter. The purpose is to inform you of trivial stuff and useless information that for some reason we may require it to answer a question in the future, like in a game of Trivial Pursuit, perhaps.
Well, Pat you know you have dazzled me and numerous others with your intelligence and very exceptional observations of life in this region of little variation (which means you may be not from here after all, It has been written and confirmed so, therefore its…true).
Does the name W-O-O-D-F-O-R-D sound familiar? An, area known for, small burning bushes for some apparent reason.
Listen, if at any time, you feel over whelmed, you can put this down and read it later, and if you’re not too busy perhaps the subtle and coy nuisances will unravel themselves to you, like in the prisoner of Azkaban or not.
Sorry, I digress ,You are no doubt aware that we (you and I) are a real pair of unique people that have exposed many subjects on the earth and examined the mysterious space dimension beyond our sight, but not our minds.
For example:, analog to digital conversions, time warps, theory of family relativity, and scientific best guess, such as water into wine and finally explanations of hi tech science too often opaque elsewhere, like the internet and the speed of light.(where did the time go?)
We have drunk the golden nectar from the Gods that have provided our minds eye with a clear vision and deep understanding, making us one with the universe, mostly when we are in the zone of mind melding, reformatting a hard drive, or simply sharing malted beverages, is there any difference of opinion?, I don’t think so, save your breath.
You have a far side to you, Jon Luc Pate`. Know yourself well; be one within, listen and the forces that bewitch you, it’s like having an epiphany, like the one that struck me as I write this elemental letter.
This came so logically to me the words just flowed to the page and I had to laugh as I could see your face and you would be thinking, holy shit, the Zbig has really lost it this time. Read on.
You are sensitive about the fact that there is so little material to challenge your psyche and character and I have listened and thought what the hell I am I going to do to solve this problem?. I have asked and received this knowledge in a stroke. I must have recovered because I am still here;
Anyway I have sought out this question and began my hunt in earnest to bring you a challenge worthy of your self-ness. Then I remembered you mention the Mensa Test, hence, something of incalculable knowledge to be read well and see the way of the force. Simple, yet satisfying.
Listen, if at any time, you feel over whelmed, you can put this down.
But, first, some vital stuff to be familiar with, as you know, you disregard it instantaneously.
*This, is factual and hopeless, too many addictives in the beer, again. That explains a lot now, dough nut, why we get impulsive and rampant at the mouth at times.
*Scientists revealed that beer contains small traces of female hormones. To prove their theory, the scientists fed 12 men 12 pints of beer each and observed that 100% of them gained weight, talked excessively without making sense, became emotional, and couldn't drive. No further testing is planned.
Sorry, I digress, you might feel like reading this again, you may, nose` a problemo` signor`. Do it, the truth will set you free, find out who-you-are Jock-u-lair. By now you are wondering dozen this person have too much time on his hands?
The answer is a maybe, so what, time has no relevance to the length of the subject written, discussed or disused, and why computers came to be transporters to the far side, remember Bill Gates, Jon luc? He had too much time on his hands and look where it got him.
The best answer is to experiment on your self, Pat and find out. What are my genuine limits, do I need to know, does any one else need to know, does this mean that I am as smart as I am or am I smarter than I was or in fact was I smarter to begin with, am I the product of my colon-iz-ation or the sum of all my fears OR, is some nuc-kow-ski freakin` body playing hockey with my head, man?.
Listen, if at any time, you feel over whelmed.
I found this item and my sincere thinking is that this will challenge your mind and give it the exercise it deserves. And you can’t judge a book by its cover, rather by what is contained within, so I hear.
Please translate the introduction carefully, it gives clues to many of the answers and don’t be afraid about feeling like an old kid, because you recognize age knows no genius.
Consequently, no genius knows his age, only his strengths, are you getting this ok? You can walk away if want, I guarantee not to tell any one, nothing about nothing ,it never happened, this communiqué will burn up in 30 seconds anyway.
However, if you decide otherwise, please enjoy and I can assist you with this task, I could consider this an honour and duty to help you all full fill your density. (In other words 2b as thick as a brick)
Thank you fur your in-dull-gents on this matter, may all the orifices bewitch you, Jon Luc Pate`
Your unassuming, modest, humble, indefatigable, multipurpose, petulant and steadfast servant and having said that, I rest myself and you say what??
(canuunderstandanyofthis) Listen
Zee-big`-e-`nuff`-fur- u?
Perpetual Youth,are you interested?
Love & enjoy your children & grandchildren & great-grandchildren. It's the best investment you'll ever make.
Perpetual youth:
Please read this next line carefully, it can change your life forever!
And for those of you whom want perpetual youth, you can raise them as well. Yes, raise your grandchildren. It seems the thing to do, your natural born children throw in the towel and leave a marriage and it’s the parents (a.k.a.) grandparents are left to clean the mess….again. Includes, the children and the pets and maybe, one of the parents of the kids.
Why, is it that your kids will listen to complete strangers for advice and never seem to heed your sensible words? It’s the nature of the beast and guess, what its old as time it’s self, everybody thinks their shit don’t stink and who listens to old folks anyway?(the meatheads).
Perpetual youth:
Please read this next line carefully, it can change your life forever!
And for those of you whom want perpetual youth, you can raise them as well. Yes, raise your grandchildren. It seems the thing to do, your natural born children throw in the towel and leave a marriage and it’s the parents (a.k.a.) grandparents are left to clean the mess….again. Includes, the children and the pets and maybe, one of the parents of the kids.
Why, is it that your kids will listen to complete strangers for advice and never seem to heed your sensible words? It’s the nature of the beast and guess, what its old as time it’s self, everybody thinks their shit don’t stink and who listens to old folks anyway?(the meatheads).
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Biker’s creed
Found this version on the Internets,depending on what you believe will determine what you will do when the occasion arises.
Biker’s creed
I ride because it is fun. I ride because I enjoy the freedom I feel from being exposed to the elements, and the vulnerability to the danger that is inherent to riding.
I do not ride because it is fashionable to do so.
I ride my machine, not wear it. My machine is not a symbol of status. It exists simply for me and me alone.
My machine is not a toy. It is an extension of my being, and I will treat it accordingly, with the same respect as I have for myself.
I strive to understand the inner-workings of my machine, from the most basic to the most complex; I learn everything I can about my machine, so that I am reliant upon no one but myself for its health and well-being.
I strive to constantly better my skill of control over my machine. I will learn its limits, and use my skill to become one with my machine so that we may keep each other alive. I am the master, it is the servant. Working together in harmony, we will become an invincible team.
I do not fear death. I will, however, do all possible to avoid death prematurely. Fear is the enemy, not death. Fear on the highway leads to death, therefore I will not let fear be my master. I will master it.
My machines will outlive me. Therefore, they are my legacy. I will care for them for future bikers to cherish as I have cherished them, whoever they may be.
I do not ride to gain attention, respect, or fear from those that do not ride, nor do I wish to intimidate or annoy them.
For those that do not know me, all I wish from them is to ignore me.
For those that desire to know me, I will share with them the truth of myself, so that they might understand me and not fear others like me.
I will never be the aggressor on the highway. However, should others fuck with me; their aggression will be dealt with in as severe manner as I can cast upon them.
I will show respect to other bikers more experienced or knowledgeable than I am. I will learn from them all I can. However, if my respect is not acknowledged or appreciated, it will end.
I will not show disrespect to other bikers less experienced or knowledgeable than I am. I will teach them what I can. However, if they show me disrespect, they will be bitch-slapped.
It will be my task to mentor new riders, that so desire, into the lifestyle of the biker, so that the breed shall continue.
I shall instruct them, as I have been instructed by those before me. I shall preserve and honor traditions of bikers before me, and I will pass them on unaltered.
I will not judge other bikers on their choice of machine, their appearance, or their profession.
I will judge them only on their conduct as bikers. I am proud of my accomplishments as a biker, though I will not flaunt them to others. If they ask, I will share them.
I will stand ready to help any other bikers that truly need my help. I will never ask another biker to do for me what I can do for myself. I am not a part-time biker.
I am a biker when, and where-ever I go. I am proud to be a biker, and hide my chosen lifestyle from no one. I ride because I love freedom, independence, and the movement of the ground beneath me.
But most of all, I ride to better understand myself, my machine, the lands in which I ride, and to seek out and know other bikers like myself.
-author anonymous,you have my thanks.
Biker’s creed
I ride because it is fun. I ride because I enjoy the freedom I feel from being exposed to the elements, and the vulnerability to the danger that is inherent to riding.
I do not ride because it is fashionable to do so.
I ride my machine, not wear it. My machine is not a symbol of status. It exists simply for me and me alone.
My machine is not a toy. It is an extension of my being, and I will treat it accordingly, with the same respect as I have for myself.
I strive to understand the inner-workings of my machine, from the most basic to the most complex; I learn everything I can about my machine, so that I am reliant upon no one but myself for its health and well-being.
I strive to constantly better my skill of control over my machine. I will learn its limits, and use my skill to become one with my machine so that we may keep each other alive. I am the master, it is the servant. Working together in harmony, we will become an invincible team.
I do not fear death. I will, however, do all possible to avoid death prematurely. Fear is the enemy, not death. Fear on the highway leads to death, therefore I will not let fear be my master. I will master it.
My machines will outlive me. Therefore, they are my legacy. I will care for them for future bikers to cherish as I have cherished them, whoever they may be.
I do not ride to gain attention, respect, or fear from those that do not ride, nor do I wish to intimidate or annoy them.
For those that do not know me, all I wish from them is to ignore me.
For those that desire to know me, I will share with them the truth of myself, so that they might understand me and not fear others like me.
I will never be the aggressor on the highway. However, should others fuck with me; their aggression will be dealt with in as severe manner as I can cast upon them.
I will show respect to other bikers more experienced or knowledgeable than I am. I will learn from them all I can. However, if my respect is not acknowledged or appreciated, it will end.
I will not show disrespect to other bikers less experienced or knowledgeable than I am. I will teach them what I can. However, if they show me disrespect, they will be bitch-slapped.
It will be my task to mentor new riders, that so desire, into the lifestyle of the biker, so that the breed shall continue.
I shall instruct them, as I have been instructed by those before me. I shall preserve and honor traditions of bikers before me, and I will pass them on unaltered.
I will not judge other bikers on their choice of machine, their appearance, or their profession.
I will judge them only on their conduct as bikers. I am proud of my accomplishments as a biker, though I will not flaunt them to others. If they ask, I will share them.
I will stand ready to help any other bikers that truly need my help. I will never ask another biker to do for me what I can do for myself. I am not a part-time biker.
I am a biker when, and where-ever I go. I am proud to be a biker, and hide my chosen lifestyle from no one. I ride because I love freedom, independence, and the movement of the ground beneath me.
But most of all, I ride to better understand myself, my machine, the lands in which I ride, and to seek out and know other bikers like myself.
-author anonymous,you have my thanks.
Friday, July 31, 2009
History of the Henson Trust
Found this information on the internet and has a special interest to me as we have just completed this process through our lawyer for the Grandkids.
History of the Henson Trust
The Henson trust had its origins in the city of Guelph, Ontario. During the early 1980's, a gentleman by the name of Leonard Henson lived in the Guelph area and he had a daughter named Audrey. Audrey was a person with a developmental disability and she lived in a group home managed by the Guelph Association for Community Living.
Leonard knew that if he left his estate directly to his daughter, it would exceed the allowable asset limits as set out by the Family Benefits Allowance (now called the Ontario Disability Support Program).
He realized that having assets in the hands of his daughter directly would not be to her advantage and that her benefits would be terminated until the assets were "spent down" to a level below the threshold amount. In addition, Leonard's wife had pre-deceased him and he had no other family.
Therefore, Leonard went about to find a way to leave his estate to his daughter without interfering with her entitlement to government supports. He conferred with a number of legal people and advocacy organizations and even investigated what was going on in other jurisdictions within and outside of Canada.
Eventually, he discovered a technique that would allow Audrey to retain her government benefits while at the same time allowing her to receive quality of life enhancements from his estate.
That technique was the use of the Absolute Discretionary Trust to be created in his Will as a Testamentary Trust.
Leonard updated his Will with his lawyer. Unfortunately, he then died. At that point, the Will required the creation of an Absolute Discretionary Trust which appointed the Guelph Association for Community Living as Trustee and his daughter Audrey as beneficiary of the trust.
Once Audrey died, his Will instructed that the remaining funds in the Trust were to be passed on to the Guelph Association for Community Living.
The Ministry of Community, Family and Children's Services, the ministry which controls the FBA (ODSP), determined that Audrey had inherited the estate of her father and since it was in excess of the allowable amount of assets, they terminated her benefits.
The Guelph Association for Community Living challenged this decision and to make a long story short, the Ministry took the trust and the Trustee to court. The first court found that the funds contained in Audrey's trust account did not meet the FBA (ODSP) definition of assets and therefore, it ruled in favor of the Trustees.
The Ministry was not at all impressed with this decision and so they launched an appeal. The appeals ultimately reached the Supreme Court of Ontario and in September of 1989, the appeal was dismissed.
The Government lost and what that decision did for families with a son or daughter with a disability was to provide us with a vehicle in which we can place assets for our children without disqualifying them from receiving the ODSP payments to which they would otherwise be entitled.
In Canada, anyone with a disability may be entitled to support payments from the government. For example in the province of Ontario, the Ontario Disability Support Payments (ODSPs) is the provincial sponsored program set-up to provide financial support to assist those with physical and/or mental disabilities that have limited prospects of finding gainful employment do to their disability.
Although ODSP is a well-intentioned program, and a necessity for a society that perceives itself as just and socially responsible, ODSP has inherent flaws.
What are the flaws?
Government provided support payments at first glance would appear to offer an obvious financial remedy, helping to alleviate these hardships and the predicament that parents of disabled children find themselves in.
However, the law in Ontario like other provinces states that a person with disabilities must be deemed to be living in poverty in order to qualify for support payments.
The criteria that match the definition of what qualifies as living in poverty in Ontario have an extremely low benchmark. Liquid assets over $5,000 will effectively disqualify an otherwise justified recipient from receiving ODSP benefit payments.
The rule in effect requires the liquidation of all assets of disabled individuals if they are to be awarded any ODSP benefit payments. In short:
“Come back and see us when you have burned through your inheritance.”
Necessity is the mother of all inventions, is it not?
In the late 1980s, a very loving and forward thinking father in Guelph, Ontario named Leonard Henson approached his lawyer, George Goetz, to create a legal solution that would transfer enough of his estate to his disabled daughter, Audrey, that she would be able to be cared for throughout her life and after his death.
The salient issue was that if the assets were transferred directly to Audrey, she would be immediately rendered sufficiently financial well off that she no longer qualified for assistance from the Ontario Social Services Ministry.
After some thought, Goetz creatively drafted a Will for Henson that relied upon an “absolute discretionary trust” to transfer income to Audrey.
Ingeniously, set within the terms of the trust she would not technically own the assets. Though the Social Services Ministry objected vigorously, by 1989 the Ontario Court of Appeal approved this solution crafted by both Henson and Goetz, to the great benefit of the disabled and their parents and guardians nationwide.0
The modern era of the Henson Trust commenced.
Funding Method
The most effective method for setting-up and properly funding a Henson Trust is to fund the Trust through the proceeds of a life insurance policy that insures the life of the disabled person’s parent or guardian.
The reality today is that many parents with children with special needs do not feel they will have the financial where withal to provide for their disabled children’s financial needs after they have died.
Hence, the purchasing of life insurance by most parents and guardians on their own lives presents the most efficient and practical mechanism upon their deaths to fund Henson Trusts.
Other Considerations
Several aspects of the Henson Trust should be explored thoroughly by the parent or guardian of a disabled child. The most important consideration before setting-up this form of trust is to determine who will be appointed the Trustee/s. This decision should not be taken lightly.
The Trustee/s should be a person or entity that the parent or guardian can put their ultimate trust in. Parents or guardians must believe that their appointed Trustee/s to the Henson Trust will always do what is in the best interest of the disabled child.
Another major consideration when appointing a trustee/s is their ability to make wise investment choices while managing trust assets. In many cases where the trustee/s does not have the sufficient skills to manage the investments within the trust they will have had an investment manager appointed to manage the funds within the trust.
If you or your clients are seriously considering creating a Henson Trust it is of the utmost importance to consult first with a qualified Certified Financial Planner and an Estate Lawyer who are experienced with all the nuisances of setting-up, managing and winding-up Henson Trusts.
History of the Henson Trust
The Henson trust had its origins in the city of Guelph, Ontario. During the early 1980's, a gentleman by the name of Leonard Henson lived in the Guelph area and he had a daughter named Audrey. Audrey was a person with a developmental disability and she lived in a group home managed by the Guelph Association for Community Living.
Leonard knew that if he left his estate directly to his daughter, it would exceed the allowable asset limits as set out by the Family Benefits Allowance (now called the Ontario Disability Support Program).
He realized that having assets in the hands of his daughter directly would not be to her advantage and that her benefits would be terminated until the assets were "spent down" to a level below the threshold amount. In addition, Leonard's wife had pre-deceased him and he had no other family.
Therefore, Leonard went about to find a way to leave his estate to his daughter without interfering with her entitlement to government supports. He conferred with a number of legal people and advocacy organizations and even investigated what was going on in other jurisdictions within and outside of Canada.
Eventually, he discovered a technique that would allow Audrey to retain her government benefits while at the same time allowing her to receive quality of life enhancements from his estate.
That technique was the use of the Absolute Discretionary Trust to be created in his Will as a Testamentary Trust.
Leonard updated his Will with his lawyer. Unfortunately, he then died. At that point, the Will required the creation of an Absolute Discretionary Trust which appointed the Guelph Association for Community Living as Trustee and his daughter Audrey as beneficiary of the trust.
Once Audrey died, his Will instructed that the remaining funds in the Trust were to be passed on to the Guelph Association for Community Living.
The Ministry of Community, Family and Children's Services, the ministry which controls the FBA (ODSP), determined that Audrey had inherited the estate of her father and since it was in excess of the allowable amount of assets, they terminated her benefits.
The Guelph Association for Community Living challenged this decision and to make a long story short, the Ministry took the trust and the Trustee to court. The first court found that the funds contained in Audrey's trust account did not meet the FBA (ODSP) definition of assets and therefore, it ruled in favor of the Trustees.
The Ministry was not at all impressed with this decision and so they launched an appeal. The appeals ultimately reached the Supreme Court of Ontario and in September of 1989, the appeal was dismissed.
The Government lost and what that decision did for families with a son or daughter with a disability was to provide us with a vehicle in which we can place assets for our children without disqualifying them from receiving the ODSP payments to which they would otherwise be entitled.
In Canada, anyone with a disability may be entitled to support payments from the government. For example in the province of Ontario, the Ontario Disability Support Payments (ODSPs) is the provincial sponsored program set-up to provide financial support to assist those with physical and/or mental disabilities that have limited prospects of finding gainful employment do to their disability.
Although ODSP is a well-intentioned program, and a necessity for a society that perceives itself as just and socially responsible, ODSP has inherent flaws.
What are the flaws?
Government provided support payments at first glance would appear to offer an obvious financial remedy, helping to alleviate these hardships and the predicament that parents of disabled children find themselves in.
However, the law in Ontario like other provinces states that a person with disabilities must be deemed to be living in poverty in order to qualify for support payments.
The criteria that match the definition of what qualifies as living in poverty in Ontario have an extremely low benchmark. Liquid assets over $5,000 will effectively disqualify an otherwise justified recipient from receiving ODSP benefit payments.
The rule in effect requires the liquidation of all assets of disabled individuals if they are to be awarded any ODSP benefit payments. In short:
“Come back and see us when you have burned through your inheritance.”
Necessity is the mother of all inventions, is it not?
In the late 1980s, a very loving and forward thinking father in Guelph, Ontario named Leonard Henson approached his lawyer, George Goetz, to create a legal solution that would transfer enough of his estate to his disabled daughter, Audrey, that she would be able to be cared for throughout her life and after his death.
The salient issue was that if the assets were transferred directly to Audrey, she would be immediately rendered sufficiently financial well off that she no longer qualified for assistance from the Ontario Social Services Ministry.
After some thought, Goetz creatively drafted a Will for Henson that relied upon an “absolute discretionary trust” to transfer income to Audrey.
Ingeniously, set within the terms of the trust she would not technically own the assets. Though the Social Services Ministry objected vigorously, by 1989 the Ontario Court of Appeal approved this solution crafted by both Henson and Goetz, to the great benefit of the disabled and their parents and guardians nationwide.0
The modern era of the Henson Trust commenced.
Funding Method
The most effective method for setting-up and properly funding a Henson Trust is to fund the Trust through the proceeds of a life insurance policy that insures the life of the disabled person’s parent or guardian.
The reality today is that many parents with children with special needs do not feel they will have the financial where withal to provide for their disabled children’s financial needs after they have died.
Hence, the purchasing of life insurance by most parents and guardians on their own lives presents the most efficient and practical mechanism upon their deaths to fund Henson Trusts.
Other Considerations
Several aspects of the Henson Trust should be explored thoroughly by the parent or guardian of a disabled child. The most important consideration before setting-up this form of trust is to determine who will be appointed the Trustee/s. This decision should not be taken lightly.
The Trustee/s should be a person or entity that the parent or guardian can put their ultimate trust in. Parents or guardians must believe that their appointed Trustee/s to the Henson Trust will always do what is in the best interest of the disabled child.
Another major consideration when appointing a trustee/s is their ability to make wise investment choices while managing trust assets. In many cases where the trustee/s does not have the sufficient skills to manage the investments within the trust they will have had an investment manager appointed to manage the funds within the trust.
If you or your clients are seriously considering creating a Henson Trust it is of the utmost importance to consult first with a qualified Certified Financial Planner and an Estate Lawyer who are experienced with all the nuisances of setting-up, managing and winding-up Henson Trusts.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Nissan Xterra for Sale
Apparently another true story: * not for the faint of............................ you fill in the blanks;(either you gonna be insulted or entertained here)
Also seems to me that the writing course he took had some flaws in it.Decide for yourself Believe or Not.If you begin to fade from the expressions issued here feel free to leave and move on to something in your age catagory.Maybe he thinks he is a dragon-slayer...maybe he should be on "Mountain Goat-Canadian Rockies in mid July"
NINJA HAULER: 2005 Nissan Xterra
- $12,900
OK, let me start off by saying this Xterra is only available for purchase by the manliest of men (or women). My friend, if it was possible for a vehicle to sprout chest hair and a five o'clock shadow, this Nissan would look like Tom Selleck. It is just that masculine.
It was never intended to drive to the mall so you can pick up that adorable shirt at Abercrombie & Fitch that you had your eye on. It wasn't meant to transport you to yoga class or Linens & Things.
No, that's what your Primus is for. If that's the kind of car you're looking for, then just do us all a favor and stop reading right now. I mean it. Just stop and walk away, do us a favor.
This car was engineered by 3rd degree ninja super-warriors in the highest mountains of Japan to serve the needs of the man that cheats death on a daily basis. They didn't even consider superfluous Nancy boy amenities like navigation systems (real men don't get lost), heated leather seats (a real man doesn't let anything warm his butt), or On Star (real men don't even know what the hell On Star is).
No, this brute comes with the things us testosterone-fueled super action junkies need. It has a 265 HP engine to outrun the cops. It's got special blood/gore resistant upholstery.
It even has a first-aid kit in the back. You know what the first aid kit has in it? A pint of whiskey, a stitch-your-own-wound kit and a hunk of leather to bite down on when you're operating on yourself.
The Xterra also has an automatic transmission so if you're being chased by Libyan terrorists, you'll still be able to shoot your machine gun out the window and drive at the same time. It's saved my bacon more than once. Think Rambo here.
It has room for you and the four hotties you picked up on the way to the gym to blast your pecs and hammer your glutes. There's a tow hitch to pull your 50 caliber anti-Taliban, self cooling machine gun. I also just put in a new windshield to replace the one that got shot out by The Man. In a drive by.
My price on this bad boy is an incredibly low $12,900, but I'll entertain reasonable offers. And by reasonable, I mean don't walk up and tell me you'll give me $5,000 for it.
That's liable to earn you a Burmese-roundhouse-sphincter-kick with a follow up three fingered eye-jab. Would it hurt? Hell yeah. Let's just say you won't be the prettiest guy at the Coldplay concert anymore.
There's only 69,000 miles on this four-wheeled hellcat from Planet Kickass. Trust me, it will outlive you and the offspring that will carry your name. It will live on as a monument to your machismo.
Now, go look in the mirror and tell me what you see. If it's a rugged, no holds barred, super brute he-man macho Chuck Norris stunt double, then contact me. I might be out hang-gliding or BASE jumping or just chilling with my ladies, but I'll get back to you. And when I do, we'll talk about a price over a nice glass of Schmidt while we listen to Johnny Cash.
To sweeten the deal a little, I'm throwing in this pair of MC Hammer pants for the man with rippling quads that can't fit into regular pants. Yeah, you heard me. FREE MC Hammer pants. You can’t touch this, but you sure as hell can buy it, if you’re the man.
Rock on.
We took the same no prisoner’s night course in expressive newspaper journalism.
Also seems to me that the writing course he took had some flaws in it.Decide for yourself Believe or Not.If you begin to fade from the expressions issued here feel free to leave and move on to something in your age catagory.Maybe he thinks he is a dragon-slayer...maybe he should be on "Mountain Goat-Canadian Rockies in mid July"
NINJA HAULER: 2005 Nissan Xterra
- $12,900
OK, let me start off by saying this Xterra is only available for purchase by the manliest of men (or women). My friend, if it was possible for a vehicle to sprout chest hair and a five o'clock shadow, this Nissan would look like Tom Selleck. It is just that masculine.
It was never intended to drive to the mall so you can pick up that adorable shirt at Abercrombie & Fitch that you had your eye on. It wasn't meant to transport you to yoga class or Linens & Things.
No, that's what your Primus is for. If that's the kind of car you're looking for, then just do us all a favor and stop reading right now. I mean it. Just stop and walk away, do us a favor.
This car was engineered by 3rd degree ninja super-warriors in the highest mountains of Japan to serve the needs of the man that cheats death on a daily basis. They didn't even consider superfluous Nancy boy amenities like navigation systems (real men don't get lost), heated leather seats (a real man doesn't let anything warm his butt), or On Star (real men don't even know what the hell On Star is).
No, this brute comes with the things us testosterone-fueled super action junkies need. It has a 265 HP engine to outrun the cops. It's got special blood/gore resistant upholstery.
It even has a first-aid kit in the back. You know what the first aid kit has in it? A pint of whiskey, a stitch-your-own-wound kit and a hunk of leather to bite down on when you're operating on yourself.
The Xterra also has an automatic transmission so if you're being chased by Libyan terrorists, you'll still be able to shoot your machine gun out the window and drive at the same time. It's saved my bacon more than once. Think Rambo here.
It has room for you and the four hotties you picked up on the way to the gym to blast your pecs and hammer your glutes. There's a tow hitch to pull your 50 caliber anti-Taliban, self cooling machine gun. I also just put in a new windshield to replace the one that got shot out by The Man. In a drive by.
My price on this bad boy is an incredibly low $12,900, but I'll entertain reasonable offers. And by reasonable, I mean don't walk up and tell me you'll give me $5,000 for it.
That's liable to earn you a Burmese-roundhouse-sphincter-kick with a follow up three fingered eye-jab. Would it hurt? Hell yeah. Let's just say you won't be the prettiest guy at the Coldplay concert anymore.
There's only 69,000 miles on this four-wheeled hellcat from Planet Kickass. Trust me, it will outlive you and the offspring that will carry your name. It will live on as a monument to your machismo.
Now, go look in the mirror and tell me what you see. If it's a rugged, no holds barred, super brute he-man macho Chuck Norris stunt double, then contact me. I might be out hang-gliding or BASE jumping or just chilling with my ladies, but I'll get back to you. And when I do, we'll talk about a price over a nice glass of Schmidt while we listen to Johnny Cash.
To sweeten the deal a little, I'm throwing in this pair of MC Hammer pants for the man with rippling quads that can't fit into regular pants. Yeah, you heard me. FREE MC Hammer pants. You can’t touch this, but you sure as hell can buy it, if you’re the man.
Rock on.
We took the same no prisoner’s night course in expressive newspaper journalism.
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