KAREL'S CHEESE HOUSE

An English Professor wrote the words, "woman without her man is a savage" on the blackboard and directed his students to punctuate it correctly.

The men wrote: "Woman, without her man, is a savage."

The women wrote: "Woman: Without her, man is a savage."

The Lord is my external-internal integrative mechanism, I shall not be deprived of gratification for my viscerogenic hungers or my need-dispositions. He motivates me to orient myself toward a non-social object with affective significance, He positions me in a non-decisional situation, He maximizes my adjustment. Although I entertain masochistic and self-destructive id impulses, I will maintain contact with reality, for my superego is dominant. His analysis and tranquilizers, they comfort me. He assists in the resolution of my internal conflicts despite my Oedipal problem and psychopathic compulsions. He promotes my group identification. My personality is totally integrated. Surely my prestige and status shall be enhanced as a direct function of time And I shall remain sociologically, psychologically and economically secure forever.

"In retrospect, I admit it was unwise to try to gain access to my house via the cat flap," Gunther Burpus admitted to reporters in Bremen, Germany. "I suppose that the reason they're called cat flaps, rather than human flaps, is because they're too small for people, and perhaps I should have realized that."

Burpus, a forty-one year old gardener from Bremen, was relating how he had become trapped in his own front door for two days, after losing his house keys. "I got my head and shoulders through the flap, but became trapped fast around the waist. At first, it all seemed rather amusing. I sang songs and told myself jokes. But then I wanted to go to the lavatory. I began shouting for help, but my head was in the hallway so my screams were muffled.

After a few hours, a group of students approached me but, instead of helping, they removed my trousers and pants, painted my buttocks bright blue, and stuck a daffodil between my cheeks. Then they placed a sign next to me which said 'Germany resurgent, an essay in street art. Please give generously' and left me there."

"People were passing by and, when I asked for help, they just said 'very good! Very clever!' and threw coins into my trousers. No one tried to free me. In fact, I only got free after two days because a dog started licking my private parts and an old woman complained to the police. They came and cut me out, but arrested me as soon as I was freed. Luckily they've now dropped the charges, and I collected over DM3,000 in my underpants, so the time wasn't entirely wasted."

(Vancouver Sun)

To: All Employees
Subj: Restroom Policy

In the past, employees have been permitted to make trips to the restroom under informal guidelines. Effective January 1, 1995, a Restroom Trip Policy will be established to provide a more consistent method of accounting for each employee's restroom time and ensuring equal treatment of employees.

Under the policy, a "Restroom Trip Bank" will be established for each employee. The first day of each month, employees will be given a Restroom Trip credit of twenty (20) trips. Restroom Trip credits can be accumulated from month to month.

Within two weeks, the entrances to all restrooms will be equipped with personnel identification stations and computer linked voice print recognition devices. Before the end of December, each employee must provide two copies of voice prints (one normal and one under stress) to the Material Department. The voice print recognition stations will be operational but not restrictive for the month of January. Employees should acquaint themselves with the station during that period.

If the employee's Restroom Bank balance reaches zero, the doors to the restroom will not unlock for that employee's voice until the first of the next month. In addition, all restroom stalls are being equipped with timed paper toll retractors. If the stall is occupied for more than three (3) minutes, an alarm will sound. Thirty (30) seconds after the alarm sounds the roll of paper will retract into the wall, the toilet will flush, and the stall door will open. If the stall remains occupied, your picture will be taken.

The picture will then be posted on the Distribution Center Bulletin Boards. Anyone's picture showing up three (3) times will be immediately terminated.

If you have any questions about this policy, please ask your immediate supervisor. They have all received advance instruction.

Thank you and have a nice day,

The Boss

Boy: "Mom that bike is just the one I want for my birthday. Please get it for me."

Mom: "I don't know you haven't been good lately."

Boy : "Puhleeze, puhleeze Mom it's the only thing I want in this whole world."

Mom: Y"ou've really been bad lately. I have to think about this first."

Boy: "Mom how do you know when I'm bad?" Mom: "Jesus tells me."

Boy runs to his bedroom and kneels to pray: "Jesus, I will be good for a whole month if you get me that bike." But thinks, 'Hmmm...I'll never make it for that long.'

Boy: Jesus, I'll be good for a whole week if you get me the bike." 'Hmmmmm... that's too long too I'll never make it'.

Boy: "Jesus, get me the bike I'll be good for a whole day." 'Hmmmmmm... can't do that either.'

Boy then runs to his mother's room and gets statue of Virgin Mary - empties toy box puts statue in center of box and repacks toys around it - closes toybox.

He kneels near bed and says "Jesus, if you ever want to see your Mother again you'll get me that bike."

This little old lady calls 911. When the operator answers she yells, "Help, send the police to my house right away! There's a damn Democrat on my front porch and he's playing with himself."

"What?" the operator exclaimed. "I said there is a damn Democrat on my front porch playing with himself and he's weird; I don't know him and I'm afraid! Please send the police!" the little old lady repeated.

"Well, now, how do you know he's a Democrat?"

"Because, you damn fool, if it was a Republican, he'd be screwing somebody!"

Here is a true story someone found regarding exams at Cambridge University. It seems that during an examination one day a bright young student popped up and asked the proctor to bring him Cakes and Ale. The following dialog ensued:

Proctor: I beg your pardon?

Student: Sir, I request that you bring me Cakes and Ale.

Proctor: Sorry, no.

Student: Sir, I really must insist. I request and require that you bring me Cakes and Ale.

At this point, the studnet produced a copy of the four hundred year old Laws of Cambridge, written in Latin and still nominally in effect, and pointed to the section which read (roughly translated): "Gentlemen sitting examinations may request and require Cakes and Ale." Pepsi and hamburgers were judged the modern equivalent, and the student sat there, writing his examination and happily slurping away.

Three weeks later, the student was fined five pounds for not wearing a sword to the examination.

Every second lieutenant acquires embarrassing memories when he wears gold bars; it seems to come with the job.

The first time the Air Force sent me on temporary duty by myself, I experienced probably the most embarrassing moment in my life, which I tell here in hopes that other butter bars out there won't make the same mistake.

I was traveling from Wright-Patterson AFB OH to Vandenberg AFB CA one spring, and the flight scheduled me for a two-hour layover in the St. Louis MO airport. I decided to hit the snack bar and bought a cup of coffee, a package of Oreos and a newspaper. After giving the cashier the nine bucks or so these items cost, I scanned the crowded sitting area for a place to relax. The lounge was crowded, but there appeared to be a spot across from a fellow in a military uniform of some sort. "Great!" I thought, "another soldier. Maybe he can tell me about life in the forces..."

With my coffee on the right side of the table, my newspaper on the left and my oreos in the center, I sat down before I took my first close look at the man opposite me. He was a Marine corps brigadier general -- a mean-looking man with no hair, an real-life scar on his forehead and about six rows of ribbons, including the Silver Star with a cluster. To me, the general had horns, fangs, a pitchfork and a long, pointed tail as well.

I was already committed to using the table, but not wanting to bother the general, I meekly squeaked out, "Good morning, sir," before sitting down.

I had begun the paper's crossword puzzle and was making good progress when I heard a peculiar rustling sound, much like the crinkling of cellophane.

I looked up out of the corner of my eye to discover the general had reached across the center of the table, opened the package of Oreos, taken out one and was eating it. Now, not having attended the Air Force Academy, I was not familiar with how to deal with the finer points of military etiquette, such as what to do when a senior member of another service calmly rips off one of your cookies. Several responses came to mind, but none of these seemed entirely appropriate.

I realized that the honor of the Air Force was, in a small way, at stake here. I certainly couldn't let the general think I was a complete weenie. Besides, at airport prices, one oreo is a significant fraction of take-home pay for a second lieutenant. The only response I could make was to reach across the center of the table, open the opposite end of the package (trying not to notice that the other end had mysteriously come open somehow), extract an Oreo and eat it very, very thoroughly.

"There," I thought, "I've subtly shown the General that these are my Oreos, and he should go buy his own."

Marines are known for many qualities, but subtlety is not among them. The general calmly reached out for another Oreo and ate it. (By the way, the general was licking the middles out first before eating the cookies.) Not having said anything the first time, of course, I couldn't bring it up now. The only thing to do was to take another cookie for myself. We wound up alternating through the entire package. For an instant our eyes met, and there was palpable tension in the air, but neither of us said a word.

After I had finished the last Oreo, they announced something over the public address system. The general got up, put his papers back into his briefcase, picked up the now empty wrapper, threw it away, brushed the few crumbs neatly off the table and left. I sat there marveling at his gall and feeling very foolish.

A few minutes later, they announced my flight.

I felt a great deal more foolish when I finished my coffee, threw the cup away and lifted my newspaper to reveal... my Oreos!

Today, two of us are running around the Armed Forces telling the same story, but only one of us has the punch line. And general, if you are reading this, get in touch with me and I will be glad to send you a case of Oreos.

Generally, the Real Programmer plays the same way he works -- with computers. He is constantly amazed that his employer actually pays him to do what he would be doing for fun anyway (although he is careful not to express this opinion out loud). Occasionally, the Real Programmer does step out of the office for a breath of fresh air and a beer or two. Some tips on recognizing real programmers away from the computer room:

At a party, the Real Programmers are the ones in the corner talking about operating system security and how to get around it.

At a football game, the Real Programmer is the one comparing the plays against his simulations printed on 11 by 14 fanfold paper.

At the beach, the Real Programmer is the one drawing flowcharts in the sand.

A Real Programmer goes to discos to watch the light shows.

At a funeral, the Real Programmer is the one saying "Poor George. And he almost had the sort routine working before the coronary."

In a grocery store, the Real Programmer is the one who insists on running the cans past the laser checkout scanner himself, because he never could trust keypunch operators to get it right the first time.

The Real Programmer's Natural Habitat

What sort of environment does the Real Programmer function best in? This is an important question for the managers of Real Programmers. Considering the amount of money it costs to keep one on the staff, it's best to put him (or her) in an environment where he can get his work done.

The typical Real Programmer lives in front of a computer terminal. Surrounding this terminal are:

Listings of all programs the Real Programmer has ever worked on, piled in roughly chronological order on every flat surface in the office.

Some half-dozen or so partly filled cups of cold coffee. Occasionally, there will be cigarette butts floating in the coffee. In some cases, the cups will contain Orange Crush.

Unless he is very good, there will be copies of the OSJCL manual and the Principles of Operation open to some particularly interesting pages.

Taped to the wall is a line-printer Snoopy calender for the year 1969.

Strewn about the floor are several wrappers for peanut butter filled cheese bars -- the type that are made pre-stale at the bakery so they can't get any worse while waiting in the vending machine.

Hiding in the top left-hand drawer of the desk is a stash of double-stuff Oreos for special occasions.

Underneath the Oreos is a flow-charting template, left there by the previous occupant of the office. (Real Programmers write programs, not documentation. Leave that to the maintainence people.)

The Real Programmer is capable of working 30, 40, even 50 hours at a stretch, under intense pressure. In fact, he prefers it that way. Bad response time doesn't bother the Real Programmer -- it gives him a chance to catch a little sleep between compiles. If there is not enough schedule pressure on the Real Programmer, he tends to make things more challenging by working on some small but interesting part of the problem for the first nine weeks, then finishing the rest in the last week, in two or three 50-hour marathons. This not only inpresses the hell out of his manager, who was despairing of ever getting the project done on time, but creates a convenient excuse for not doing the documentation. In general:

No Real Programmer works 9 to 5. (Unless it's the ones at night.)

Real Programmers don't wear neckties.

Real Programmers don't wear high heeled shoes. [But you *never* know!]

Real Programmers arrive at work in time for lunch.

A Real Programmer might or might not know his wife's name. He does, however, know the entire ASCII (and/or EBCDIC) code table.

Real Programmers don't know how to cook. Grocery stores aren't open at three in the morning.

Real Programmers survive on Twinkies and coffee.

A construction worker came home just in time to find his wife in bed with another man.

So he dragged the man down the stairs to the garage and put his...umm...you know...in a vice. He secured it tightly and removed the handle. Then he picked up a hacksaw.

The man, terrified, screamed, "Stop! Stop! You're not going to...to...cut it off, are you?!?"

The husband said, with a gleam of revenge in his eye, "Nope. You are. I'm going to set the garage on fire."