Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Sex With an Illegal Immigrant

Sex With an Illegal Immigrant

An illegal immigrant picks up a hooker.

"Hey, how much you charge for DA hour?"

He asks.


She replies.

In broken English, he says,

"Do you do immigrant style?"


She says.

"I pay you $200 to do immigrant style."


She says, not knowing what immigrant style is.

"I pay you $300."


She says.

"I pay you $400."


She says.

So finally he says,

"OK, I pay $1,000 to do immigrant style."

She thinks,

"Well, I've been in the game for over 10 years now.
I've had every kind of request from

from every part of the world.

How bad could immigrant style be?"

So she agrees and has sex with him.

Finally, after several hours, they finish.

Exhausted, the hooker turns to him and says,

"Hey, I was expecting something

perverted and disgusting.

But that was good.

So, what exactly is immigrant style?"

The illegal immigrant replies,

"You send bill to Government."




Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Obvious Obama Voters

It happened at a Wall-Mart in Spring Hill, Florida on May 22, 2006. Willie Redding was in the Wall-Mart trying to steal a VCR. When the employees caught him he dropped the VCR and pulled out a knife, stabbing two employees. Along comes Sandra Suter, a 53-year-old grandma. Sandra has a concealed weapons permit .. and a gun. She pulled the gun out of her purse, pointed it at Willie Redding and told him "Drop the knife or I'll shoot you." Willie dropped the knife and surrendered.

So ... what's with the "foolish hysterical female" line? Well along comes Lorinda Smith. She was in the candy aisle whin this thing happened. Lovely Lorinda told the media that she was more frightened by the grandma with the gun than she was by the man with the knife. "That scared the crap out of me, that someone could have a gun in the store."


Email to talk show host from a lovely and intensely bright young lady named Brandee Parker:

Mr. ignorance "white" man, you, Sean Hannity, Rush Limbaugh, Glen Beck, Scott Slade, Jamie Dupree, Phil Kent, Newt Gingrich hate Obama, Black and Mexican people so much that you all would like to see them killed for no reasons just so that they do not make any black or Mexican male kids, have no health care, education, or even for that matter, have a place to live and eat.

Hatemongers of your kind have stolen land, property all these years and you still think that SMART black people cannot recognize your strategy. All of you meet on a regular basis, have meetings and plots as to what or how to get rid of OUR president. We are watching, too.

Your article in the AJC dated December 25, 2010 shows that you are putting out lies/scare tactics about Internet and media communications through talk radio and others. Your program of hate should have been banned long time ago, along with Sean Hannity, Rush Limbaugh and Glen Beck's. Jamie Dupree and Scott Slade should be FIRED! Newt Gingrich and Phil Kent think that they are so smart.

All of you are jealous of Obama's and the FIRST LADY'S smartness and education...please do not under estimate black people smartness.

Happy New Year!


This one comes from the Battlefield High School in Haymarket, Virginia. It seems that a group of students branded themselves the "Christmas Sweat Club" and wore the craziest Christmas sweaters they could find to school one day. They sang Christmas carols and tried to spread a little holiday cheer around the schools.

Before it was all over these students had been accused by school administrators (yes, it's a government school) of trying to "maliciously maim students with the intent to injure." Their crime? They were tossing two-inch candy canes to other students. One of the school officials told the kids that the candy canes were weapons because you can sharpen them with your mouth and stab people with them.

Amazing. But I'm sure, as you are, that the government school where YOU send YOUR children is exceptional ... a cut above ... and nothing like every other government school in the country.



Are you a Doctor?

A father walks into a restaurant with his young son. He gives the young boy 3 nickels to play with to keep him occupied. Suddenly, the boy starts choking, going blue in the face. The father realizes the boy has swallowed the nickels and starts slapping him on the back.

The boy coughs up 2 of the nickels, but keeps choking. Looking at his son, the father is panicking, shouting for help.

A well-dressed, attractive, and serious looking woman in a blue business suit is sitting at the coffee bar reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. At the sound of the commotion, she looks up, puts her coffee cup down, neatly folds the newspaper and places it on the counter, gets
up from her seat and makes her way, unhurried, across the restaurant.

Reaching the boy, the woman carefully drops his pants; takes hold of the boy's testicles and starts to squeeze and twist, gently at first and then ever so firmly.

After a few seconds the boy convulses violently and coughs up the last nickel, which the woman deftly catches in her free hand.

Releasing the boy's testicles, the woman hands the nickel to the father and walks back to her seat at the coffee bar without saying a word.

As soon as he is sure that his son has suffered no ill effects, the father rushes over to the woman and starts thanking her saying, "I've never seen anybody do anything like that before, it was fantastic.. Are you a doctor? "

"No" the woman replied. "I'm with the Internal Revenue Service."

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

An Intimate Experience

He grasped me firmly but gently and guided me to his room. Then he quietly shut the door and we were alone.

He approached me soundlessly from behind and spoke in a low voice close to my ear. "Just relax."

Without warning he reached down and I felt his strong hands start at my ankles, gently probing and moving up my calves slowly but steadily.

My breath caught in my throat.

I knew I should be afraid but somehow I didn't care.

His touch was so experienced. So sure.

When his hands moved to my thighs I gave a slight shudder and partly closed my eyes.

My pulse was pounding.

I felt his fingers caress my abdomen, my rib cage.

And then as he cupped my firm full breasts I inhaled sharply.

Probing searching, knowing what he wanted he brought his hands to my shoulders, slid them down my tingling spine and into my panties.

Although I knew nothing about this man I felt oddly trusting and expectant.

This is a man, I thought. A man used to taking charge. A man not used to no for an answer. A man who knew what he wanted.

A man who would look into my soul and say.... "Okay ma'am. All done."

My eyes snapped open and he was standing in front of me smiling, holding out my purse. "You can board your flight now."

Friday, December 17, 2010

Mayonnaise Addiction

My Mayonnaise Addiction
December 10, 2010
By Pulizter Prize Winning Author Rick Bragg

I always wondered where the magic came from.

It being my mother’s mashed potato recipe. I just assumed it was love.
I have had them in a thousand meat and threes, spooned out by ladies in hair nets and orthopedic shoes and in a thousand perfect bistros, dusted with parsley or parmesan.
None were as good as hers, conjured in her battered pot in the pines of Alabama.
I asked her secret.
“Just butter, milk, salt and pepper” she lied.
I know she lied because I tried it, homesick, in New York, Los Angeles, Miami, other places. I almost lit Cambridge on fire, trying to create what Mother had.
But when I was done, it was always, well, pedestrian.
Her potatoes were creamy, perfect, with real butter pooling in small lakes. Lumps were for tourists. Skins were for Philistines. These, cliché or not, melted on your tongue, with just a little extra, a lingering taste of…what? I could duplicate everything but that.
Then, lurking just outside her kitchen one Thanksgiving, I saw. It was not some magic turnip or some deep woods spell.
It was a condiment.
After mashing, salting, peppering and adding whole milk and what seemed a half pound of butter, she opened the refrigerator and reached for a quart jar of mayonnaise.
She took one heaping spoonful, for about a gallon or so of mashed potatoes and whipped it in, meticulously so there would be no more than a hint, a touch, on any fork.
I eased back into the shadows, to leave her with her myth.
I should have known.
Only we would put mayo in our mashed potatoes and call it love.
This is a story of tragic romance.
I love that condiment, love it the way Odysseus loved Penelope, Samson loved Delilah, Lancelot loved Guinevere. I know, as they all must have known, that this will not end well, but I am not ashamed.
When I am on my deathbed, probably from a lifetime of bad cholesterol, I hope someone gives me a little packet of Hellmann’s, or Kraft, Duke’s or Bama, so I can slip it underneath my pillow like a scrap of scripture or a family photo. It will comfort me I believe, as darkness falls. Then again someone could just make me a sandwich.
My wife, who knows everything, says there are two kinds of people in this world. First, there are people like her, mustard people, who wake up in the morning and run five miles, or at least talk about how they used to. They wear clothes ordered from catalogs, the ones that show people hiking, fly fishing, or paddling a canoe, usually beside a Labrador puppy. They eat flax and what appears to be horse feed and swear they like it and would no more let whole milk pass their lips than hemlock. They have never had high blood pressure, except when talking about their feelings. They have never had gout, which they even like to say but can eat a whole pound of dark chocolate without ever having to check their blood sugar.
They will tell you with a straight face that sometimes they just forget to eat.
Mustard people make their doctors happy, with arteries as slick as the inside of a drinking straw and make their children sad by putting carrot sticks in lunchboxes, with apple slices as a special treat. They like to vacation in Colorado and Wyoming and the holy grail of mustard people, Portland, Oregon. Really any place with hills they can walk up and down or gorges they can plunge into on their mountain bikes. They like smoked salmon, rare tuna and are wholly responsible for keeping the turkey population of this United States whittled down to a manageable level, one whole grain, mustard accented boring sandwich at a time.
And then, there are the rest of us.
We wake and drive five miles, to eat pancakes. With any luck, that will be the only meal of the day at which we will not have mayonnaise. We like L.L. Bean catalogs, too but only because they offer most of their clothes in XXL, and we like their running shoes, which we wear to Popeye’s and the mailbox, if it is not too far.
We would not get near a canoe even if it was the only thing we could hide under during a lightning storm. We like to vacation in New Orleans, where you have to go uphill to drown, where every flat easy street seems to deadend into a platter of shrimp rémoulade, fried eggplant drizzled with béarnaise, or fried oyster po’ boys slathered in…well, you know.
At home, we like any fish that comes with a side of tartar sauce, and if we are going to have a sandwich it will likely be roast beef and cheddar on an onion roll, with mustard and mayo, and we do not even mind some lettuce, tomato and hot Spanish onion, as long as the whole thing is buried under an avalanche of Zapp’s Hotter ‘n Hot Jalapeno potato chips, and served with a quart of Barq’s Root Beer or sweet iced tea.
Because, you see, we do not hate the mustard people, at least not as much, or as often, as they sneer at us.
They make us feel like we are the Great Unwashed and equate our love of mayo with other poor life choices like an unsound 401K, or dating a stripper with a tattoo of the Dark Lord Voldemort.
My wife looks at me, a jar of mayo in my hand, with something very near disgust.
“Why don’t you just have some mustard?” she asks, in that tone that really means, Who are you, and what have you done with the man of my dreams?
“Don’t want no mustard” I say, sounding like I am 4.
Then she stands over me, to monitor the mayo. By the time the sandwich is made, there is not enough mayo to smell, let alone see, and she is happy because I am not.
“You can have all the mustard you want” she says to my back and my head fills with voices telling me to do terrible things.
I wonder what kind of judge I will get at my trial.
How much you want to bet she will be a mustard person, too?
I guess it is a weakness, a sin, like sloth or various forms of coveting, but like most bad things that Southerners do I shall blame it on my heritage.
I grew up in the Alabama highlands, among working class Southerners who never got anywhere close to the aristocracy unless we were putting in their transmission. It is a culture of mayonnaise, as much as moonshine, hard work, football, stock car racing and the Congregational Holiness Church. People say it is that white whiskey, that spirit distilled by my grandfather in these mist shrouded hills, that runs in our veins, but my doctor will tell you it is mayo, with some smidgen of bacon grease that really trickles through.
I know mayonnaise has old world origins and world wide appeal, that people like it in Fargo on canned pears, and in France, on fries. I had it in Addis Ababa, at the airport in Amsterdam and on a chicken sandwich in Islamabad. There are many popular theories of its origin, that the Romans and Egyptians used some combination of oil and eggs to mask the flavor of spoiled food, but the most popular is, of course, that we blame the French. But unlike tight pants and pointy shoes, they got this right.
It is believed the recipe was acquired from the town of Mahón in Menorca in 1756, after a victory over the British by Louis-Francois-Armand du Plessis de Richelieu. The sauce mahonesa in Spanish became mayonnaise. Food historians still fight over this, mostly in relative obscurity.
The French can claim it, but we know it is Southern by the grace of God. If you think I am overstating this, you are clearly from some place with excellent ice fishing, where people know how to spell Zamboni without having to look it up.
In the Great Depression, mayonnaise was more plentiful and cheaper in some pockets of the Appalachians than lard and other cooking oil. My grandmother fried chicken in it on a wood stove outside Rome, Georgia and if that is a rural myth it is a first-rate one. Try that in mustard and see where it gets you.
My wife, as a young girl in Memphis in the 1920s…I mean the 1970s, covered her head in a gooey helmet of mayonnaise as a hair conditioner. It might have had some slight effect on the luster of her hair, but she walked around for days smelling like egg salad. I think that this is why she is a mustard person now, but she says no, that it was because her grandmother believed mayonnaise should be left at room temperature, which indoors in Memphis in summer was about 125. “My mother told me ‘Whatever you do, don’t eat the mayonnaise’” she said. I guess fear will turn you off anything.
When I was a boy mothers used mayonnaise on burns like petroleum jelly and to cool sunburn but never on bee stings, on which they used wet snuff. Women in my childhood used it to smother ticks, especially when they were out of Dippity Doo. They suffocated head lice with it, sometimes holding it on with plastic wrap, or a crown of tin foil.
But mostly, we just ate it. We ate it in cole slaws and mountains of potato salad and daubed on top of gelatin molds at Morrison’s Cafeteria.
We spread it on white bread because it was the only sliced bread we knew, and made sandwiches from sliced tomatoes, salt and pepper. Or we layered on sliced banana. To this day, I think that sandwich with a handful of Golden Flake barbecued potato chips and a glass of milk, is pretty fine living, and have it every chance I get, which means when my wife is at work.
Without it, we would have no BLTs, no pimento cheese, no deviled eggs. Chicken salad, shrimp salad, crab salad, lobster rolls. All would lie sadly on their plates, naked and forlorn.
Even my wife, the mustard dictator will give me that.
She likes chicken salad, she says but always asks the waiter “Is it real mayonnaisey?”
I hang my head.
I think, finally, she has won.
I make the best cole slaw on this earth. It is simple with fresh red cabbage and good carrots. I use real mayonnaise, but mix in black pepper, garlic and a dash of onion salt. It is delicious with pinto beans and ham, or beef short ribs with potatoes and onions, or just a few captain’s wafers and a glass of tea.
At least, I used to make the best.
My wife has insisted I now use only low fat mayo, and that, of course is crazy talk. It does not taste the same or even look the same in the bowl. There is no joy in it anymore.
I understand how it would make a slaw or salad less deadly for a 51 year old man, but it seems so absurd to use low fat mayo on a ham and cheese, or Philly cheese steak or an egg salad sandwich, like ordering two Cheese Whoppers and a diet Coke.
People tell me I need to grow. They tell me I need to let loose of the old ways and embrace this time. I have tried. I have.
I stood at the mayo aisle the other day in alarm.
It was so complicated. Used to be, you only went wild at the mayo display if you reached for some Miracle Whip. Now, the labels read Hot and Spicy, Reduced Fat with Olive Oil, Chipotle, Horseradish Dijon made with Grey Poupon, Basil Pesto, Sweet Chile and, Lord help us, Wasabi.
I am sure it’s all good, and most of it is low fat.
I think even some mustard people will like it, too.
But I walked away a little sad.
My Aunt Edna, who died last year, made the best cornbread in this world. It was dense but light and moist, not grainy. Crumbly but perfect.
I heard, once, she mixed a little mayonnaise into the batter.
It may not be true.
I do not want anyone to tell me if it is not.
I hear Elvis liked mayonnaise, liked it a lot, on hamburgers with a slab of Velveeta. But, of course, we know what happened to him. Still, I can’t be a mustard person and I can’t abide this low fat mayonnaise any more. I could move to France. My wife would let me have mayonnaise if we lived in France. Like all snooty mustard people she is funny that way. But I don’t know anyone in France.
What I do is wait for her to go out of town.

Thursday, December 16, 2010


And then it is Winter.

You know, time has a way of moving quickly and catching you unaware of the passing years.

It seems just yesterday that I was young, just married and embarking on my new life with my mate. And yet in a way, it seems like eons ago, and I wonder where all the years went.
I know that I lived them all...
And I have glimpses of how it was back then and of all my hopes and dreams... But, here it is..the winter of my life and it catches me by surprise... How did I get here so fast? Where did the years go and where did my youth go?

I remember well...seeing older people through the years and thinking that those older people were years away from me and that winter was so far off that I could not fathom it or imagine fully what it would be like... But, here it friends are retired and getting gray...they move slower and I see an older person now. Some are in better and some worse shape than me... but, I see the great change... Not like the ones that I remember who were young and vibrant... but, like me, their age is beginning to show and we are now those older folks that we used to see and never thought we'd be.

Each day now, I find that just getting a shower is a real target for the day! And taking a nap is not a treat's mandatory! Cause if I don't on my own free will..I just fall asleep where I sit!

And so, now I enter into this new season of my life unprepared for all the aches and pains and the loss of strength and ability to go and do things that I wish I had done but never did!!

But, at least I know, that though the winter has come, and I'm not sure how long it will last...this I know, that when it's over...its over....Yes , I have regrets. There are things I wish I hadn't done ,,,,,things I should have done, but indeed, there are many things I'm happy to have done. It's all in a lifetime....

So, if you're not in your winter yet...let me remind you, that it will be here faster than you think. So, whatever you would like to accomplish in your life please do it quickly! Don't put things off too long!!

Life goes by quickly. So, do what you can today, as you can never be sure whether this is your winter or not!

You have no promise that you will see all the seasons of your, live for good today and
say all the things that you want your loved ones to remember...
and hope that they
appreciate and love you
for all the things that you have done for them in all the years past!!

'Life is a gift to you. The way you live your life is your gift to those who come after.
Make it a fantastic one.'


Monday, December 13, 2010

Excellent Gun Control

WSB News

Rockdale Sheriff: Man Shoots, Kills Robber

Jay Black
@ December 13, 2010 3:13 AM

CONYERS (WSB Radio/AP) -- Authorities say a Georgia man shot and killed an assailant who tried to rob him in a grocery store parking lot in Rockdale County.

Sheriff Jeff Wigington says Ryan Moore was heading inside an Ingles store in Conyers late Saturday when two men tried to rob him. He says one of the men had a knife.

The sheriff says Moore pulled out a gun and fatally shot one of the robbers. The other ran away.

Nathan Taylor, a friend of Moore's, says he fired his gun in self-defense.

The sheriff says Moore's account of the shooting matches that of several witnesses in the parking lot.

Neither the shopper nor the clerk will face criminal charges, officials said.


What others are saying

  • Don't Mess
    Good for Mr. Moore--he refused to become a victim.
    For the author of this news item, please don't use the words "pulled out a gun" thats what criminals do.
    Armed, law abiding citizens "draw their weapon in self defense."
    Note to Robbers: Georgians are armed and have put in some good range time: don't mess.
  • who?
    why would a clerk face criminal charges? what was his role in the story?
    he's not mentioned until the final sentence.
  • Huh?
    "Neither the shopper (I'm guessing they're talking about Ryan Moore, the shooter) nor the clerk (what clerk? there was never any mention of a clerk) will face criminal charges, officials said."
  • Good Shot!
    Hope this serves as a warning to other thugs.

  • Good for him!
    Once again, a gun is used in a lawful act of self-defense!

    Good job Ryan Moore!
  • Fight back
    Crime and robberies are on the rise so where are the police? My business was broken into three times over Thanksgiving; police found no suspects. Georgians need to protect themselves.
  • dirtbag down
    Now, that's what I call gun control.
  • DRT Robbers-Hooray!!!
    Darwinism at work. Never bring a knife to a gunfight, right? Congratulations on the head shot! Concealed carry working as designed. I have been mugged at gun-point once and burglarized twice.
  • Sympathy
    My sympathy to Mr. Moore, he will have some thoughtful moments to deal with.

    As for teh PERPITRATOR, dont bring a knife to a gun fight, maybe if more of these THUGS were shot adn KILLED the "gangstas" would get the idea it aint a good idea to try robbery any more!
  • Conyers shooting
    We need more armed citizens in Conyers.
    Best way I know to stop these attacks.We have had 4 armed robberies in two weeks.
  • Georgia Gun Carry Laws Work...
    Criminals must learn not to bring a knife to a gun fight... Good for the Law abiding citizen... one less piece of human debris roaming the streets of Atlanta... Good Riddance...
  • Dead robber
    Way to go Mr. Moore ! You should receive a medal form Conyers City Government for keeping the tax-payers with a little more money in their pockets. The only thing that would have made the story better was if he got both perps.
  • Rockdale sheriff reports
    victim killing robber has done a favor for all the rest of the country. I hope police don't give him a hard time. If more and more of this took place , thugs might start looking for a job knowing the risk is too high.
  • Crime Stopper!
    Why would they be charged? He should receive a $1000 Crimestoppers award, 100 hours free range time at the county shooting range, the KEY to the city from the Mayor and 5 free boxes of hollow point ammunition in his favorite caliber! Enough is enough! I wish he could have gotten the other one too!
  • I wish he would of shot both of them!
    This is a GREAT WAY to CLEANSE the SH-T out of OUR CULTURE. It is a way to put a PERIOD on THEIR RAP sheet, it saves the TAXPAYER BIG TIME. It puts the ASSAILANT in a spot where no one has to babysit him anymore. GREAT SHOT RYAN!!!!
  • Robber shot
    Good work, Ryan Moore. Another one off the streets. Maybe his friend will see the light and mend his ways.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Friday, December 10, 2010

How to tell if it will be cold

It's late fall and the Indians on a remote reservation in South Dakota asked their new chief if the coming winter was going to be cold or mild.Since he was a chief in a modern society, he had never been taught the old secrets. When he looked at the sky, he couldn't tell what the winter was going to bring.Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, he told his tribe that the winter was indeed going to be cold and that the members of the village should collect firewood to be prepared.

But, being a practical leader, after several days, he got an idea. He went to the phone booth, called the National Weather Service and asked, "Is the coming winter going to be cold?"

"It looks like this winter is going to be quite cold," the meteorologist at the weather service responded.

So the chief went back to his people and told them to collect even more firewood in order to be prepared.

A week later, he called the National Weather Service again. "Does it still look like it is going to be a very cold winter?"

"Yes," the man at National Weather Service again replied, "it's going to be a very cold winter."

The chief again went back to his people and ordered them to collect every scrap of firewood they could find.

Two weeks later, the chief called the National Weather Service again. "Are you absolutely sure that the winter is going to be very cold?"

"Absolutely," the man replied. "It's looking more and more like it is going to be one of the coldest winters we've ever seen.."

"How can you be so sure?" the chief asked.

The weatherman replied, "The Indians are collecting shitloads of firewood"

Thursday, December 9, 2010

How to tell if you had good chili



Story by: Bruce Vincent

For those of us who sometimes find ourselves having doubts about our former President, here is an excellent piece -- worth every minute it takes to read it. This story is from Bruce Vincent of Libby , Montana who had gone to the White House with others to receive an award from the President.

He writes:
I've written the following narrative to chronicle the day of the award ceremony in DC. I'm still working on a press release but the White House press corps has yet to provide a photo to go with it. When the photo comes I'll ship it out. When you get done reading this you'll understand the dilemma I face in telling this story beyond my circle of close friends.

Stepping into the Oval Office, each of us was introduced to the President and Mrs. Bush. We shook hands and participated in small talk. When the President was told that we were from Libby , Montana , I reminded him that Marc Racicot is our native son and the President offered his warm thoughts about Governor Racicot.

I have to tell you, I was blown away by two things upon entering the office. First, the Oval Office sense of 'place' is unreal. The President later shared a story of Russian President Putin entering the room prepared to tackle the President in a tough negotiation and upon entering, the atheist muttered his first words to the President and they were "Oh, my God."

I concurred. I could feel the history in my bones. Second, the man that inhabits the office engaged me with a firm handshake and a look that can only be described as penetrating. Warm, alive, fully engaged, disarmingly penetrating. I was admittedly concerned about meeting the man. I think all of us have an inner hope that the most powerful man in our country is worthy of the responsibility and authority that we bestow upon them through our vote.

I admit that part of me was afraid that I would be let down by the moment -- that the person and the place could not meet the lofty expectations of my fantasy world. This says nothing about my esteem for President Bush but just my practical realization that reality may not match my 'dream.'

Once inside the office, President Bush got right down to business and, standing in front of his desk, handed out the awards one at a time while posing for photos with the winners and Mrs. Bush. With the mission accomplished, the President and Mrs. Bush relaxed and initiated a lengthy, informal conversation about a number of things with our entire small group. He and the First Lady talked about such things as the rug in the office. It is traditionally designed by the First Lady to make a statement about the President, and Mrs.Bush chose a brilliant yellow sunburst pattern to reflect 'hope.' President Bush talked about the absolute need to believe that with hard work and faith in G
od there is every reason to start each day in the Oval Office with hope. He and the First Lady were asked about the impact of the Presidency on their marriage and, with an arm casually wrapped around Laura, he said that he thought the place may be hard on weak marriages but that it had the ability to make strong marriages even stronger and that he was blessed with a strong one.

After about 30 or 35 minutes, it was time to go. By then we were all relaxed and I felt as if I had just had an excellent visit with a friend. The President and First Lady made one more pass down the line of awardees, shaking hands and offering congratulations. When the President shook my hand I said, "Thank you Mr. President and G
od bless you and your family." He was already in motion to the next person in line, but he stopped abruptly turned fully back to me, gave me a piercing look, renewed the vigor of his handshake and said, "Thank you -- and God bless you and yours as well."

On our way out of the office we were to leave by the glass doors on the west side of the office. I was the last person in the exit line. As I shook his hand one final time, President Bush said, "I'll be sure to tell Marc hello and give him your regards."

I then did something that surprised even me. I said to him, "Mr. President, I know you are a busy man and your time is precious. I also know you to be a man of strong faith and I have a favor to ask of you."

As he shook my hand he looked me in the eye and said, "Just name it." I told him that my step-Mom was at that moment in a hospital in Kalispell , Montana , having a tumor removed from her skull and it would mean a great deal to me if he would consider adding her to his prayers that day. He grabbed me by the arm and took me back toward his desk as he said, "So that's it. I could tell that something is weighing heavy on your heart today. I could see it in your eyes.This explains it."

From the top drawer of his desk he retrieved a pen and a note card with his seal on it and asked, "How do you spell her name?" He then jotted a note to her while discussing the importance of family and the strength of prayer. When he handed me the card, he asked about the surgery and the prognosis. I told him we were hoping that it is not a recurrence of an earlier cancer and that, if it is, they can get it all with this surgery.

He said, "If it's okay with you, we'll take care of the prayer right now. Would you pray with me?" I told him yes and he turned to the staff that remained in the office and hand motioned the folks to step back or leave. He said, "Bruce and I would like some private time for a prayer."

As they left he turned back to me and took my hands in his. I was prepared to do a traditional prayer stance -- standing with each other with heads bowed. Instead, he reached for my head with his right hand and pulling gently forward, he placed my head on his shoulder. With his left arm on my mid-back, he pulled me to him in a prayerful embrace.

He started to pray softly. I started to cry. He continued his prayer for Loretta and for G
od's perfect will to be done. I cried some more. My body shook a bit as I cried and he just held tighter. He closed by asking God's blessing on Loretta and the family during the coming months. I stepped away from our embrace, wiped my eyes, swiped at the tears I'd left on his shoulder, and looked into the eyes of our president. I thanked him as best I could and told him that me and my family would continue praying for him and his.

As I write this account down and reflect upon what it means, I have to tell you that all I really know is that his simple act left me humbled and believing. I so hoped that the man I thought him to be was the man that he is. I know that our nation needs a man such as this in the Oval Office. George W. Bush is the real deal. I've read Internet stories about the President praying with troops in hospitals and other such uplifting accounts. Each time I read them I hoped them to be true and not an Internet perpetuated myth. This one, I know to be true. I was there. He is real. He has a pile of incredible stuff on his plate each day -- and yet he is tuned in so well to the here and now that he 'sensed' something heavy on my heart. He took time out of his life to care, to share, and to seek God's blessing for my family in a simple man-to-man, father-to-father, son-to-son, husband-to-husband, Christian- to-Christian prayerful embrace. He's not what I had hoped he would be. He is, in fact, so very, very much more.

NOTE: If you decide to forward this story... please do not add to it. Let Mr. Vincent's encounter stand as he wrote it.


TSA confiscates nail clippers from soldier

As the Chalk Leader for my flight home from Afghanistan, I witnessed the following:

When we were on our way back from Afghanistan, we flew out of Baghram Air Field. We went through customs at BAF, full body scanners (no groping), had all of our bags searched, the whole nine yards. Our first stop was Shannon, Ireland to refuel. After that, we had to stop at Indianapolis, Indiana to drop off about 100 folks from the Indiana National Guard. That's where the stupid started.

First, everyone was forced to get off the plane-even though the plane wasn't refueling again. All 330 people got off that plane, rather than let the 100 people from the ING get off. We were filed from the plane to a holding area. No vending machines, no means of escape. Only a male/female latrine.

It's probably important to mention that we were ALL carrying weapons. Everyone was carrying an M4 Carbine (rifle) and some, like me, were also carrying an M9 pistol. Oh, and our gunners had M-240B machine guns. Of course, the weapons weren't loaded. And we had been cleared of all ammo well before we even got to customs at Baghram, then AGAIN at customs.

The TSA personnel at the airport seriously considered making us unload all of the baggage from the SECURE cargo hold to have it reinspected. Keep in mind, this cargo had been unpacked, inspected piece by piece by U.S. Customs officials, resealed and had bomb-sniffing dogs give it a one-hour run through. After two hours of sitting in this holding area, the TSA decided not to reinspect our Cargo-just to inspect us again: Soldiers on the way home from war, who had already been inspected, reinspected and kept in a SECURE holding area for 2 hours. Ok, whatever. So we lined up to go through security AGAIN.

This is probably another good time to remind you all that all of us were carrying actual assault rifles, and some of us were also carrying pistols.

So we're in line, going through one at a time. One of our Soldiers had his Gerber multi-tool. TSA confiscated it. Kind of ridiculous, but it gets better. A few minutes later, a guy empties his pockets and has a pair of nail clippers. Nail clippers. TSA informs the Soldier that they're going to confiscate his nail clippers. The conversation went something like this:

TSA Guy: You can't take those on the plane.

Soldier: What? I've had them since we left country.

TSA Guy: You're not suppose to have them.

Soldier: Why?

TSA Guy: They can be used as a weapon.

Soldier: [touches butt stock of the rifle] But this actually is a weapon. And I'm allowed to take it on.

TSA Guy: Yeah but you can't use it to take over the plane. You don't have bullets.

Soldier: And I can take over the plane with nail clippers?

TSA Guy: [awkward silence]

Me: Dude, just give him your damn nail clippers so we can get the f**k out of here. I'll buy you a new set.

Soldier: [hands nail clippers to TSA guy, makes it through security] To top it off, the tsa demanded we all be swabbed for "explosive residue" detection. Everyone failed, [go figure, we just came home from a war zone], because we tested positive for "Gun Powder Residue". Who the F**K is hiring these people?

This might be a good time to remind everyone that approximately 233 people re-boarded that plane with assault rifles, pistols, and machine guns-but nothing that could have been used as a weapon. Can someone please tell me What the F**K happened to OUR country while we were gone?

Sgt. Mad Dog Tracy

Tuesday, December 7, 2010


Dear Friend

Saturday, December 4, 2010 4:22 PM
Add sender to Contacts
Dear Friend

This is to officially inform you that we have verified your contract file presently on my desk, and i found out that you have not received your payment due to your lack of co-operation and not fulfilling the obligations giving to you in respect to your contract payment.

Secondly, you are hereby advised to stop dealing with some non-officials in the bank as this is an illegal act and will have to stop if you so wish to receive your payment immediately.

After the board of director's meeting held in Diamond Bank Plc, we have resolved in finding a solution to your problem. We have arranged your payment through our swift card payment centre in Europe, America and Asia pacific; this is part of an instruction/mandate passed by the senate in respect to overseas contract payment and debt re-scheduling.

We will send you an atm card which you will use to withdraw your money via atm machine in any part of the world, and the maximum daily limit is Two Thousand Five Hundred United State Dollars. $2,500.00 USD.

The foreign payment officer of the has been mandated to issue out $10 million United State Dollars as part payment for this fiscal year.

If you like to receive your fund this way, kindly reconfirm your informations as listed below;

Youre Full Name:
Youre Sex:
Youre Occupation:
Youre Nationality:
Youre Telephone Number:
Your Mobile Number:
Youre Fax Number:
Scan copy of your international passport or drivers license.

We shall be expecting to receive your information as you have to stop any further communication with anybody or office.

Thanks for your co-operation.

Note: that because of impostors, we hereby issued you our code of conduct, which is (atm=811) so you have to indicate this code when ever you are contacting us.

Best regards,

Thomas Lang
Public Affairs Director
Diamond Bank PLC

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Traffic Camera

A friend related:

I was driving when I saw the flash of a traffic camera. I figured that my picture had been taken for exceeding the limit even though I knew that I was not speeding. Just to be sure, I went around the block and passed the same spot, driving even more slowly, but again the camera flashed.

Now I began to think that this was quite funny, so I drove even slower as I passed the area once more, but the traffic camera again flashed.

I tried a fourth and fifth time with the same results and was now laughing as the camera flashed while I rolled past at a snail's pace.

Two weeks later, I got five tickets in the mail for driving without a seat belt.

You know, you just can't fix stupid.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Watch Out For This Phone Scam

Do Not DIAL AREA CODE 809, 284, AND 876


This one is being distributed all over the US .... This is pretty scary, especially given the way they try to get you to call.

Be sure you read this and pass it on.

They get you to call by telling you that it is information about a family member who has been ill or to tell you someone has been arrested, died, or to let you know you have won a wonderful prize, etc..

In each case, you are told to call the 809 number right away. Since there are so many new area codes these days, people unknowingly return these calls.

If you call from the U.S , you will apparently be charged $2425 per-minute.

Or, you'll get a long recorded message. The point is, they will try to keep you on the phone as long as possible to increase the charges.


The 809 area code is located in the Dominican Republic ...

The charges afterward can become a real nightmare. That's because you did actually make the call. If you complain, both your local phone company and your long distance carrier will not want to get involved and will most likely tell you that they are simply providing the billing for the foreign company. You'll end up dealing with a foreign company that argues they have done nothing wrong.

Please forward this entire message to your friends, family and colleagues to help them become aware of this scam.


Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Tuesday, November 30, 2010


The American Government funded a study to see why the head of a man's Penis was larger than the shaft.

After 1 year and $180,000, they concluded that the reason that the head was larger than the shaft was to give the man more pleasure during sex.

After the US published the study, the French decided to do their own study. After $250,000 and 3 years of research, they concluded that the reason the head was larger than the shaft was to give the woman more pleasure during sex.

Canadians, unsatisfied with these findings, conducted their own study. After 2 weeks and a cost of around $75.46, and 2 cases of beer, they concluded that it was to keep a man's hand from flying off and hitting himself in the forehead.

FUNNY Language

English - the FUNNY Language

We'll begin with a box, and the plural is boxes,

But the plural of ox becomes oxen, not oxes.

One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,

Yet the plural of moose should never be meese.

You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice,

Yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.

If the plural of man is always called men,

Then shouldn't the plural of pan be called pen?

If I speak of my foot and show you my feet,

And I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?

If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,

Why shouldn't the plural of booth be called beeth?

Then one may be that, and three would be those,

Yet hat in the plural would never be hose,

And the plural of cat is cats, not cose.

We speak of a brother and also of brethren,

But though we say mother, we never say methren.

Then the masculine pronouns are he, his and him,

But imagine the feminine: she, shis and shim!

Let's face it - English is a crazy language.

There is no egg in eggplant nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple.

English muffins weren't invented in England ..We take English for granted, but if we explore

its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square, and a

guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

And why is it that writers write but fingers don't fing,
grocers don't groce and hammers

don't ham? Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend.

If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?

If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does

a humanitarian eat? Sometimes I think all the folks who grew up speaking English could be

running the danger of being called verbally insane.

In what other language do people recite at a play and play at a recital?

We ship by truck but send cargo by ship.

We have noses that run and feet that smell.

We park in a driveway and drive in a parkway.

And how can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?

You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out, and in which an alarm goes off by going on.

And, in closing, if Father is Pop, how come Mother's not Mop?




Robert A. Hall served in the Massachusetts State Senate and is a Marine Vietnam War veteran. Here's a little bit that he wrote --- and yes, it is been verified by Snopes. Read it. Copy it. Post it on your company bulletin board. Send it to your know-it-all children in college. Tape it on windshields in parking lots. Well .... After you've read it you'll know what to do.

"I'm 63 and I'm Tired"
by Robert A. Hall

I'm 63. Except for one semester in college when jobs were scarce and a six-month period when I was between jobs, but job-hunting every day, I've worked hard
since I was 18. Despite some health challenges, I still put in 50-hour weeks, and haven't called in sick in seven or eight years. I make a good salary, but I didn't inherit my job or my income, and I worked to get where I am. Given the economy, there's no retirement in sight, and I'm tired. Very tired.

I'm tired of being told that I have to "spread the wealth" to people who don't have my work ethic. I'm tired of being told the government will take the money I earned, by force if necessary, and give it to people too lazy to earn it.

I'm tired of being told that I have to pay more taxes to "keep people in their homes." Sure, if they lost their jobs or got sick, I'm willing to help. But if they bought McMansions at three times the price of our paid-off, $250,000 condo, on one-third of my salary, then let the left-wing Congress-critters who passed Fannie and Freddie and the Community Reinvestment Act that created the bubble help them with their own money.

I'm tired of being told how bad America is by left-wing millionaires like Michael Moore, George Soros and Hollywood Entertainers who live in luxury because of the opportunities America offers. In thirty years, if they get their way, the United States will have the economy of Zimbabwe , the freedom of the press of China the crime and violence of Mexico , the tolerance for Christian people of Iran , and the freedom of speech of Venezuela .

I'm tired of being told that Islam is a "Religion of Peace," when every day I can read dozens of stories of Muslim men killing their sisters, wives and daughters for their family "honor"; of Muslims rioting over some slight offense; of Muslims murdering Christian and Jews because they aren't "believers"; of Muslims burning schools for girls; of Muslims stoning teenage rape victims to death for "adultery"; of Muslims mutilating the genitals of little girls; all in the name of Allah, because the Qur'an and Shari'a law tells them to.

I'm tired of being told that "race doesn't matter" in the post-racial world of Obama, when it's all that matters in affirmative action jobs, lower college admission and graduation standards for minorities (harming them the most), government contract set-asides, tolerance for the ghetto culture of violence and fatherless children that hurts minorities more than anyone, and in the appointment of U
.S. Senators from Illinois.

I think it's very cool that we have a black president and that a black child is doing her homework at the desk where Lincoln wrote the Emancipation Proclamation. I just wish the black president was Condi Rice, or someone who believes more in freedom and the individual and less arrogantly of an all-knowing government.

I'm tired of a news media that thinks Bush's fundraising and inaugural expenses were obscene, but thinks that Obama's, at triple the cost, were wonderful; that thinks Bush exercising daily was a waste of presidential time, but Obama exercising is a great example for the public to control weight and stress; that picked over every line of Bush's military records, but never demanded that Kerry release his; that slammed Palin, with two years as governor, for being too inexperienced for VP, but touted Obama with three years as senator as potentially the best president ever. Wonder why people are dropping their subscriptions or switching to Fox News? Get a clue. I didn't vote for Bush in 2000, but the media and Kerry drove me to his camp in 2004.

I'm tired of being told that out of "tolerance for other cultures" we must let Saudi Arabia use our oil money to fund mosques and mandrassa Islamic schools to preach hate in America , while no American group is allowed to fund a church, synagogue or religious school in Saudi Arabia to teach love and tolerance.

I'm tired of being told I must lower my living standard to fight global warming, which no one is allowed to debate. My wife and I live in a two-bedroom apartment and carpool together five miles to our jobs. We also own a three-bedroom condo where our daughter and granddaughter live. Our carbon footprint is about 5% of Al Gore's, and if you're greener than Gore, you're green enough.

I'm tired of being told that drug addicts have a disease, and I must help support and treat them, and pay for the damage they do. Did a giant germ rush out of a dark alley, grab them, and stuff white powder up their noses while they tried to fight it off? I don't think Gay people choose to be Gay, but I #@*# sure think druggies chose to take drugs. And I'm tired of harassment from cool people treating me like a freak when I tell them I never tried marijuana.

I'm tired of illegal aliens being called "undocumented workers," especially the ones who aren't working, but are living on welfare or crime. What's next? Calling drug dealers, "Undocumented Pharmacists"? And, no, I'm not against Hispanics. Most of them are Catholic, and it's been a few hundred years since Catholics wanted to kill me for my religion. I'm willing to fast track for citizenship any Hispanic person, who can speak English, doesn't have a criminal record and who is self-supporting without family on welfare, or who serves honorably for three years in our military.... Those are the citizens we need.

I'm tired of latte liberals and journalists, who would never wear the uniform of the Republic themselves, or let their entitlement-handicapped kids near a recruiting station, trashing our military. They and their kids can sit at home, never having to make split-second decisions under life and death circumstances, and bad mouth better people than themselves. Do bad things happen in war? You bet. Do our troops sometimes misbehave? Sure. Does this compare with the atrocities that were the policy of our enemies for the last fifty years and still are? Not even close. So here's the deal. I'll let myself be subjected to all the humiliation and abuse that was heaped on terrorists at Abu Ghraib or Gitmo, and the critics can let themselves be subject to captivity by the Muslims, who tortured and beheaded Daniel Pearl in Pakistan, or the Muslims who tortured and murdered Marine Lt. Col. William Higgins in Lebanon, or the Muslims who ran the blood-spattered Al Qaeda torture rooms our troops found in Iraq, or the Muslims who cut off the heads of schoolgirls in Indonesia, because the girls were Christian. Then we'll compare notes. British and American soldiers are the only troops in history that civilians came to for help and handouts, instead of hiding from in fear.

I'm tired of people telling
me that their party has a corner on virtue and the other party has a corner on corruption. Read the papers; bums are bipartisan. And I'm tired of people telling me we need bipartisanship. I live in Illinois , where the "Illinois Combine" of Democrats has worked to loot the public for years. Not to mention the tax cheats in Obama's cabinet.

I'm tired of hearing wealthy athletes, entertainers and politicians of both parties talking about innocent mistakes, stupid mistakes or youthful mistakes, when we all know they think their only mistake was getting caught. I'm tired of people with a sense of entitlement, rich or poor.

Speaking of poor, I'm tired of hearing people with air-conditioned homes, color TVs and two cars called poor. The majority of Americans didn't have that in 1970, but we didn't know we were "poor." The poverty pimps have to keep changing the definition of poor to keep the dollars flowing.

I'm real tired of people who don't take responsibility for their lives and actions. I'm tired of hearing them blame the government, or discrimination or big-whatever for their problems.

Yes, I'm #@*% tired. But I'm also glad to be 63. Because, mostly, I'm not going to have to see the world these people are making. I'm just sorry for my granddaughter.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Surreal Definitions

I don't make them up, I just steal them fair and square.

1. ARBITRATOR: A cook that leaves Arby's to work at

2. AVOIDABLE: What a bullfighter tried to do.

3. BERNADETTE: The act of torching a mortgage.

4. BURGLARIZE: What a crook sees with.

5. CONTROL: A short, ugly inmate.

6. COUNTERFEITERS: Workers who put together kitchen cabinets.

7. ECLIPSE: What an English barber does for a living.

8. EYEDROPPER: A clumsy ophthalmologist.

9. HEROES: What a guy in a boat does.

10. LEFTBANK: What the robber did when his bag was full of money.

11. MISTY: How golfers create divots.

12. PARADOX: Two physicians.

13. PARASITES: What you see from the top of the Eiffel Tower.

14. PHARMACIST: A helper on the farm.

15. POLARIZE: What penguins see with.

16. PRIMATE: Removing your spouse from in front of the TV.

17. RELIEF: What trees do in the Spring.

18. RUBBERNECK: What you do to relax your wife.

19. SELFISH: What the owner of a seafood store does.

20. SUDAFED: Brought litigation against a government official.