Joke of the day.

Why do people constantly return to the refrigerator with hopes that something new to eat will have materialized?

 

The inventor of the Harley-Davidson motorcycle, Arthur Davidson, died and went to heaven.

At the pearly gates, St. Peter told Arthur, "Since you've been such a good man and your motorcycles have changed the world, Your reward is, you can hang out with anyone you want in Heaven."

Arthur thought about this for a minute and then said, "I want to hang out with God."

St. Peter took Arthur to the Throne Room and introduced him to God.

God recognized Arthur and commented, "Okay, so you were the one who invented the Harley Davidson motorcycle?"

Arthur said, "Yep, that's me."

God said, "Well, what's the big deal in inventing something that's pretty unstable, makes noise and pollution and can't run without a road?"

Arthur was apparently embarrassed, but finally he said, "Excuse me, but aren't you the inventor of woman?"

God said, "Yes."

"Well," said Arthur, "professional to professional, you have some major design flaws in your invention:

1. There's too much inconsistency in the front-end protrusions;
2. It chatters constantly at high speeds;
3. Most of the rear ends are too soft and wobble too much;
4. The intake is placed way too close to the exhaust;
5. And the maintenance costs are enormous!"

"Hmmmmm, you have some good points there," replied God, "hold on."

God went to His Celestial super computer, typed in some key words And waited for the results. The computer printed out a slip of paper and God read it.

"Well, it may be true that my invention is flawed," God said to Arthur, "but according to these statistics, more men are riding my invention than yours."

 

“God grant me the serenity to accept the bows I cant buy, the courage to buy the bows I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

America...Love it or Leave it

 

Disney plans to not ruin a long coveted movie series sometime in the next century.

 

Woman's Quote of the Day:

"Men are like fine wine. They all start out like grapes, and it's our job to stomp on them and keep them in the dark until they mature into something with which you'd like to have dinner with."

Men's Counter-Quote of the Day:

"Women are like fine wine. They all start out fresh, fruity and intoxicating to the mind and then turn full-bodied with age until they go all sour and vinegary and give you a headache."

 

Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

 

Two young businessmen in Florida were sitting down for a break in their soon-to-be new store in the shopping mall.

As yet, the store's merchandise wasn't in -- only a few shelves and display racks had been set up.

One said to the other, "I'll bet that any minute now some senior is going to walk by, put his face to the window, and ask what we're selling."

Sure enough, just a moment later, a curious senior gentleman walked up to the window, looked around intensely and rapped on the glass, then in a loud voice asked, "What are you selling here?"

One of the men replied sarcastically,

"We're selling ass-holes."

Without skipping a beat, the old timer said,

"You must be doing well. Only two left."

 

Yesterday, I wore my Vietnam Veteran cap to Wal-Mart. There was nothing in particular that I needed at the world's largest retailer; but, since I retired, trips to "Wally World" to look at the Walmartians is always good for some comic relief.
Besides, I always feel pretty normal after seeing some of the people that frequent the
establishment. But, I digress, . . . enough of my psychological fixations.

While standing in line to check out, the guy in front of me, probably in his early thirties, asked, "Are you a Viet Nam Vet?"
"No," I replied.
"Then why are you wearing that cap?"
"Because I couldn't find the one from the War of 1812 . . ."
I thought it was a snappy retort.

"The War of 1812, huh?" the Walmartian queried, "When was that?"

God forgive me, but I couldn't pass up such an opportunity. "1946," I answered as straight-faced as possible.

He pondered my response for a moment and responded, "Why do they call it the War of 1812 if it was in 1946?"

"It was a Black Op. No one is supposed to know about it." This was beginning to be way fun!

"Dude! Really?" He exclaimed. "How did you get to do something that COOOOL?"

I glanced furtively around me for effect, leaned toward the guy and in a low voice said, "I'm not sure. I was the only Caucasian on the mission."

"Dude," he was really getting excited about what he was hearing, "that is seriously awesome! But, didn't you kind of stand out?"

"Not really. The other guys were wearing white camouflage."

The moron nodded knowingly.

"Listen man," I said in a very serious tone, "You can't tell anyone about this. It's still 'top secret' and I shouldn't have said anything."

"Oh yeah?" he gave me the 'don't threaten me look.' "Like, what's gonna happen if I do?"

With a really hard look I said, "You have a family don't you? We wouldn't want anything to happen to them, would we?"

The guy gulped, left his basket where it was and fled through the door. The lady behind me started laughing so hard I thought she was about to have a heart attack. I just grinned at her.

After checking out and going to the parking lot I saw dimwit leaning in a car window talking to a young woman.
Upon catching sight of me he started pointing excitedly in my direction. Giving him another 'deadly' serious look,
I made the 'I see you' gesture. He turned kind of pale, jumped in the car and sped out of the parking lot.

And these people VOTE!

What a great time! Tomorrow I'm going back wearing my Homeland Security cap.

Then the next day I will go to the driver's license bureau wearing my Border Patrol hat, and see how long it takes to empty the place.

Whoever said retirement is boring? You just need to wear the right kind of cap!

See you guys at Walmart!!

 

Returning home from work, a blonde was shocked to find her house ransacked and burglarized. She telephoned the police at once a nd reported the crime. The police dispatcher broadcast the call on the radio, and a K-9 unit, patrolling nearby, was the first to respond.

As the K-9 officer approached the house with his dog on a leash, the blonde ran out on the porch, shuddered at the sight of the cop and his dog, then sat down on the steps. Putting her face in her hands, she moaned, 'I come home to find all my possessions stolen. I call the police for help, and what do they do? They send me a BLIND policeman!'

 

F-16 vs C-130

A C-130 was lumbering along when a cocky F-16 flashed by. The jet jockey decided to show off.

The fighter jock told the C-130 pilot, "Watch this!" and promptly went into a barrel roll followed by a steep climb. He then finished with a sonic boom as he broke the sound barrier. The F-16 pilot asked the C-130 pilot what he thought of that?

The C-130 pilot said, "That was impressive, but watch this!"

The C-130 droned along for about 5 minutes and then the C-130 pilot came back on and said, "What did you think of that?"

Puzzled, the F-16 pilot asked, "What the heck did you do?"

The C-130 pilot chuckled and said, "I stood up, stretched my legs, walked to the back, took a leak, then got a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll."

The moral of the story is: When you are young and foolish - speed and flash may seem a good thing! When you get older and smarter - comfort and dull is not such a bad thing!

Us older folks understand this one.

 

Reminds me of this excerpt from Brian Schul's book Sled Driver : Flying the World's Fastest Jet.


There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.

I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.

Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.

We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground."

Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the " Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check". Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground."

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.

Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. "Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground."

I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money."

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A.came back with, "Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one."

It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.

For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there

 

A boy was watching his father, a pastor, write a sermon.
"How do you know what to say?" he asked.
"Why, God tells me."
"Oh, then why do you keep crossing things out?"

 

My wife came home yesterday and said, “Honey, the car won’t start, but I know what the problem is.”

I asked her what it was and she told me it had water in the carburetor. I though for a moment, then said, “You know I don’t mean this badly, but you’re not mechanically inclined. You don’t know the carburetor from the radiator.”

“No, there’s definitely water in the carburettor,” she insisted.

“Ok, honey, that’s fine, I’ll just go take a look. Where is it?”

“In the lake.”

 

Mother Superior called all the nuns together and said to them, 'I must tell you all something. We have a case of gonorrhea in the convent.'
'Thank God,' said an elderly nun at the back. 'I'm so tired of chardonnay.

 

A golfer is in a competitive match with a friend, who is ahead by a couple of strokes..
"Boy, I'd give anything to sink this putt", the golfer mumbles to himself.
Just then, a stranger walks up beside him and whispers, "Would you be willing to give up a quarter of your sex life to sink the putt?"


Thinking the man is crazy and his answer will be meaningless, the golfer also feels that maybe this is a good omen, so he says, "Sounds good to me," - and promptly sinks the putt!


Two holes later, he mumbles to himself again, "Gosh, I wish I could get an eagle on this one."


The same stranger is suddenly at his side again and whispers, "Would it be worth giving up another quarter of your sex life to make an eagle?"


Shrugging, the golfer replies, "Okay." And, amazingly, he makes the eagle.


On the final hole, the golfer needs another eagle to win. Without waiting for him to say anything, the stranger quickly moves to his side and says, "Would winning this match be worth giving up the rest of your sex life?"


"Definitely," the golfer replies, and, sure enough, he makes the eagle - and wins the match.


As the golfer is walking to the club house, the stranger walks along beside him and says,
"I haven't really been fair with you because you don't know who I am. I'm Satan, and from this day forward you really will have no sex life at all."


"Nice to meet you," the golfer replies. "I'm Father Gleason."

 

A man sees a sign outside a house:
'Talking Dog For Sale'....He rings the bell, the owner appears and tells him the dog can be viewed in the back garden.
The man sees a very nice looking Black Labrador Retriever sitting there.
"Do you really talk?" He asks the dog.
"Yes!" The Labrador replies.
After recovering from the shock of hearing the dog talk, he man asks, "So, tell me your story!"
The Labrador looks up and says, "Well, I discovered that I could talk when I was pretty young. I wanted to help the government, so I joined the SAS.
"In no time at all they had me jetting from country to country, sitting in rooms with spies and world leaders, because no one imagined that a dog would be eavesdropping.
I was one of their most valuable spies for eight years, But the jetting around really tired me out, and I knew I wasn't getting any younger so I decided to settle down. I signed up for a job at Heathrow to do some undercover security work, wandering near suspicious characters and listening in. I uncovered some incredible dealings and was awarded several medals. I got married, had a few puppies, and now I've just retired!"
The man is amazed. He goes back into the house and asks the owner how much he wants for the dog.
"Ten quid!" The owner says.
"£10? But this dog is absolutely amazing! Why on earth are you selling him so cheaply?"
"Because he's a liar. He's never been out of the garden!"

 

A little girl was sitting on her grandfather's lap as he read her a bedtime story.

From time to time, she would take her eyes off the book and reach up to touch his wrinkled cheek. She was alternately stroking her own cheek, then his again.

Finally she spoke up, "Grandpa, did God make you?"

"Yes, sweetheart," he answered, "God made me a long time ago."

"Oh," she paused, "Grandpa, did God make me too?"

"Yes, indeed, honey," he said, "God made you just a little while ago."

Feeling their respective faces again, she observed, "God's getting better at it, isn't he ?"