Ciryatan
Welcome to the Grove of Ciryatan....Free Hearts Must Fly; Just Stay Away From the Jet Engines....
Humor
this i got from joey...
The Guys' Rules-------------------
We always hear " the rules "
From the female side.
Now here are the rules from the male side.
These are our rules!
Please note... these are all numbered "1"
ON PURPOSE!
1. Men are NOT mind readers.
1. Learn to work the toilet seat.
You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down.
We need it up, you need it down.
You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.
1. Sunday sports. It's like the full moon
or the changing of the tides.
Let it be.
1. Shopping is NOT a sport.
And no, we are never going to think of it that way.
1. Crying is blackmail.
1. Ask for what you want.
Let us be clear on this one:
Subtle hints do not work!
Strong hints do not work!
Obvious hints do not work!
Just say it!
1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every
question.
1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's
what
we do.
Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.
1. A headache that lasts for 17 months is a Problem.
See a doctor.
1. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument.
In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 Days.
1. If you won't dress like the Victoria 's Secret girls, don't Expect
us to
act like soap opera guys.
1. If you think you're fat, you probably are.
Don't ask us.
1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of them
makes
you sad or angry, then we meant the other one
1. You can either ask us to do something
Or tell us how you want it done.
Not both.
If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.
1. Whenever possible, Please say whatever you have to say during
commercials.
1. Christopher Columbus did NOT need directions and neither do we.
1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings.
Peach, for example, is a fruit, not A color. Pumpkin is also a fruit.
We
have no idea what mauve is.
1. If it itches, it will be scratched.
We do that.
1. If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing," We will act like
nothing's
wrong.
We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle, besides we
know
you will bring it up again later.
1. If you ask a question you don't want an answer to, Expect an answer
you
don't want to hear.
1 . When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is
fine...
Really .
1. Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to
discuss
such topics as baseball, the shotgun formation,
or golf.
1. You have enough clothes.
1. You have too many shoes.
1. I am in shape. Round IS a shape!
1. Thank you for reading this.
Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight;
But did you know men really don't mind that? It's like camping.
Pass this to as many men as you can -
to give them a laugh.
Pass this to as many women as you can -
to give them an even bigger laugh.
and another one...or more. lol.
"Aim towards the enemy."
--Instruction printed on U.S. Rocket Launcher
"When the pin is pulled, Mr. Grenade is not our friend."
--U.S. Marine Corps
"Cluster bombing from B-52s is very, very accurate. The bombs are
guaranteed to always hit the ground." --USAF Ammo Troop
"If the enemy is in range, so are you."
--Infantry Journal
"A slipping gear could let your m203 grenade launcher fire when you
least
expect it. That would make you quite unpopular in what's left of your
unit."
--Army's magazine of prevention maintenance
"It is generally inadvisable to eject directly over the area you just
bombed." --U.S. Air Force manual
"Try to look unimportant; the enemy may be low on ammo." --Infantry
Journal
"Tracers work both ways."
--U.S. Army Ordnance
"Five-second fuses only last three seconds."
--Infantry Journal
"Bravery is being the only one who knows you're afraid." --David
Hackworth
"If your attack is going too well, you're walking into an ambush."
--Infantry Journal
"No combat-ready unit has ever passed inspection."
--Joe Gay
"Any ship can be a minesweeper....once."
--Anon
"Never tell the platoon sergeant you have nothing to do." --Unknown
Marine
Recruit
"Don't draw fire; it irritates the people around you." --Infantry
Journal
"If you see a bomb technician running, try to keep up with him." --USAF
Ammo
Troop
No Left Turns:
This is a wonderful piece by
Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers large and small and president of
NBC News. In 1997, he won the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing.
Well
worth reading. And a few good laughs are guaranteed.
--------------------------------------------------------------
My father never drove a car.
Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car.
He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he
drove was a 1926 Whippet.
"In those days," he told me when
he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your
hands,
and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided
you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss
it."
At which point my mother, a
sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in: "Oh, bull!" she said. "He hit
a horse."
"Well," my father said, "there
was that, too."
So my brother and I grew up in a
household without a car. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses
next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a
gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but
we had none.
My father, a newspaperman in Des
Moines, would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3
miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I
would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk
home together.
My brother, David, was born in
1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how
come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. "No one in the family
drives," my mother would explain, and that was that. But, sometimes, my
father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get
one."
It was as if he wasn't sure
which one of us would turn 16 first.
But, sure enough, my brother
turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950
Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy
dealership downtown. It was a four-door, white model, stick shift,
fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't
drive, it more or less became my brother's car.
Having a car but not being able
to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my
mother.
So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her
to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned
to
drive the following year and where, and a generation later, I took my
two sons to practice driving.
The cemetery probably was my
father's idea.
"Who can your mother hurt in the
cemetery?" I remember him saying once.
For the next 45 years or so,
until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she
nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps --
though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself
navigator. It seemed to work.
Still, they both continued to
walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally
devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of
them through their 75 years of marriage. (Yes, 75 years, and they were
deeply in love the entire time.)
He retired when he was 70, and
nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with
her
the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk down and sit in the
front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the
parish's two priests was on duty that morning.
If it was the pastor, my father
then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end
of the service and walking her home. If it was the assistant pastor,
he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He
called
the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."
After he retired, my father
almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even
if
he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor,
he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer,
have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on
the radio.
In the evening, then, when I'd
stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second
base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the
multimillionaire on third base scored."
If she were going to the grocery
store, he would go along to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she
loaded up on ice cream.
As I said, he was always the
navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving,
he
said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?"
"I guess so," I said, knowing it
probably would be something bizarre.
"No left turns," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"No left turns," he repeated.
"Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most
accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of
oncoming traffic. As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can
lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never
again to make a left turn."
"What?" I said again.
"No left turns," he said. "Think
about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer.
So we always make three rights."
"You're kidding!" I said, and I
turned to my mother for support.
"No," she said, "your father is
right. We make three rights. It works." But then she added: "Except
when
your father loses count."
I was driving at the time, and I
almost drove off the road as I started laughing. "Loses count?" I
asked.
"Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a
problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again."
I couldn't resist. "Do you ever
go for 11?" I asked.
"No," he said. "If we miss it at
seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in
life
is so important it can't be put off another day or another week."
My mother was never in an
accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had
decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90. She lived
four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102. They
both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few
years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid
$8,000
to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had
one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower
cost
nearly three times what he paid for the house.)
He continued to walk daily -- he
had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd
fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was
of
sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.
One September afternoon in 2004,
he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring
town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out,
though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and
newspapers and things in the news. A few weeks earlier, he had told my
son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the
second hundred." At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You
know, I'm probably not going to live much longer."
"You're probably right," I said.
"Why would you say that?" He
countered, somewhat irritated.
"Because you're 102 years old,"
I said.
"Yes," he said, "you're right."
He stayed in bed all the next day.
That night, I suggested to my
son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night. He
appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look
gloomy, he said: "I would like to make an announcement. No one in this
room is dead yet."
An hour or so later, he spoke
his last words:
"I want you to know," he said,
clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And
I
have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have." A
short time later, he died.
I miss him a lot, and I think
about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family
and I were so lucky that he lived so long.
I can't figure out if it was
because he walked through life
Or because he quit taking left
turns.
El Vaquero (the Mexican cowboy) and his chihuahua, Chilito are camping
in
the desert. He sets up their tent and both are soon asleep.
Some hours later, El Vaquero wakes his faithful friend, "Chilito, look
up at
the sky and tell me what you see."
Chilito replies, "I see millions of stars, señor."
"What does that tell you?" asks El Vaquero.
Chilito ponders for a minute. "Astronomically speaking, it tells me
there
are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets.
Astrologically, it tells me that Saturn is in Leo. Chronologically,
it
appears to be approximately quarter past three.
Theologically, its evident the Lord is all-powerful, and we are small
and
insignificant. Meteorologically, it seems we will have a beautiful day
tomorrow. What does it tell you, señor?"
El Vaquero is silent for a moment, and then says, "Chilito, you
pendejo,
someone has stolen our tent."
