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I Know it's a bit early but...

How NOT to try armed robbery.......

And yet, somehow, I'm utterly content with that fact.

I'm morbidly curious as to who can run faster... these blimps or the gangbangers with their pants down around their ankles.

Elementary School English test

Where's the Christmas tree? Regards Gateway Kid

Why will the new Black Sea Fleet have glass bottom boats? So they can look at the old Black Sea Fleet.

Tattoo regulations have changed significantly. Each service is different, but in the army the only things that are prohibited are neck and face tattoos, and anything involving racism, etc. Sometimes if we do a formation run, it looks like I'm being chased by a motorcycle gang.

Look around, they're still here.

I guess the other characters went to Barbera's house. Love the food!

That used to be LEO pistol doctrine, no patch, but protect one eye or the other from extremes of light. Works, might be a life saver.

Back when I was playing D&D, one guy played a thief that wore an eye patch. And when they went out of the bright sunlight into a dark castle or a cave, he would move the patch to the other eye. The eye that it had the patch over it was already adjusted to the dark. Such was the theory, anyhow.

........ and them's YUMMMMMMMMY

Keep your firing eye closed to preserve night vision.... til night I guess

THE IRISHMAN'S RIGHT Sheriff Linn Keller stopped and stared in sheer, unadulterated admiration. Sean Finnegan, the big red headed Irish fire chief, was frozen in that one bright moment, frozen with his good right arm almost straight, his hand doubled up into a fist at the end of it, and about a yard away from the fist, drifting away in absurdly slow motion, a man whose nose was now much broader than it had been a moment ago. Like most experienced bare knuckle brawlers, Sean's knuckles were aligned up and down: were they horizontal when hitting something as bony and inflexible as a man's face, the boxer's hand was prone to fracture: its vertical alignment was much more resistant to breakage, especially with the raw, unadulterated power Sean could muster in one punch. The moment was gone, as quickly as it came: Linn's mind replayed the angry, shouting rider who went storming up behind the men beside the working steam engine; he remembered Sean turning, looking less like the broad shouldered Hephaestus, and more like an angered panther: one moment, solid, stony, a muscle-sculpted figure, solid and immovable, well rooted in God's good earth, and the next, a fast moving, lithe, agile, avenging warrior, doing his best to drive his fist through a shouting man's face and out the back of his skull. Linn looked at Jacob, then at the unconscious, face-bloodied soul who was so unwise as to address Sean at a working fire, then Linn looked around. As usual, when there was a fire response, a crowd gathered, and crowds tend to observe things, and not a living soul there missed the fact that a man approached their beloved Irish Brigade, shouting indiginantly about some offense or another, and was given a face full of knuckles for his trouble. Linn lifted his chin in summons; he recruited from this Unorganized Militia to carry this careless soul further from the fire scene: Linn led them far enough down Main Street to come to the first horse trough, where the offended party was given a bath, whether he needed it or not. Later, as the Sheriff listened to men's talk, he discovered the Irish Brigade was resonding to this fire, and their sudden appearance startled the man's horse and caused it to buck, offending the rider, who gave pursuit, waited for the right moment, and then advanced, shouting his grievance in what most testified to be much less than a polite manner. For his part, Sean dismissed the event from his mind: anyone who could not see three white mares, thrusting hard against polished black harness, if they could not hear a troika of galloping hoofbeats and the Steam Masheen's shrill whistle, if the most careless among them could not hear the big Irishman's great barrel chested voice, nor hear the blacksnake whip as it demanded of the air itself to give way -- well, any who could not see this, who could not hear this, deserved to be trampled, knocked aside and otherwise disposed of however may be necessary. None gathered that day to witness this, doubted this, and none who witnessed this, debated the matter. Fire Chief Charles Fitzgerald did not often let slip his temper. Fire Chief Charles Fitzgerald had been a bull rider, he'd worked oilfield in his youth, he'd been Navy and he'd had to handle himself in some interesting situations, so when a man made so bold as to throw a punch at him, why, he reacted as he'd been trained. Fire Chief Charles Fitzgerald just honestly beat snot, liver, lights and stuffing out of the man who'd come up and challenged him there on the broad, concrete, firehouse apron. It seems that a motorist objected to being startled by the sudden appearance of a red Kenworth pumper, screaming up behind him -- all chromed and screaming mechanical siren and twin three-foot-trumpet air horns, all chrome front bumper and momentum, and the idiot motorist who tried to pull out in front of the oncoming rig, nailed the brakes barely in time: later testimony from the modern day Irish Brigade agreed with the careless motorist's estimation that you could not have passed a paperback book between the front bumper of the motorist's vehicle, and the shining side of the onrushing red fire truck. Some men detest admitting they're wrong, and this fellow was one of them: instead of swallowing hard and realizing he'd been careless, he turned the blame on the pumper, he waited until they were back in quarters and he went down to raise hell with anyone he could find. He found the Chief. Chief Fitzgerald did not rise to the white hat by being hot headed, precipitous nor premature: the Chief, as a matter of fact, was known to hear anyone out, no matter how wrong they might be, but he was also known as being extremely fair, and rather plain spoken: when this Jack Doe declared his dissatisfaction with the situation, when he progressed into accusations and then into threats, the Chief told him quietly to go straight to hell and get off firehouse property and don't bother coming back. Apparently this Jack Doe did not like being addressed in such a manner. He took a swing at the Chief. A certain pale eyed Sheriff happened to be watching, and a certain pale eyed Sheriff waited until the Chief was finished with his address, and a certain pale eyed Sheriff did the same thing in this modern day as was done a little over a century ago, when redress was demanded without justification. He spoke to the Chief and expressed his admiration of the man's style, and then he introduced the worse for wear party to the nearest horse trough, reasoning that anyone with such bad manners was likely due for his Saturday night bath anyhow.

Love the turkey one!

let's see/hear some of them .... they might actually be funny ..........., funnier than actuality ........

...................... throwbacks ?

Funny enough, there was a news article yesterday saying the latest theory as to why Neanderthals died out was because they only wanted sex with Homo Sapiens and not their own kind, so they bred themselves out of existence. I guess if I were a Neanderthal and had the choice of Rosie O'Donnell or Raquel Welch the choice would be pretty obvious to me as well.

Why Neanderthals died out.

At least she's not like 99% of Hollyweird actors who close BOTH eyes before firing a shot.

She's left eye dominant.

Don’t you hate it when they wink at you before taking the shot? CJ