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You can tell it's fake because he's actually wearing a shirt.

Besides you and me?

...... second time you've posted this one this week ....... but who's keeping score ?

Quoted for truth.

We are approaching Fangs giving?

.... there is at least one on a shelf at my local Bunnings Hardware, .... do you want me to reserve it for you ?

With an over bite

A toothsome morsel!

MEDICINE MEN Dr. John Greenlees pressed practiced fingers against the inside of the dying man's upper arm. He'd nearly lost his arm -- unfortunately, it was a clean cut, which means the transected artery was pumping his very life out on the ground. From the absolute pallor of the man's face, the dusky shade of his lips and his fingers, the frontier physician knew he was looking at a dead man, but the hard headed and contrary Army surgeon in him seized the artery above the cut, pressed, desperately trying to hold life inside the body, where it belonged. A man in a fine suit stomped up and down beside his dying son, his face contorted with grief: he tore at his hair, threw his hands up and down, turned and bent at the waist and screamed "YOU'RE A DOCTOR, DO SOMETHING!" Dr. John Greenlees looked at the quiet, watchful ranch hand, kneeling close by: "I need your help." The ranch hand lifted his chin, his eyes bright, interested. "Grab his upper arm here. Press in with your fingers flat. Here, where my hand is. Tight." The ranch hand reached down, pressed the brachial artery against the humerus: Doc opened his warbag, pulled out a bottle of carbolic, sloshed it across the exposed upper arm. He'd already split the sleeve, cut it at the shoulder seam: he set the bottle aside, reached into the case again. "Do you have a weak stomach?" he asked quietly. "Nope," the ranch had said firmly. Doc saw the cut he'd have to make: the artery was gone, the cut would have transected the radial nerve, the arm would be dead from there down -- he'd seen it before -- he reached into the bag, pulled out a tourniquet, ran it around the man's arm, drew it tight, screwed the pad down to shut off the artery. He brought out another, smaller case, selected a scalpel. "MY GOD DON'T CUT HIS ARM OFF!" the distraught man screamed. "It's the only chance he has," Doc grated, froze when he heard the pistol cock. The ranch hand launched from his knee-down squat: Doc ignored the conflict beside him as he made the cut with the speed, the precision, of too many field amputations during that damned War. He made the cut, set the scalpel across the small case, reached in, brought out a small, specialized saw. He looked at the injured man's face, hesitated, then laid practiced fingers into the carotid groove, finding the Adam's apple, dropping his fingers down beside it, questing, searching, looking without eyes for the slight pressure that would tell him life remained in the body. He replaced the bone saw in the satchel, withdrew a new purchase, the very latest innovation from France, something called a stethoscope: he fit the ends in his ears, pulled the still figure's shirt open, pressed the long, polished-brass bell against the still chest. He looked up, saw the ranch hand rising, a little nickle plated pistol in hand: the other fellow was in the ground, shaking his head. Doc went over to the horse trough, washed off the scalpel, washed the blood off the tourniquet, then washed his hands with his usual thoroughness. He put his tools away, closed his satchel, looked down at the man who was dead before the doctor even began. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I tried." The distraught man rolled over, came up on all fours, looked at his son, dead, lying in a shining pool of thickening blood. "I'm sorry," Dr. Greenlees said. "He was too far gone." He turned and walked to his physician's surrey, set his satchel behind the seat, picked up his coat, spun it around his shoulders. He tried to forget the sight of a father, on his knees beside his dead son, bent over with his face in his dead son's belly, muffling his agonized screams as he mourned the loss of his firstborn. Dr. John Greenlees seized the stainless-steel instrument tray in both hands, swung it up in time to block the punch: Dr. John was a man with an uncommon delicacy of touch -- not uncommon among surgeons -- but when necessary, his grip could be quite strong, and his grip on the rolled edges of the steel tray was quite good. A good thing it was. The punch was hard enough to bend the tray in its center. The first punch was high -- at his face -- the second just grazed Doc's side, and he brought the tray down hard on the side of his attacker's face. Dr. John Greenlees was honestly surprised as his attacker's eyes snapped wide open, as his mouth opened, as he recognized the reaction of a man suddenly without any control at all over himself, the moment before he collapsed beside the ER cart. A pale eyed woman in a deputy's uniform had a three-cell flashlight in her hand, one he'd seen before: she'd shown it to him earlier in the shift, and joked about slipping a bicycle inner tube over the aluminum body "so no fancy lawyer can claim I belted their client with a length of pipe." Dr. John Greenlees raised the instrument tray, considered how badly distorted it was: he looked at the young man on the ER cart, pale, sweating, in pain. "Kidney stones?" he gasped. Doc nodded. "I'm not dying." "You might wish you were dead, but no, you're not dying. Let me give you something for the pain." "What about Dad?" "He's going to jail, son, you don't have to worry about him." Dr. John Greenlees, M.D., physician and surgeon, squatted, gripped the screaming girl's foot: one hand laid over her arch, the other cupped just above her heel, he leaned back, using his weight for leverage. There is no scream like the absolute, shrill agony expressed from the female throat, especially in a small rock chamber melted away by the mining machinery: Doc leaned back more, and as the broken ends of her thigh passed one another and drew apart, the girl's eyes widened, her hands pressed hard against the smooth floor, her full-voiced, super powered scream, trailed off to nothing. Her eyes were wide with surprise instead of clenched shut with pain. Doc considered that sometimes the old and the simple works just fine; he'd fabricated a selection of an ancient design splint, and there on Mars, surrounded with technology from their own world, and others, Doc worked the newly-manufactured Thomas half ring splint under the girl's high thigh, tied the hitch, attached the winch and drew the windlass just taut enough to hold the broken bone ends apart. Two miners helped lift her just enough to get the folding litter under her, two miners hoisted her, they moved two steps to the left and six feet back when a chunk of rock fell -- swift, silent, deadly -- where the injured girl had been not thirty seconds before. Dr. John Greenlees flinched, turned his face away, raising a hand to block the stinging spalls that stung his face, then he looked at the rock, at his patient, shook his head and asked, "Is anyone selling lottery tickets? We all need to buy one today!"

A Mafia Godfather finds out that his bookkeeper, Guido, has cheated him out of $10,000,000. His bookkeeper is deaf and dumb. That was the reason he got the job in the first place. It was assumed that Guido would hear nothing so he would never have to testify in court. When the Godfather goes to confront Guido about his missing $10 million, he takes along his lawyer who knows sign language. The Godfather tells the lawyer, "Ask him where the money is!" The lawyer, using sign language, asks Guido, Where's the money? Guido signs back, "I don't know what you are talking about." The lawyer tells the Godfather, "He says he doesn't know what you're talking about." The Godfather pulls out a pistol, puts it to Guido's head, and says, "Ask him again or I'll kill him!" The lawyer signs to Guido, "He'll kill you if you don't tell him." Guido trembles and signs, "OK! You win! The money is in a brown briefcase, buried behind the shed at my cousin Bruno's house." The Godfather asks the lawyer, "What did he say?" The lawyer replies, "He says you don't have the guts to pull the trigger.”

You might like this one better , I can buy into Constitutional Republic also

We’re at least supposed to be a representative republic, not a democracy. And this is just a meme meant to make fun of people always saying we’re a democracy.

Republic : a government in which supreme power resides in a body of citizens entitled to vote and is exercised by elected officers and representatives responsible to them and governing according to law Democracy : a government in which the supreme power is vested in the people and exercised by them directly or indirectly through a system of representation usually involving periodically held free elections hmmmm, directly or indirectly, system of representation? Looks like our Republic is a form of Democracy. So if you told me that, I'd just wonder what kind of government action you were trying to justify.

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Elementary School English test