Issue
Eight
August
2003 |
 |
 |
 |
©2003
by
Cliff
Johnson
All
Rights
Reserved |
|
The pen is mightier
than the sword. |
the officious newsletter of author Cliff Johnson |
Actions speak
louder than words. |
|
|
>Take
One<
The
hypochondriac walks into a doctor’s
office and says, “Doc, I hurt
all over.”
The doctor
says, “What do you mean, you
hurt all over?”
The hypochondriac
says, “Here, I’ll show
you.”
He
touches himself on the knee. “Ow!
I hurt there.”
He
touches his elbow. “Ow!! I
hurt there too!”
He
touches his head. “Ow!!! Even
my hair hurts!”
The doctor
puts on his glasses and says, “Well,
let’s take a look at that
broken finger, then.”
>Take
Two<
ABC
News reports “They’re
having a devil of a time keeping
the signs up for Route 666 in Morris
County, New Jersey. Authorities
think the signs, which cost the
county nearly $40 each, are being
taken by religious people offended
by the number and those who just
see it as an offbeat souvenir.”
Offbeat
souvenir?
>Take
Three<
Woody
Allen relates “I took a speed
reading course and read ‘War
and Peace’ in twenty minutes.
It involves Russia.”
He
also asks “Why are our days
numbered and not, say, lettered?”
He
concludes “It’s not
that I’m afraid to die, I
just don’t want to be there
when it happens.”
>Take
Four<
The
miser buys a ticket and wins the
lottery. He goes to lottery headquarters
to claim his money.
The
miser says, “I want my $20
million.”
The
official replies, “Sorry,
Sir. It doesn’t work that
way. We give you one million today
and then you’ll get the rest
spread out for the next 19 years.”
The
miser says, “Oh, no. I want
all my money right now! I won it
and I want it.”
Again,
the official explains that he would
only get one million that day and
the rest during the next 19 years.
The
miser, furious, shouts, “Look,
I want my money! If you’re
not going to give me my $20 million
right now, then I want my dollar
back!”
>Take
Five<
Three
nincompoops are following some tracks
through the woods.
The
first says, “I think these
are bear tracks.”
The
second says, “No, they’re
deer tracks.”
The
third says, “You’re
both wrong. They’re rabbit
tracks.”
Then
the train hits them.
>Take
Six<
If
receiving this newsletter is as
welcome as a Saturday 5:30 AM telephone
call from a telemarketer hawking
new improved telephone privacy for
your Caller ID box, click
here to cancel.
However,
if you wish to stop receiving those
calls, or, wish to subscribe to
this newsletter, click
here.
>Take
Seven<
I
was born on the same day some clown
invented the Whiffle ball.
I am the
second of me.
Next
year, I will be the second and third
of me.
I
can never hope to be the first and
second and third of me, however.
Thank
you all for the birthday eCards,
eMails, and anthrax-dusted letters
sent to my post office box.
>Cut<
>Print<
|
|
|
 |
 |
|
|
In the
Kingdom of the Swords, the Fool approaches
an unruly mob crowded about a game of
roulette. He hears three rogues jangling
piles of coins.
“I’ll
bet one hundred taut,” shouts the
first.
“I’ll
wager five-score scum,” curses the
second.
“I’ll
stake eight dozen and four wags,”
spits the third.
Who has
bet the most?
Who has
bet the least?
The Fool
need not see the coins to know the answer.
Nearby,
a barker shouts “Openings still
remain in the Compendium of True Believers.
If you want to be there in that number,
pre-order
today.
The crowd
gasps as the countdown number 70 instead
of turning into 69, changes to 469.
“It
is the work of the High Priestess!”
yells the shopkeeper.
“No,
it is the Magician,” says the merchant.
“He toils long and hard in his cavern.”
“What
can this mean?” says the peddler.
Quality
demands that I extend the final deadline
for The Fool and his Money.
This game is proving to be the most exciting
project I’ve ever handcrafted and
the most time-consuming. As a production
crew of one, I strive to delegate, yet
the work never seems to leave my desk.
I am certain you will enjoy this witty
tale of puzzling twists and turns. The
suspense is killing me. I ask for your
continuing support during this final phase
of development by not suing me for damages
and/or emotional suffering. |
|
 |
Robert
Puelo, 32, was being rowdy in a St.
Louis market. When the clerk threatened
to call the police, Puelo grabbed
a hot dog, shoved it into his mouth
and walked out without paying. Police
found him lying in front of the store.
Paramedics removed the six-inch wiener
from his throat where it had choked
him to death.
“CLiFF,
get back to work!”
Til
December.
Careening
Juggernaut
|
|
 |
|
|