This witty forward I received was originally titled "Computer Sex," but don't worry. It's much milder than that.
A Spanish teacher was explaining to her class that in Spanish, unlike English, nouns are designated as either masculine or feminine.
"House" for instance, is feminine: "la casa."
"Pencil," however, is masculine: "el lapiz."
A student asked, "What gender is 'computer'?"
Instead of giving the answer, the teacher split the class into two groups, male and female,
and asked them to decide for themselves whether "computer" should be a masculine or a feminine noun.
Each group was asked to give four reasons for its recommendation.
The men's group decided that "computer" should definitely be of the feminine gender ("la computadora"), because: 1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic;
2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else; 3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible later retrieval; and 4. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.
(THIS GETS BETTER !)
The women's group, however, concluded that computers should be Masculine ("el computador"), because: 1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on;
2. They have a lot of data but still can't think for themselves; 3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they ARE the problem; and 4. As soon as you commit to one,
you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model.
The women won.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
COLUMN: Things That Go Bark in the Night
By Tobin Barnes
It’s nighttime. Most people are asleep.
A dog barks in the distance.
Has Timmy fallen down a well, and it’s Lassie seeking help?
Good old Lassie! Hold on, Timmy. Lassie will save you.
But no, it can’t be Lassie. All the Lassies are dead by now, and besides, though Timmy had a inexplicable tendency to wander, I don’t think he ever made it to South Dakota.
Then maybe it’s Rin Tin Tin. Rusty’s been captured by the Apaches, and someone’s got to get him outta there.
But no, it can’t be old Rinty. The horse cavalry disbanded decades ago, and Rusty’s probably drawing retirement about now.
So what dog is that, barking away and keeping me awake?
It can’t be our dog. She’s over at the neighbors, sleeping beside their pellet stove. She likes it there a lot better than our garage. Decided to upgrade her amenities, oh, maybe a year ago. Heads over there every night now. Buttons down tight, immovable. No reason to bark.
We haven’t got that many other neighbors and they’re all a distance off. And no nearby neighbors whatsoever from the barking dog’s direction.
Except way down in the bottom of the gulch, perhaps a quarter mile away and five hundred feet down. Is that where it’s coming from?
Gotta be.
Whatever, the dog continues to bark away insistently. Probably enjoying the acoustics. Gets a charge hearing its voice reverberating up the walls of the gulch on this otherwise still, quiet evening. Living big in doghood terms.
Hate to cramp his style, but he’s keeping me awake.
And I’m thinking, What’s more important? Me getting some sleep or this dog expressing his individuality?
It’s a no-brainer. Thing is, what do I do about it?
First option: Suffer.
But that’s truly disconcerting. Hey, I suffer while a dog enjoys itself? In the words of P.G. Wodehouse: That’d be “pretty dashed offensive to (my) proud spirit, as you may well imagine.”
Second option: Stuff some kleenex in my ears.
Heck, it almost works. I can hear the dog only about half as much as before. But the result is the same. His sharp piercing yelps penetrate the wadding to the sufficient extent to keep me listening for the next round.
Third option: Kill the dog.
The madness of sleeplessness has overtaken me. This, I think, will not be the last night I hear the dog, the dog, the dog (thank you, Mr. Poe). On every succeeding clear, cold, windless night, I will hear the dog again. Therefore, death be to the dog!
So how do I do it...poisoned hamburger, infrared scope on a 30-30, RPG...what?
But could I do it? In this state of mind, anything’s possible. I’m starting to understand the pysche of gunslinger John Wesley Hardin. Killed a man for snoring.
Would I do it? Kill the dog, that is.
Who am I kidding, I’d have trouble....
Wait a second!
No barking. Is he done, for cryin’ out loud?
Wait...wait for it. It seems to be.... Yes, thank goodness, I think that’s it.
I’m not going to have to resort to my fourth and only real option: sacking out on the couch in another room, away from the tortuous yips of the devil dog.
After all, that would have been pretty dashed offensive.
It’s nighttime. Most people are asleep.
A dog barks in the distance.
Has Timmy fallen down a well, and it’s Lassie seeking help?
Good old Lassie! Hold on, Timmy. Lassie will save you.
But no, it can’t be Lassie. All the Lassies are dead by now, and besides, though Timmy had a inexplicable tendency to wander, I don’t think he ever made it to South Dakota.
Then maybe it’s Rin Tin Tin. Rusty’s been captured by the Apaches, and someone’s got to get him outta there.
But no, it can’t be old Rinty. The horse cavalry disbanded decades ago, and Rusty’s probably drawing retirement about now.
So what dog is that, barking away and keeping me awake?
It can’t be our dog. She’s over at the neighbors, sleeping beside their pellet stove. She likes it there a lot better than our garage. Decided to upgrade her amenities, oh, maybe a year ago. Heads over there every night now. Buttons down tight, immovable. No reason to bark.
We haven’t got that many other neighbors and they’re all a distance off. And no nearby neighbors whatsoever from the barking dog’s direction.
Except way down in the bottom of the gulch, perhaps a quarter mile away and five hundred feet down. Is that where it’s coming from?
Gotta be.
Whatever, the dog continues to bark away insistently. Probably enjoying the acoustics. Gets a charge hearing its voice reverberating up the walls of the gulch on this otherwise still, quiet evening. Living big in doghood terms.
Hate to cramp his style, but he’s keeping me awake.
And I’m thinking, What’s more important? Me getting some sleep or this dog expressing his individuality?
It’s a no-brainer. Thing is, what do I do about it?
First option: Suffer.
But that’s truly disconcerting. Hey, I suffer while a dog enjoys itself? In the words of P.G. Wodehouse: That’d be “pretty dashed offensive to (my) proud spirit, as you may well imagine.”
Second option: Stuff some kleenex in my ears.
Heck, it almost works. I can hear the dog only about half as much as before. But the result is the same. His sharp piercing yelps penetrate the wadding to the sufficient extent to keep me listening for the next round.
Third option: Kill the dog.
The madness of sleeplessness has overtaken me. This, I think, will not be the last night I hear the dog, the dog, the dog (thank you, Mr. Poe). On every succeeding clear, cold, windless night, I will hear the dog again. Therefore, death be to the dog!
So how do I do it...poisoned hamburger, infrared scope on a 30-30, RPG...what?
But could I do it? In this state of mind, anything’s possible. I’m starting to understand the pysche of gunslinger John Wesley Hardin. Killed a man for snoring.
Would I do it? Kill the dog, that is.
Who am I kidding, I’d have trouble....
Wait a second!
No barking. Is he done, for cryin’ out loud?
Wait...wait for it. It seems to be.... Yes, thank goodness, I think that’s it.
I’m not going to have to resort to my fourth and only real option: sacking out on the couch in another room, away from the tortuous yips of the devil dog.
After all, that would have been pretty dashed offensive.
Friday, January 12, 2007
The Ethicist
This is a regular column in the New York Times Sunday Magazine that can be accessed online. I never miss it. The guy's alway spot on with his advice, and I can't think of a time I haven't agreed. Try it. You'll like it. (Click the title.)
Letterman Top 10: New Iraq Plan
From the Home Office in Wahoo, Nebraska
Top Ten Features of Bush's New Iraq Plan
10. Make the war best two-out-of-three
9. Blame it on that crazy New York gas leak
8. Convene blue-ribbon study group; ignore recommendations
7. Consult with Rumsfeld, who's now working as a casino greeter
Top Ten Features of Bush's New Iraq Plan
10. Make the war best two-out-of-three
9. Blame it on that crazy New York gas leak
8. Convene blue-ribbon study group; ignore recommendations
7. Consult with Rumsfeld, who's now working as a casino greeter
(Click the above title to get to the rest of the list.)
As presented on the January 09, 2007 broadcast of
The Late Show with David Letterman
As presented on the January 09, 2007 broadcast of
The Late Show with David Letterman
Sunday, January 7, 2007
BOOKS: The End of Faith
Many will see this as controversial as all get out, yet the author makes a compelling case that the world will end in a faith-based nuclear holocaust, unless minds are changed, and soon. It can be irritating when the author is talking about your faith and illuminating when discussing someone else's faith. He's also not too crazy about tolerance, either, which is unusual. Wherever your beliefs come from, the book will blow the cobwebs out. But it's not for everybody. Also pleads the case for another type of spirituality.
Saturday, January 6, 2007
VIDEO: Jay Thomas' Lone Ranger Story on Letterman
The lore of the Lone Ranger we grew up with is still alive. Click the title to get to the video:
Where Are You Located?
Scott Adams of Dilbert fame had this joke in one of his recent blog entries:
A moron calls 911 and says in his moron accent, “My wife just collapsed!”
The dispatcher says, “Calm down. Where are you located?”
The man says, “I’m on the corner of Eucalyptus and Pine.”
The dispatcher asks, “How do you spell Eucalyptus?”
There’s a long pause and then the moron says, “I could drag her to Oak.”
A moron calls 911 and says in his moron accent, “My wife just collapsed!”
The dispatcher says, “Calm down. Where are you located?”
The man says, “I’m on the corner of Eucalyptus and Pine.”
The dispatcher asks, “How do you spell Eucalyptus?”
There’s a long pause and then the moron says, “I could drag her to Oak.”
For Lexophiles (Lovers of Words)
Tom Aldrich recommends these for those who like the turn of a phrase:
1. A bicycle can't stand alone; it is two tired.
2. A will is a dead giveaway.
3. Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.
4. A backward poet writes inverse.
5. In a democracy it's your vote that counts; in feudalism, it's your Count
that votes.
For more, click the above title:
1. A bicycle can't stand alone; it is two tired.
2. A will is a dead giveaway.
3. Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.
4. A backward poet writes inverse.
5. In a democracy it's your vote that counts; in feudalism, it's your Count
that votes.
For more, click the above title:
COLUMN: Living to Be Dumb Another Day
By Tobin Barnes
Seems this guy was flying a kite in a lightning storm, reminiscent perhaps of Benjamin Franklin. Benjamin Franklin was lucky he discovered something about electricity and didn’t get knocked on his butt.
The guy I’m talking about wasn’t so lucky. He was killed. His kite had a short string lengthened with copper wire. Don’t know if this 26-year-old adventurer was trying to discover anything, but even his father said it wasn’t very smart. After all, he was an electrician.
Anyway, that stunt and his resulting demise earned him a nomination for the 2006 Darwin Awards, found at darwins.com. In the spirit of experiential education, I’ve reported on these “honors” before.
The Darwin Awards “salute the improvement of the human genome by honoring those who accidentally remove themselves from it...ensuring that the next generation is one idiot smarter.”
The Darwin folks also provide a grim caveat: “Of necessity, this award is generally bestowed posthumously.”
Sounds a tad harsh and insensitive, doesn’t it. Fly a kite, die, and get a “dumb” nomination.
But then, we’ve all done dumb things--heck, off the top of my head, I can think of several potentially fatal and award-level stupid things I’ve done--and for one reason or another we’ve survived to be dumb another day. And thereby we’re allowed to re-enter the lottery yet once again. Depending on our fates, we may all have numerous more chances to be a winner.
Evidently, the above electrician, in the minds of the Darwin people, is not only distinctive as a nominee for the 2006 award, but also for serving as an involuntary lesson to the rest of us.
And the lesson? Idiocy shall be punished...however randomly...for one reason or another. After all, “Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, the lesson afterwards,” according to Vernon Sanders’ Law.
Believe it or not, the electrician didn’t win the 2006 award. I guess the depths of dimness were not totally plumbed in his case.
On the other hand, the runner up from Brazil threw caution to the wind in pursuit of Darwinian notice. He, in the words of the Darwin Awards’ storytellers, earned his second-place position by trying “to disassemble a Rocket Propelled Grenade (RPG) by driving back and forth over it with a car.”
Alas, the intended results were not realized, so he resorted to a sledgehammer, and, as the French say, Voila! He ascended, in more ways than one, to a presumably better place.
Fourteen other RPG’s lay unexploded in a nearby car. Police speculate that this was some sort of salvage effort to produce scrap metal.
Well, sledgehammer in hand, scrap metal was certainly produced.
But even this madness doesn’t compare with the 2006 Darwin Awards winners. That’s right, winners, since two people were joined in one stupid act.
The young man and woman were found inside a “deflated helium advertising balloon,” only their feet sticking out.
It’s thought they pulled the balloon down and climbed in to inhale the gas and talk funny to each other—be like Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd or something.
Unfortunately, in the midst of their hilarity, they were overwhelmed by that same helium, according to the medical examiner.
A family member delivered the benediction: “Sara was mischievous, to be honest. She liked fun and it cost her.”
So let’s take the Darwin Awards for what they are—a lesson. We could all be and have been Sara, the Brazilian, and the electrician. Amen.
Well, maybe not the Brazilian.
Seems this guy was flying a kite in a lightning storm, reminiscent perhaps of Benjamin Franklin. Benjamin Franklin was lucky he discovered something about electricity and didn’t get knocked on his butt.
The guy I’m talking about wasn’t so lucky. He was killed. His kite had a short string lengthened with copper wire. Don’t know if this 26-year-old adventurer was trying to discover anything, but even his father said it wasn’t very smart. After all, he was an electrician.
Anyway, that stunt and his resulting demise earned him a nomination for the 2006 Darwin Awards, found at darwins.com. In the spirit of experiential education, I’ve reported on these “honors” before.
The Darwin Awards “salute the improvement of the human genome by honoring those who accidentally remove themselves from it...ensuring that the next generation is one idiot smarter.”
The Darwin folks also provide a grim caveat: “Of necessity, this award is generally bestowed posthumously.”
Sounds a tad harsh and insensitive, doesn’t it. Fly a kite, die, and get a “dumb” nomination.
But then, we’ve all done dumb things--heck, off the top of my head, I can think of several potentially fatal and award-level stupid things I’ve done--and for one reason or another we’ve survived to be dumb another day. And thereby we’re allowed to re-enter the lottery yet once again. Depending on our fates, we may all have numerous more chances to be a winner.
Evidently, the above electrician, in the minds of the Darwin people, is not only distinctive as a nominee for the 2006 award, but also for serving as an involuntary lesson to the rest of us.
And the lesson? Idiocy shall be punished...however randomly...for one reason or another. After all, “Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, the lesson afterwards,” according to Vernon Sanders’ Law.
Believe it or not, the electrician didn’t win the 2006 award. I guess the depths of dimness were not totally plumbed in his case.
On the other hand, the runner up from Brazil threw caution to the wind in pursuit of Darwinian notice. He, in the words of the Darwin Awards’ storytellers, earned his second-place position by trying “to disassemble a Rocket Propelled Grenade (RPG) by driving back and forth over it with a car.”
Alas, the intended results were not realized, so he resorted to a sledgehammer, and, as the French say, Voila! He ascended, in more ways than one, to a presumably better place.
Fourteen other RPG’s lay unexploded in a nearby car. Police speculate that this was some sort of salvage effort to produce scrap metal.
Well, sledgehammer in hand, scrap metal was certainly produced.
But even this madness doesn’t compare with the 2006 Darwin Awards winners. That’s right, winners, since two people were joined in one stupid act.
The young man and woman were found inside a “deflated helium advertising balloon,” only their feet sticking out.
It’s thought they pulled the balloon down and climbed in to inhale the gas and talk funny to each other—be like Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd or something.
Unfortunately, in the midst of their hilarity, they were overwhelmed by that same helium, according to the medical examiner.
A family member delivered the benediction: “Sara was mischievous, to be honest. She liked fun and it cost her.”
So let’s take the Darwin Awards for what they are—a lesson. We could all be and have been Sara, the Brazilian, and the electrician. Amen.
Well, maybe not the Brazilian.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
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