News Category: Fun

During an attack of laryngitis; I lost my voice completely for three days;

To help me communicate with her, my wife devised a method of taps; One tap meant, “Give me a kiss” two taps meant “Yes” six taps meant “NO” fifty taps; Well when is Dinner ready? 100 taps “I am out of Beer; Looks like we need a new Keg “ I’m all tapped out ”

The Arizona Highway Patrol came upon a pile of smoldering metal embedded in the side of a cliff rising above the road at the apex of a curve. The wreckage resembled the site of an airplane crash, but it was a car. The type of car was unidentifiable at the scene. Police investigators finally pieced together the cause. An amateur rocket scientist had somehow gotten hold of a JATO unit (Jet Assisted Take Off, actually a solid-fuel rocket) that is used to give heavy military transport planes an extra “push” for taking off from short airfields. He had driven his Chevy Impala out into the desert and found a long, straight stretch of road. He attached the JATO unit to the car, jumped in, got up some speed, and fired off the JATO! The facts as best as could be determined, are that the operator of the 1967 Impala hit the JATO ignition at a distance of approximately 3.0 miles from the crash site. This was established by the scorched and melted asphalt at that location. The JATO, if operating properly, would have reached maximum thrust within 5 seconds, causing the Chevy to reach speeds well in excess of 350 mph and continuing at full power for an additional 20-25 seconds. The driver, and soon-to-be pilot, would have experienced G-forces usually reserved for dogfighting F-14 jocks under full afterburners, causing him to become irrelevant for the remainder of the event. However, the automobile remained on the straight highway for about 2.5 miles (15-20 seconds) before the driver applied and completely melted the brakes, blowing the tires and leaving thick rubber marks on the road surface, then becoming airborne for an additional 1.4 miles and impacting the cliff face at a height of 125 feet, leaving a blackened crater 3 feet deep in the rock. Most of the driver’s remains were not recoverable. However, small fragments of bone, teeth, and hair were extracted from the crater, and fingernail and bone shards were removed from a piece of debris believed to be a portion of the steering wheel. Epilogue: It has been calculated that this moron attained a ground speed of approximately 420 mph, though much of his voyage was not on the ground.

If you can start the day without caffeine or pep pills, and you can be cheerful, ignoring aches and pains; While to resist complaining and boring people with your troubles, as well as to eat the same foods everyday and be grateful; to understand when loved ones are too busy to give you their attention or time and you can overlook when people take things out on you really, when through no fault of yours, something goes wrong; Or you can take criticism an a blame without resentment; So if you can face this world without lies and deceit; All while to conquer tension without medical help; Well to relax without liquor to sleep without drugs; “Then YOU probably live on the third rock from the sun!”SLAPPY

According to 10,000 women, The Perfect Man – Poem by Poet Perry Campanella
The perfect Man will be around six feet tall, ” a woman said
clean-shaven, smells so wonderful, like no other, with…
a sense of dress style, be it jeans, leather, or denim, a custom thread,
owns a dog, sweet, loving, good-natured, will only make a hit…

A non-smoker, toker, someone with a sense of humor will only do,
Then let him be with a College Degree,
a sports car, with credit of at least 100,000 dollars, for anything we want to..
some friends, to cheer for all those sports we come to, love, argue, and also disagree…

Above all this bliss…
a kiss now and then so sincere,
hand in hand with his miss
Drivers Licence to ride almost anywhere

The Perfect Man:

The winner has been named in our worldwide
search for the perfect man. After careful consideration
and endless debate, the Perfect man has been named
Mr. Potato Head, He’s tan – He’s cute – around 6ft tall
He knows the importance of accessorizing.
And opens doors for his significant other, and if he looks at another
Girl, you can rearrange his face also pin a long nose on Mr. Potato Head

Introducing Clown Rushmore

Clown Rushmore’s Post

LAKE HAMILTON
A gloomy cloud of homelessness looms over 30,000 clowns. A massive orange, yellow and red clown diaspora could be choking on dust on U.S. 27 by New Year’s Day.
All are wooden, ceramic, crystal, cloth and plastic inhabitants of Clown Rushmore, one man’s 40-year, bittersweet obsession, which he calls “the World’s Largest Clown Collection to the Best of Our Knowledge.”
Collector Jack Klein is turning 78. Clown Rushmore is tumbling down around him. He has put about 900 of his best clowns up for auction today through Sunday. The 29,000 leftovers will be sold a week later. The auctioneer calls it “the G-D-est thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
This after Disney World and Ringling Circus rejected Klein’s pleas for adoption.
Take them, he begged. Take the puppet clowns, papier-mache clowns, rodeo clowns, clowns on trapezes, clowns in hot air balloons, Cabbage Patch clowns, clock clowns, jack-in-the-box clowns, cookie jar clowns, piggy bank clowns, drummer clowns, music box clowns.
Take the old 45 rpm Judy Collins record, Send in the Clowns (Klein’s 14,336th purchase).
But all that the “big shots” wanted were the Bozos and Ronald McDonalds.
– – –
About 40 years ago, Jack Klein was a married father of two who ran a Volkswagen dealership in upstate New York and happened to be obsessive. He never could throw anything away. At one point he had 400 pairs of shoes, though he wore only sneakers.
But Klein had no clowns in his closet until he wandered into a Gimbel’s store in Manhattan. He spotted a portrait of French mime Marcel Marceau. Paid $300 for it.
Life as Jack Klein knew it had ceased to exist.
He dismisses all psychological theories, but dig not so deep into his childhood and you’ll find a Clown Club. That was the name of the dance club in the basement of his father’s New Jersey bar. Comedian George Burns hung out there. Klein was 9 years old.
Something clicked after he bought the Marcel Marceau portrait. He began to notice clown stuff. He liked the colors, the infinite variety. He rarely saw two that were alike.
He began buying, clown by clown.
At first he kept track of how many and how much. “I numbered them all in a book. When I reached 10,000 clowns, I had spent $900,000. After that, I stopped counting.”
At one point, the rough estimate was 60,000. That was after he bought out the Emmett Kelly clown factory. Jay Leno had him on his Tonight Show last year. Leno’s joke: “What kind of bozo collects 60,000 clowns?”
His wife, Sarah, said approximately the same thing just about every one of the 60,000 times he reached for his wallet:
“You don’t need it.”
Surprise delivery
He’d find them in toy stores, in antique shops, in garage sales. He kept them in warehouses in New Jersey. At one point, he was renting six warehouses. He didn’t tell Sarah how many.
They moved to Hollywood, Fla., in 1967 at the behest of the heavyweight boxing champion Rocky Marciano, a family friend then living in Fort Lauderdale. Marciano had talked about starting a business partnership.
Two years later Marciano died in an Iowa plane crash.
Klein sold real estate, turned down one of the first Toyota franchises to his lasting regret, sold used cars, and stumbled into a lawn irrigation business he would run for 30 years.
All the while, he gathered clowns. In 1974, he and Sarah took a three-month, cross country road trip, during which Klein heard those familiar words – “You don’t need it” – from the Gulf Stream waters to the redwood forests.
Sarah says, “All we did on our trips was look for boxes, tape and UPS.”
Sarah didn’t know how far her husband had gone until Klein brought the whole kit and caboodle to Florida.
It arrived in 8,000 boxes.
Big plans, little return
Klein had found a warehouse on U.S. 27 in Lake Hamilton, just a few miles from Winter Haven. This would be Clown Rushmore.
He had pursued more spectacular venues. “I wasted four years on Las Vegas, waiting for a hotel to be built.” He also tried to raise $4-million to open a clown emporium in Times Square, across from the Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. The financing never materialized.
By then, U.S. 27 didn’t look so bad.
Klein stood next to the highway with a clicker and made a traffic count. The traffic never stopped. But he didn’t take into account the speed of those cars and trucks passing by, hellbent on getting someplace else. He would later learn that slowing down for the hard right turn into Clown Rushmore was best not attempted without lots of life insurance.
Various ideas to improve business, including starting a restaurant, never took off, so there he languished.
“If I could have made $500 a day, I’d have been fine,” he says. “A neighborhood candy store does that much.”
Emmett Kelly Jr., son of the great Ringling clown legend Emmett Kelly, came to stay with Klein for three months. While he was there, people flocked to Clown Rushmore for autographed Emmett Kelly art, and Klein did a year’s worth of business.
But Kelly eventually went back to his home in Tombstone, Ariz., where at 82 he now lies stricken with pneumonia. He’s too sick even to come to the auction.
A few mementos
All must go. Klein has lost his lease and must clear out by the end of December. Disney, Cypress Gardens, Ringling Circus headquarters in Sarasota have all taken a pass – except for expressing interest in the Bozos and Ronald McDonalds. (Some last-minute talks are under way with Cypress Gardens for at least a piece of the collection.) Actor Diane Keaton, collector and author of Clown Paintings, didn’t respond to e-mails from the auctioneer.
Kincaid Auction is handling the sale of nearly everything. Klein will keep his Emmett Kelly figurines. “We couldn’t let some of those things he paid thousands for go for 50 bucks,” Sarah says. He’s also keeping his Marcel Marceau portrait, and his vintage museum jukebox. Even as he takes a last look, he has Paul Anka’s Put Your Head on My Shoulder wailing away.
Auction manager John Harris, who’s in his 40s, says the coming of a more cynical, wary generation was probably the undoing of Clown Rushmore.
“Jack’s clowns are the Red Skeltons, the Emmett Kellys, the Ringling clowns. The clowns people my age remember are like Stephen King’s It.” (That clown lurked in sewers and preyed on children.)
Klein barely listens. What rot. What nonsense.
“What’s not funny about clowns?”