Thursday, November 11, 2010

Three dots in the fountain

Shipman family standards: “Purt-nost,” which is sort of a hybrid of “purty near” and “almost.”.

“What time is it?”
“Purt-nost five.”


One of the commonplaces of reunions is riotous tales out of school, from the days when we were young and foolish (we're old and foolish now.) Like the time some of my friends, under the influence of the Demon Rum, drove their car onto the railroad track at the Socorro station and went as far as they could go. Not sure why, but at the place where they got stuck on the tracks, the car was freed up by the expedient of tipping it into the adjacent irrigation channel.

These are all grownups now, at least nominally. Some of them resent being reminded.


You can see just by watching him. (Ty Murray, Pro Bull Riding tour announcer and nine-time world champion)


No foot will remain unshot. (Pat Buckley on the Democratic Party)


Dogminatrix: one who instructs dog owners in the proper maintenance of the dominance hierarchy. Cesar Millan, for example.


An American tourist in Belfast was confronted by a masked gunman who demanded, “Catholic or Protestant?” and pointed the gun at him.

The tourist thought for a moment. He had an even chance of being a martyr. Then he got a bright idea and replied, “Actually, I'm Jewish.”

The terrorist smiled through the hole in his ski mask. “I must be the luckiest Arab in Ireland.”


Vegaquarian: Someone who eats only vegetables and fish. (Lynne Heatwole)


Merle and Janet Bickford were a married couple of artists that I knew many years ago. They were both sculptors and had a large studio near the Pacific shore where they both worked.

At one point they sculpted each other, in life size, using a wild assortment of scrapbox materials. They were trying to express, they said, the complexity of their relationship. When the pieces were completed, they showed them.

During the showing, one art patron took such violent exception to the ice pick that was buried up to the hilt in the eye of one of the figures that she plucked it out and threw it on the floor. The artists rushed over and put it back in, insisting that that was an important part of the overall composition.


Bubba and Junior were standing by a flagpole, looking up at it. An attractive blonde engineer walked by and asked them what was going on.

“We need to know the height of this here flagpole,” answered Bubba.

The blonde pulled a wrench out of her pocket, unbolted the flagpole from its base, tipped it over and walked it down, laid it on the ground, pulled the tape measure off her belt, measured it, announced “Eighteen feet, six inches, plus or minus a quarter,” re-installed the flagpole and went on her way.

“Ain't that jest like a woman,” said Junior. “We need the height, and she gives us the length.”

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