Kay Martin, a secretary to a New Zealand MP, got the fright of her life a few weeks ago. According to the Auckland Sunday Star, she and a friend were chatting over a drink when they heard a chicken squawking.
The bird sounded in some distress, so they went outside to investigate, thinking perhaps that it had escaped from one of the neighbors. But, there were no chickens anywhere.
Then Martin realized with horror that the sound was coming from her own kitchen - coming, in fact, from the oven, where she had put a chicken in to roast half an hour earlier. ”It was as if it was shrieking at me from its grave,” she says. ”It was so bizarre I just froze.”
As they approached the oven, the squawking reached a crescendo. They took the tray out, and as the chicken began to cool, the squawking died away.
Martin chopped the neck off and threw it in the sink. She noticed that the vocal chords were intact. ”Steam was coming up the neck from the stuffing,” says Martin, and this had caused the dead bird to squawk.
She has not cooked chicken since.
All of the following are said to be true stories... -- you decide! -- The controller working a busy pattern told the 727 on downwind to make a 360 (do a complete circle, usually done to provide spacing between aircraft). The pilot of the 727 complained, ’Do you know it costs us two thousand dollars to make a 360 in this airplane?’ Without missing a beat the controller replied, ’Roger, give me four thousand dollars worth.’ PSA was following United, taxiing out for departure. PSA called the tower and said ’Tower, this is United 586. We’ve got a little problem, so go ahead and let PSA go first.’ The tower promptly cleared PSA for takeoff before United had a chance to object to the impersonation. A DC-10 had an exceedingly long landing roll out after landing with his approach speed just a little too high... San Jose Tower: ’American 751 Heavy, turn right at the end if able. If not able, take the Guadalupe exit off of Highway 101 back to the airport.’ Tower: ’Eastern 702, cleared for takeoff, contact Departure on 124. 7.’ Eastern 702: ’Tower, Eastern 702 switching to Departure... by the way, as we lifted off, we saw some kind of dead animal on the far end of the runway.’ Tower: ’Continental 635, cleared for takeoff, contact Departure on 124. 7... did you copy the report from Eastern?’ Continental 635: ’Continental 635, cleared for takeoff... and yes, we copied Eastern and we’ve already notified our caterers.’-0+
The Smith’s were proud of their family tradition. Their ancestors had come to America on the Mayflower. They had included Senators and Wall Street wizards. They decided to compile a family history, a legacy for their children and grandchildren. They hired a fine author. Only one problem arose -- how to handle that great-uncle George, who was executed in the electric chair. The author said he could handle the story tactfully. The book appeared. It said, ”Great-uncle George occupied a chair of applied electronics at an important government institution, was attached to his position by the strongest of ties, and his death came as a great shock.”-0+
A businessman flew to Vegas for the weekend to gamble. He lost the shirt off his back, and had nothing left but a quarter and the second half of his round-trip ticket. If he could just get to the airport he could get himself home.
So he went out to the front of the casino where there was a cab waiting. He got in and explained his situation to the cabbie. He promised to send the driver money from home, he offered him his credit card numbers, his drivers license number, his address, all to no avail.
The cabbie said, ”If you don’t have fifteen dollars, get the hell
out of my cab!” So the businessman was forced to hitch- hike to the airport and was barely in time to catch his flight.
One year later the businessman, having worked long and hard to regain his financial success, returned to Vegas and this time he won big. Feeling pretty good about himself, he went out to the front of the casino to get a cab ride back to the airport.
Well who should he see out there, at the end of a long line of cabs but his old buddy who had refused to give him a ride when he was down on his luck. The businessman thought for a moment about how he could make the guy pay for his lack of charity, and he hit on a plan.
The businessman got in the first cab in the line, ”How much for a
ride to the airport,” he asked? ”Fifteen bucks,” came the
reply. ”And how much for you to give me oral sex on the way?”
”What? Get the hell out of my cab!”
The businessman got into the back of each cab in the long line and asked the same questions, with the same result.
When he got to his old friend at the back of the line, he got in and asked ”How much for a ride to the airport?” The cabbie replied ”fifteen bucks.” The businessman said ”OK,” and off
Then, as they drove slowly past the long line of cabs the businessman gave a big smile and thumbs up sign to each driver.
Here’s something that ran in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette on 2/24/97. The author is Ethel Morgan Smith of West Virginia University. ’Be Black for Me’I am glad February is almost over. It’s during this month that everyone is looking for me - or rather, anyone who can come and be black for them. I’m the only African-American professor in my university department of 50 faculty members. I reside in a world that is predominantly white and male: a land-grant state university with about 20, 000 students, 5 percent of whom are African-Americans. During February, my mailbox is overflowing. Most of the mail wants me to represent ’my people’ for some worthwhile organization during the month of February and February only. Sometimes the tone is pleasant. I generally accept those. Most often the tone is not pleasant. I group the mail into categories of ’accept for sure,’ ’decline for sure,’ ’maybe’ and ’I’ll get back to you.’ I’ve had letters that point out (if not in so many words) that their tax dollars pay my salary and they rightfully deserve a piece of me. The least I can do, these letters imply, is come and be black for them. I dump those requests in my recycling bin. I also get numerous calls. A pleasant woman from the arts council needed someone to attend her luncheon book-club meeting at her house. One of my colleagues, whom I haven’t even met, gave her my telephone number. Her group is thinking of including a black writer on its reading list next year. I accept her pleasant invitation. It doesn’t conflict with my calendar. I can be black that Wednesday. Someone knocks on my door. A graduate student, white male, wants me to be a member of his thesis committee. A portion of his writing will be on the impact of contemporary African-American women authors on American literature. He’s a good student. I accept and thank him for thinking of me. I want to know when I can expect some of his work. Another student drops by. She is African-American and can’t decide if she’s angry with me or not. Last semester I thought she was being self-righteous (as I think many students are) when she screamed at me in class for selecting a novel whose protagonist, a black man, was married to a white woman. The student said that the protagonist wasn’t really black because he was married to a white woman. I blew up at her in class and asked her who made her God of Blackness? I don’t think I apologized to her. She wants to talk about what to do with the rest of her life. I suggest improving her grades. She leaves before I can thank her for coming. I get back to sorting the mail. Five more organizations have submitted requests for me to come and be black. Another knock on my door. It’s two white students, male and female, from last semester’s African-American literature class. They (well, he, since the male speaks for the female) liked my class and learned a lot, but thought they would offer me some advice. He tells me that the black kids, all four of them, wanted to speak too much in class when I asked for comments or specific questions about the text. I remind them that everyone was given ample opportunity to speak. The student tells me that it was also annoying that ’they’ always sat together. I point out that all of the white students sat together as well. My two visitors leave. Someone else knocks on my door. It’s my colleague whose office is down the hall. He calls himself a folklorist. He, too, wants me to come and be black for his group. Another colleague drops by. A white male who’s fascinated by Africa wants me to know that if I have any interest in going to see my homeland, he is the man to help me get there. I tell him that Alabama is my homeland. My boss comes by next. He wants me to be a part of a new task force on diversity. I accept and thank him for thinking of me. I have to get home. It’s nearing the end of come-and-be-black-for-me month and I need my rest.-1+