A friend of mine just recently said that some good new information was picked up at *The You're Done Pub*. I had to laugh. But then it occurred to me that maybe that is just what we have here. It's certainly more than just a forum. It certainly does seem more like one of those special watering spots "where everybody knows your name". And there is even a Parrot over there in the corner that some of us just can't resist pestering. Polly want a cracker, Polly want a cracker? Nice place here. Nice spot to stop by for a bit of refreshment.

-- Whetherman (whetherman@storm.warning), April 10, 1999

Answers

Actually, that's a dead parrot.

-- Pythonesque Old Git (anon@spamproblems.com), April 10, 1999.

OHO, so *that's* why I haven't been able to get a meaningful response.

-- Whetherman (whetherman@storm.warning), April 10, 1999.

Old Git, speaking of dead, there's a list of jokes floating around that purport to be actual courtroom exhanges. Here's one of them:

Q: Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse? A: No. Q: Did you check for blood pressure? A: No. Q: Did you check for breathing? A: No. Q: So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy? A: No. Q: How can you be so sure, Doctor? A: Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar. Q: But could the patient have still been alive nevertheless? A: It is possible that he could have been alive and practicing law somewhere.

No offense to the GI lawyers visiting here! So Git, what do you think is in that jar sitting right next to that Parrot?

-- Whetherman (whetherman@storm.warning), April 10, 1999.

Freeze-dried crackers for Y2K?

-- Old Git (anon@spamproblems.com), April 10, 1999.

No, not that jar, the other one, that looks like it has a pickled egg in it. Anyway, Polly doesn't need any freeze dried stuff. Why spend money on that when common shelf stuff is so cheap and will always be available.

-- Whetherman (whetherman@storm.warning), April 10, 1999.

...perhaps the parrot is "just resting" or maybe he's "pining for the fiords"?

-- Y2K Pro (2@641.com), April 10, 1999.

So is your wife a... goer... eh? Know what I mean? Know what I mean? Nudge nudge. Know what I mean? Say no more...know what I mean?

-- Kato (infowars@yahoo.com), April 10, 1999.

The parrot's not actually dead, it's just shagged out after a long squawk.

This thread is far too silly. Stop it immediately.

-- Old Git (anon@spamproblems.com), April 10, 1999.

Did someone say pub??? :-) I found a great recipe for beer bread!

-- Gayla Dunbar (privacy@please.com), April 10, 1999.

-- _ (_@_._), April 10, 1999.

"This is NOT an argument!"

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's NOT!"

-- Mac (sneak@lurk.com), April 11, 1999.

I wonder if there's a National Cheese Emporium next to the pub, cause you see, Well, I was, uh, sitting in the public library on Thurmon Street just now, skimming through Rogue Herrys by Hugh Walpole, and I suddenly came over all peckish. I mean, ESURIANT.... I mean, 'Ee, ah wor 'ungry-loike!

-- Morgan (morgan96@netscape.net), April 11, 1999.

Spam spam spam spam

Spam spam spam spam

Wonderful spam, wonderful spam...

-- Andy (2000EOD@prodigy.net), April 11, 1999.

Right then, who wants to sing like a lumberjack?

-- Morgan (morgan96@netscape.net), April 11, 1999.

Old git: Ahh.. Very passable, this, very passable.

Lon: Nothing like a good glass of Chateau de Chassilier wine, ay Uncle D?

Uncle Deedah: You're right there Lon...

Gilda: Who'd a thought thirty years ago we'd all be sittin' here drinking Chateau de Chassilier wine?

OG: Aye. In them days, we'd a' been glad to have the price of a cup o' tea.

Lon: A cup ' COLD tea.

Gilda: Without milk or sugar.

UD: OR tea!

OG: In a filthy, cracked cup.

Lon: We never used to have a cup. We used to have to drink out of a rolled up newspaper.

OG: The best WE could manage was to suck on a piece of damp cloth.

Lon: But you know, we were happy in those days, though we were poor.

UD: Aye. BECAUSE we were poor. My old Dad used to say to me, "Money doesn't buy you happiness."

Gilda: 'E was right. I was happier then and I had NOTHIN'. We used to live in this tiiiny old house, with greaaaaat big holes in the roof.

UD: House? You were lucky to have a HOUSE! We used to live in one room, all hundred and twenty-six of us, no furniture. Half the floor was missing; we were all huddled together in one corner for fear of FALLING!

OG: You were lucky to have a ROOM! *We* used to have to live in a corridor!

Gilda: Ohhhh we used to DREAM of livin' in a corridor! Woulda' been a palace to us. We used to live in an old water tank on a rubbish tip. We got woken up every morning by having a load of rotting fish dumped all over us! House!? Hmph.

Lon: Well when I say "house" it was only a hole in the ground covered by a piece of tarpolin, but it was a house to US.

OG: We were evicted from *our* hole in the ground; we had to go and live in a lake!

Gilda: You were lucky to have a LAKE! There were a hundred and sixty of us living in a small shoebox in the middle of the road.

OG: Cardboard box?

Gilda: Aye.

OG: You were lucky. We lived for three months in a brown paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six o'clock in the morning, clean the bag, eat a crust of stale bread, go to work down mill for fourteen hours a day week in-week out. When we got home, out Dad would thrash us to sleep with his belt!

UD: Luxury. We used to have to get out of the lake at three o'clock in the morning, clean the lake, eat a handful of hot gravel, go to work at the mill every day for tuppence a month, come home, and Dad would beat us around the head and neck with a broken bottle, if we were LUCKY!

Gilda: Well we had it tough. We used to have to get up out of the shoebox at twelve o'clock at night, and LICK the road clean with our tongues. We had half a handful of freezing cold gravel, worked twenty-four hours a day at the mill for fourpence every six years, and when we got home, our Dad would slice us in two with a bread knife.

Lon: Right. I had to get up in the morning at ten o'clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, (pause for laughter), eat a lump of cold poison, work twenty-nine hours a day down mill, and pay mill owner for permission to come to work, and when we got home, our Dad would kill us, and dance about on our graves singing "Hallelujah."

OG: But you try and tell the young people today that... and they won't believe ya'.

ALL: Nope, nope..

-- Andy (2000EOD@prodigy.net), April 11, 1999.

Ode to Lauren:

You say you have problems as great as my own, I'm forced to admit this is true...

But consider that mine happen to *me*

While yours merely happen to you.

-- Sara Nealy (keithn@aloha.net), April 11, 1999.

Andy, I couldn't go to sleep tonight without thanking you for the first serious, tears-in-eyes belly laugh that I've had all day.

-- Sara Nealy (keithn@aloha.net), April 11, 1999.

Hey Sara,

I had a laff too picking the characters :)

-- Andy (2000EOD@prodigy.net), April 11, 1999.

For you, Morgan:

Oh, I'm a lumberjack, and I'm okay,

I sleep all night and I work all day.

CHORUS: He's a lumberjack, and he's okay,

He sleeps all night and he works all day.

I cut down trees, I eat my lunch,

I go to the lava-try.

On Wednesdays I go shoppin'

And have buttered scones for tea.

Mounties: He cuts down trees, he eats his lunch,

He goes to the lava-try.

On Wednesdays 'e goes shoppin'

And has buttered scones for tea.

CHORUS

I cut down trees, I skip and jump,

I like to press wild flowers.

I put on women's clothing,

And hang around in bars.

Mounties: He cuts down trees, he skips and jumps,

He likes to press wild flowers.

He puts on women's clothing

And hangs around.... In bars???????

CHORUS

I chop down trees, I wear high heels,

Suspenders and a bra.

I wish I'd been a girlie

Just like my dear papa.

Mounties: He cuts down trees, he wears high heels

Suspenders and a .... a Bra????

(spoken, raggedly) What's this? Wants to be a *girlie*? Oh, My! And I thought you were so rugged! Poofter!

CHORUS

All: He's a lumberjack, and he's okaaaaaaayyy..... (BONG)

Sound Cue: The Liberty Bell March, by John Phillip Sousa.

-- Old Git (anon@spamproblems.com), April 11, 1999.

And my favorite Python bit:

C: Look, I took the liberty of examining that parrot when I got it home, and I discovered the only reason that it had been sitting on its perch in the first place was that it had been NAILED there.

(pause)

O: Well, o'course it was nailed there! If I hadn't nailed that bird down, it would have nuzzled up to those bars, bent 'em apart with its beak, and VOOM! Feeweeweewee!

C: "VOOM"?!? Mate, this bird wouldn't "voom" if you put four million volts through it! 'E's bleedin' demised!

O: No no! 'E's pining!

C: 'E's not pinin'! 'E's passed on! This parrot is no more! 'E 'as ceased to be! 'E's expired and gone to meet 'is maker! 'E's a stiff! Bereft of life, 'e rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed 'im to the perch 'e'd be pushing up the daisies! 'Is metabolic processes are now 'istory! 'E's off the twig! 'E's kicked the bucket, 'e's shuffled off this mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisibile!! THIS IS AN EX-PARROT!!

-- Old Git (anon@spamproblems.com), April 11, 1999.

Old Git:

I second the motion, the parrot sketch is my favorite as well. Second favorite, the cheese shop sketch. Third, the French Taunting Knights.

But I'm going to post this one about Australian Table Wines, because I had some kind of Australian faux Cabernet a couple of days ago, and it was absolutely....... REVOLTING!!! On a par with Ernest and Julio's finest liver varnish (so after the fourth glass, I'd had enough!)

''''''''''

A lot of people in this country pooh-pooh Australian table wines. This is a pity, as many fine Australian wines appeal not only to the Australian palette, but also to the cognoscenti of Great Britain.

"Black Stump Bordeaux" is rightly praised as a peppermint flavoured Burgundy, whilst a good "Sydney Syrup" can rank with any of the world's best sugary wines.

"Chateau Bleu," too, has won many prizes; not least for its taste, and its lingering afterburn.

"Old Smokey, 1968" has been compared favourably to a Welsh claret, whilst the Australian wino society thouroughly recommends a 1970 "Coq du Rod Laver," which, believe me, has a kick on it like a mule: 8 bottles of this, and you're really finished -- at the opening of the Sydney Bridge Club, they were fishing them out of the main sewers every half an hour.

Of the sparkling wines, the most famous is "Perth Pink." This is a bottle with a message in, and the message is BEWARE! This is not a wine for drinking -- this is a wine for laying down and avoiding.

Another good fighting wine is "Melbourne Old-and-Yellow," which is particularly heavy, and should be used only for hand-to-hand combat.

Quite the reverse is true of "Chateau Chunder," which is an Appelachian controle, specially grown for those keen on regurgitation -- a fine wine which really opens up the sluices at both ends.

Real emetic fans will also go for a "Hobart Muddy," and a prize winning "Cuiver Reserve Chateau Bottled Nuit San Wogga Wogga," which has a bouquet like an aborigine's armpit.

''''''''''

Touche'....

-- Morgan (morgan96@netscape.net), April 11, 1999.

Morgan, great memories of that sketch, or something very like it. Sweetie and I gave a "Strange Wine and Giood Cheese" party once, and lots of the Strange wines were from Australia! (But there were some from the Mississippi Delta and Ballinger, Texas. . .). Anyway, after a few glasses the remarkes were hilarious. "For God's sake, Jeremy, don't let that one breathe. Kill it!" "Bouquet like an kangaroo's armpit"

Sorry, forgot to say thanks for the parrot photo, Mac.

-- Old Git (anon@spamproblems.com), April 11, 1999.

My vote goes to Python's "Dept. of Silly Walks", which, it seems, serves as a metaphor for government bureaucracy not unlike what we're experiencing now, in relationship to Y2K.

-- Sara Nealy (keithn@aloha.net), April 11, 1999.

What? Wait...There,...a voice in the distance, outside the pub, getting closer...

(ding)"Bring out your dead!" (ding)"Bring out your dead!"

Pour me another, Barkeep,...

-- Donna Barthuley (moment@pacbell.net), April 11, 1999.

Strange, Old Git, I once gave a Strange Cheese Party, which featured smelly and odd cheeses paired with great wines!

-- Sara Nealy (keithn@aloha.net), April 11, 1999.

Gadzooks, Sara, I hope nobody had a "Strange Cheese AND Strange Wine" party! Maybe they did and didn't live to tell the tale.

And now for something completely similar. The Cheese Shop Sketch for Morgan.

Customer: Good Morning.

Owner: Good morning, Sir. Welcome to the National Cheese Emporium!

Customer: Ah, thank you, my good man. Owner: What can I do for you, Sir?

C: Well, I was, uh, sitting in the public library on Thurmon Street just now, skimming through "Rogue Herrys" by Hugh Walpole, and I suddenly came over all peckish.

O: Peckish, sir?

C: Esuriant.

O: Eh?

C: 'Ee, Ah wor 'ungry-loike!

O: Ah, hungry!

C: In a nutshell. And I thought to myself, "a little fermented curd will do the trick," so, I curtailed my Walpoling activites, sallied forth, and infiltrated your place of purveyance to negotiate the vending of some cheesy comestibles!

O: Come again?

C: I want to buy some cheese.

O: Oh, I thought you were complaining about the bazouki player!

C: Oh, heaven forbid: I am one who delights in all manifestations of the Terpsichorean muse!

O: Sorry?

C: 'Ooo, Ah lahk a nice tuune, 'yer forced too!

O: So he can go on playing, can he?

C: Most certainly! Now then, some cheese please, my good man.

O: (lustily) Certainly, sir. What would you like?

C: Well, eh, how about a little red Leicester.

O: I'm, a-fraid we're fresh out of red Leicester, sir.

C: Oh, never mind, how are you on Tilsit?

O: I'm afraid we never have that at the end of the week, sir, we get it fresh on Monday.

C: Tish tish. No matter. Well, stout yeoman, four ounces of Caerphilly, if you please.

O: Ah! It's beeeen on order, sir, for two weeks. Was expecting it this morning.

C: 'T's not my lucky day, is it? Aah, Bel Paese?

O: Sorry, sir.

C: Red Windsor?

O: Normally, sir, yes. Today the van broke down.

C: Ah. Stilton?

O: Sorry.

C: Ementhal? Gruyere?

O: No.

C: Any Norweigan Jarlsburg, per chance.

O: No.

C: Lipta?

O: No.

C: Lancashire?

O: No.

C: White Stilton?

O: No.

C: Danish Brew?

O: No.

C: Double Goucester?

O: No.

C: Cheshire?

O: No.

C: Dorset Blue Vinny?

O: No.

C: Brie, Roquefort, Pol le Veq, Port Salut, Savoy Aire, Saint Paulin, Carrier de lest, Bres Bleu, Bruson?

O: No.

C: Camenbert, perhaps?

O: Ah! We have Camenbert, yessir.

C: (suprised) You do! Excellent.

O: Yessir. It's..ah,.....it's a bit runny...

C: Oh, I like it runny.

O: Well,.. It's very runny, actually, sir.

C: No matter. Fetch hither the fromage de la Belle France! Mmmwah!

O: I...think it's a bit runnier than you'll like it, sir.

C: I don't care how fucking runny it is. Hand it over with all speed.

O: Oooooooooohhh........!

C: What now?

O: The cat's eaten it.

C: Has he.

O: She, sir. (pause)

C: Gouda?

O: No.

C: Edam?

O: No.

C: Case Ness?

O: No.

C: Smoked Austrian?

O: No.

C: Japanese Sage Darby?

O: No, sir.

C: You...do *have* some cheese, don't you?

O: (brightly) Of course, sir. It's a cheese shop, sir. We've got-

C: No no... don't tell me. I'm keen to guess.

O: Fair enough.

C: Uuuuuh, Wensleydale.

O: Yes?

C: Ah, well, I'll have some of that!

O: Oh! I thought you were talking to me, sir. Mister Wensleydale, that's my name. (pause)

C: Greek Feta?

O: Uh, not as such.

C: Uuh, Gorgonzola?

O: no

C: Parmesan,

O: no

C: Mozarella,

O: no

C: Paper Cramer,

O: no

C: Danish Bimbo,

O: no

C: Czech sheep's milk,

O: no

C: Venezuelan Beaver Cheese?

O: Not *today*, sir, no. (pause)

C: Aah, how about Cheddar?

O: Well, we don't get much call for it around here, sir.

C: Not much ca--It's the single most popular cheese in the world!

O: Not 'round here, sir.

C: and what IS the most popular cheese 'round hyah?

O: Ilchester, sir.

C: IS it.

O: Oh, yes, it's staggeringly popular in this manor, squire.

C: Is it.

O: It's our number one best seller, sir!

C: I see. Uuh...Ilchester, eh?

O: Right, sir.

C: All right. Okay. "Have you got any?" He asked, expecting the answer 'no'.

O: I'll have a look, sir.. nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnno.

C: It's not much of a cheese shop, is it?

O: Finest in the district!

C: (annoyed) Explain the logic underlying that conclusion, please.

O: Well, it's so clean, sir!

C: It's certainly uncontaminated by cheese....

O: (brightly) You haven't asked me about Limburger, sir.

C: Would it be worth it?

O: Could be....

C: Have you --SHUT THAT BLOODY BAZOUKI OFF!

O: Told you sir...

C: (slowly) Have you got any Limburger?

O: No.

C: Figures. Predictable, really I suppose. It was an act of purest optimism to have posed the question in the first place. Tell me:

O: Yessir?

C: (deliberately) Have you in fact got any cheese here at all.

O: Yes,sir.

C: Really? (pause)

O: No. Not really, sir.

C: You haven't.

O: No, sir. Not a scrap. I was deliberately wasting your time, sir.

C: Well I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to shoot you.

O: Right-o, sir.

The customer takes out a gun and shoots the owner.

C: What a *senseless* waste of human life.

-- Old Git (anon@spamproblems.com), April 12, 1999.