We all love clowning around and playing the idiot bringing laughter to those around us but sometimes our antics seen as bit of fun can turn laughter into disaster. Circus Clowns are similar to that of the jester in many ways in how they entertained crowds of people with performances which included daft tricks and funny doings like face pulling even throwing buckets of water over fellow Circus Clowns.
As funny and hilarious as the clowns pranks are, what you have to remember is, these funny folk are well rehearsed in their profession - it takes years of training to perfect what they do. The Circus Clowns performance may entail death defying stunts which have had to be carefully supervised and pieced together because of the risks taken to claim laughs and giggles. Displays from the Circus Clown can consist of acrobatics where the clown now becomes a stunt man - for example knowing how to break a fall or tumble without causing injury to himself or to other clowns in on the act.
A travelling circus show that come to town will no doubt highlight the main event of entertainment with classic performances from the Circus Clowns. It is quite common for the clown to ask for audience involvement in their circus act where the clown gets a little naughty with the onlookers. Just the mention of the circus is coming to town is enough to start a riot among the happy customers queuing for tickets. Besides all the circus animals like the elephants - lion taming acts and dancing dogs - it is without doubt that it is the Circus Clowns that draw the crowds.
The clown entertains in many different ways, some acts may just be floor shows but others may include bareback horse riding - and it is because of this that any clowning you may have in mind for a friend or friends at a party needs to be well thought through. Clowns take risks but are trained to do so and you are not - so think twice before engaging on any dangerous mission you have planned just to get a laugh.
Fancy funny displays from Circus Clowns are no doubt hilarious just like that of their funny costumes and disguises - but take away the disguise - the ginger wig and cosmetic make up and we have a very serious person that takes their profession just as serious. Clowns are very skilled people.
If you are having a party then consider calling in the skilled to provide the entertainment for you. Warning if you are not skilled then dont take any chances because laughter can turn to disaster which is no laughing matter.
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
vineri, 18 mai 2012
Chinese Leader Visits U. S. Shops For Sneakers
Hu Jintao, the leader of China, began his four-day trip to the United States by doing something that made him feel right at home. Landing in Seattle, he was driven immediately to a Footlocker, where he purchased a pair of Nike sneakers. He proudly held them up to the camera, displaying the label on the inside of the tongue that heralded, “Made in China.”
“This is what fair trade is all about,” he said. “You give us things to make, and we make them.”
His next stop was at the tastefully restrained $100-million home of Bill Gates, where he gave an affable dinner talk. There was no discussion of whether he would allow equal time for a visit to Steve Jobs.
His trip includes the inevitable meeting with President Bush, where they’ll discuss all of the topics they’re bound to agree to disagree about, such as the touchy subject of human rights and whether or not Taiwan can somehow be re-stitched to mainland China, how to divvy up the world supply of oil so both economies can keep chugging along on the black gold of the Middle East, if China might join us in restraining the nuclear ambitions of scandalously belligerent Iran, and if China might value its currency appropriately before our trade deficit with them turns our own pockets completely inside out.
While we may quibble with the lack of progress the two are likely to make, just seeing the gentleman here, smiling and dressed in an accommodating suit and tie gives us some cause for hope that amity and progress between the two nations will increase, especially those of us who remember Mao and his monstrously debilitating ways, toward the finest potential of his own people and toward our own now much maligned but persistently well-intentioned nation.
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
“This is what fair trade is all about,” he said. “You give us things to make, and we make them.”
His next stop was at the tastefully restrained $100-million home of Bill Gates, where he gave an affable dinner talk. There was no discussion of whether he would allow equal time for a visit to Steve Jobs.
His trip includes the inevitable meeting with President Bush, where they’ll discuss all of the topics they’re bound to agree to disagree about, such as the touchy subject of human rights and whether or not Taiwan can somehow be re-stitched to mainland China, how to divvy up the world supply of oil so both economies can keep chugging along on the black gold of the Middle East, if China might join us in restraining the nuclear ambitions of scandalously belligerent Iran, and if China might value its currency appropriately before our trade deficit with them turns our own pockets completely inside out.
While we may quibble with the lack of progress the two are likely to make, just seeing the gentleman here, smiling and dressed in an accommodating suit and tie gives us some cause for hope that amity and progress between the two nations will increase, especially those of us who remember Mao and his monstrously debilitating ways, toward the finest potential of his own people and toward our own now much maligned but persistently well-intentioned nation.
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
Chinese Hope To Make British Car That Works
Remember the MG? Worse yet, did you ever own one? Then cower in fear. The Chinese bought the MG brand name and are about to open a plant to build the malfunctioning suckers in Oklahoma.
The Nanjing Automobile Group, which acquired bankrupt MG Rover Group last year, plans to be the first Chinese automaker to open a factory in the US. The product will be called the MG TF Coupe and will be out in 2008.
Let’s hope they do a better job with the racy brand than the Brits did.
I never did own an MG, but I owned another British car, a venerable Jaguar, that I had repaired at a place that specialized in servicing MGs.
Here is my story, with one caveat. I understand now that Ford bought the Jag brand, it works better.
My old Jaguar XJ 6 sedan was a beauty, prettiest car on the road. Only trouble is the mechanical aspects brought home the idea of a hornet's nest. There were always at least five things going wrong at the same time.
To save money on the upkeep, I used to take it to place that worked on MGs instead of to the Jag dealer. I asked the guy who ran the shop, a wily Irishman, why the cars always had problems.
“Well, you know the limeys," he replied with a ornery glint in his eyes. "A bunch of socialists. So they’re on the assembly line, and they see an engine with a loose screw. So Frank looks at Harry and says, “Harry, would you look at that? A loose screw.”
And Harry says, “Why, yes, I believe you've got that right. It is a loose screw. ”
But do either one of them bend over and tighten it. No. The engine just keeps moving along the assembly line.
Then there was the day I was parked outside the shop, waiting for a space inside the busy place, so I could pull my car in for repairs, when suddenly I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Then there was a huge thump on the side of the car near the sidewalk. I turned and an otherwise normal-looking businessman in a suit had a furious look on his face and was actually kicking my car.
I rolled down the window and, in keeping with the British spirit of the car, I asked calmly, “Excuse me, sir, but why are you kicking my car?”
“I used to own one of these damn things,” he shouted, “and every time I see one I think how many problems I had with it and I get upset.” Then he quieted down, as if the confession let the hottest steam out. “I’m sorry,” he went on, “but I couldn’t help myelf.”
“That’s OK,” I said, “I might decide to kick it myself.”
Then there were the two worst problems I had with it. The drain in the dashboard for the air conditioner used to get plugged. Apparently, it was too small. Anyway, the condensation would build up, and pretty soon I could hear water sloshing in the dashboard. The real problem was, when I turned a corner, the water would rush to one side and pour out of the vent onto my lap or, worse yet, onto the lap of the person who was unfortunate enough to be on the passenger side.
The other rather inconvenient problem was, when I’d be driving down the highway at night and a car would come my way, and I’d push on the button on the floor to dim the headlights, they’d go out completely. That’s right. I’d be hurtling down the highway in pitch darkness, except for the scant illumination provided by the distant oncoming lights. So I’d quickly start slamming at the button, and, after three or four desperate shots, back on would come the headlights.
When I brought the problem to the attention of my world-weary mechanic, he referred to the name of the manufacturer of the electrical setup, as he informed me, “You now what they call the Lucas electrical system, don’t you? The prince of darkness.”
To add insult to injury, I went to the automobile show at the old New York Collesum one year. When I saw the Jag on display, I went up to the dealer in attendance and asked, "Why can’t they make a Jaguar that works right?”
He smiled slyly and gestured toward the sleek, gleaming grey sedan, and just said, “But look at it.”
Yep, if you liked the design, you were expected to put up with the malfunctions.
Last, when the time came that I could no longer stand the wreck, primarily because the radiator wouldn’t stop leaking, I looked in the yellow pages for the places that buy used cars. I saw an ad that said "2000 Cars Wanted."
I called. The guy who answered was very receptive till he asked, “What kind of car do you have?”
“A Jaguar,” I confessed.
“Oh," he said, his voice growing recessive, “that’s the only car we don’t take.”
So I loaded the radiator of the embarrassingly rejected beast up with fresh water and drove it to the nearest dealer in American cars, swearing I’d never buy another import. Fortunately, I arrived before the thing started to smoke and managed to make a halfway decent deal.
I drove out in a new American car. While it didn't turn out to be a flawless mechancial achievement, either, it was at least a hundred times better than the Jag.
Obviously, this article strayed from MGs, but the car was cut from the same carelesss cloth as the Jag. Both brands help account for why, in these sleekly robotic times of exact Japanese assembly, English cars now own even less of the road than Detroit’s.
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
The Nanjing Automobile Group, which acquired bankrupt MG Rover Group last year, plans to be the first Chinese automaker to open a factory in the US. The product will be called the MG TF Coupe and will be out in 2008.
Let’s hope they do a better job with the racy brand than the Brits did.
I never did own an MG, but I owned another British car, a venerable Jaguar, that I had repaired at a place that specialized in servicing MGs.
Here is my story, with one caveat. I understand now that Ford bought the Jag brand, it works better.
My old Jaguar XJ 6 sedan was a beauty, prettiest car on the road. Only trouble is the mechanical aspects brought home the idea of a hornet's nest. There were always at least five things going wrong at the same time.
To save money on the upkeep, I used to take it to place that worked on MGs instead of to the Jag dealer. I asked the guy who ran the shop, a wily Irishman, why the cars always had problems.
“Well, you know the limeys," he replied with a ornery glint in his eyes. "A bunch of socialists. So they’re on the assembly line, and they see an engine with a loose screw. So Frank looks at Harry and says, “Harry, would you look at that? A loose screw.”
And Harry says, “Why, yes, I believe you've got that right. It is a loose screw. ”
But do either one of them bend over and tighten it. No. The engine just keeps moving along the assembly line.
Then there was the day I was parked outside the shop, waiting for a space inside the busy place, so I could pull my car in for repairs, when suddenly I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Then there was a huge thump on the side of the car near the sidewalk. I turned and an otherwise normal-looking businessman in a suit had a furious look on his face and was actually kicking my car.
I rolled down the window and, in keeping with the British spirit of the car, I asked calmly, “Excuse me, sir, but why are you kicking my car?”
“I used to own one of these damn things,” he shouted, “and every time I see one I think how many problems I had with it and I get upset.” Then he quieted down, as if the confession let the hottest steam out. “I’m sorry,” he went on, “but I couldn’t help myelf.”
“That’s OK,” I said, “I might decide to kick it myself.”
Then there were the two worst problems I had with it. The drain in the dashboard for the air conditioner used to get plugged. Apparently, it was too small. Anyway, the condensation would build up, and pretty soon I could hear water sloshing in the dashboard. The real problem was, when I turned a corner, the water would rush to one side and pour out of the vent onto my lap or, worse yet, onto the lap of the person who was unfortunate enough to be on the passenger side.
The other rather inconvenient problem was, when I’d be driving down the highway at night and a car would come my way, and I’d push on the button on the floor to dim the headlights, they’d go out completely. That’s right. I’d be hurtling down the highway in pitch darkness, except for the scant illumination provided by the distant oncoming lights. So I’d quickly start slamming at the button, and, after three or four desperate shots, back on would come the headlights.
When I brought the problem to the attention of my world-weary mechanic, he referred to the name of the manufacturer of the electrical setup, as he informed me, “You now what they call the Lucas electrical system, don’t you? The prince of darkness.”
To add insult to injury, I went to the automobile show at the old New York Collesum one year. When I saw the Jag on display, I went up to the dealer in attendance and asked, "Why can’t they make a Jaguar that works right?”
He smiled slyly and gestured toward the sleek, gleaming grey sedan, and just said, “But look at it.”
Yep, if you liked the design, you were expected to put up with the malfunctions.
Last, when the time came that I could no longer stand the wreck, primarily because the radiator wouldn’t stop leaking, I looked in the yellow pages for the places that buy used cars. I saw an ad that said "2000 Cars Wanted."
I called. The guy who answered was very receptive till he asked, “What kind of car do you have?”
“A Jaguar,” I confessed.
“Oh," he said, his voice growing recessive, “that’s the only car we don’t take.”
So I loaded the radiator of the embarrassingly rejected beast up with fresh water and drove it to the nearest dealer in American cars, swearing I’d never buy another import. Fortunately, I arrived before the thing started to smoke and managed to make a halfway decent deal.
I drove out in a new American car. While it didn't turn out to be a flawless mechancial achievement, either, it was at least a hundred times better than the Jag.
Obviously, this article strayed from MGs, but the car was cut from the same carelesss cloth as the Jag. Both brands help account for why, in these sleekly robotic times of exact Japanese assembly, English cars now own even less of the road than Detroit’s.
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
Chicken Rearing 101 – How Not to Raise Chickens
Chick: A hatchling
Capon: A castrated male used for meat. (How much could that yield?)
Pullet: A female chicken under one year old.
Hen: A female chicken over one year of age
Rooster: A male chicken over one year of age.
Raising Chickens for the first time can be intimidating. When I first called the Feed Shop, I was trying to sound like a pro. I asked, “Do you sell pullets?” “Yes”, the man replied. “Are they all females?” It’s been an uphill battle ever since.
Pullet parenthood is an much of an adventure as child rearing, only with more feces per pound of body weight. However, I’ve been reading quite a bit on poultry matters. (Yes, my coolness just turned over in its grave.) So if I am correct and I am quite certain I am not, here is how chicken rearin’ goes.
Go to your local feed store and purchase $10.00 worth of chicks and $50 worth of food and supplies. Don’t forget the water dispensers. Buying the metal ones, never plastic is always advised. I have yet to see a metal one.
Next, place the chicks somewhere sheltered, like a bedroom closet. Toss in some highly flammable straw or wood shavings and promptly dangle a glowing heat lamp just above them. Note to self: Update homeowner’s policy.
For the next several weeks feed them 3 lbs of food per day and remove 4 lbs of sh*t per day from the closet. Despite all logic the birds get bigger. As the adult feathers grow in be sure to clip one of their wings. That is one per bird, not just one wing total. If clipping is done late chicks will nest in your toilet. This is a bad thing.
Clipping can be accomplished by tossing your scissors and your body into the heaping mound of chicks, poop and straw. Grab a wiggling screeching bird from the bile pile. Restrain it with one hand. Stretch the wing out with your second hand. Clip off 50% of the wings outer ten feathers with your third hand.
As the birds grow adjust the heat light temperature down by one degree per day. No, this is not actually possible. That’s not my point. You start at 100 degrees for hatchlings then continue down by one degree per day until your bedroom is a minimum of 3 degrees cooler than the spring blizzard outside your window.
Once you have frozen your ear to your semi-cannibalistic down pillow and the chicks have grown their adult feathers, they can be moved outside to the coop. I estimate the initial closet rearing stage to have taken five years.
Before the move, experience the Joy of Wing Clipping one more time. Feather clipping never works the first time. No one knows why. Still, after all the hassle you probably don’t want them to fly the coop in under sixty seconds. Of course, if you’re like me, by this time you may be inclined to pack them each a lunch and leave a stack of Greyhound tickets by the open coop gate.
Regarding habitat construction: Hen houses and chicken coops are a competitive art form. There are a myriad of web sites showing off architectural designs from Chicken Chateaus to Bird Bordellos. The meticulous craftsmanship makes my own home look like – well – like a chicken coop.
Always fashionable, I went with a shabby chic motif for my coop. The nesting boxes are an eclectic mix of stolen milk crates affixed to the wall by anything in arms reach. As for the coop itself, there is a gift for tight chicken wire, which eludes me. Quite frankly, my first attempt at a coop looks like Dr. Seuss dropped a hit of acid, blasted some Jefferson Starship and rolled around on the wire with every Who in Whoville. I think I’ll keep it.
Inferior design aside, I ultimately learned a thing or two. The nesting boxes are supposed to be up off the ground. That is correct. For those of you keeping score you just spent two weeks cutting back the birds flight feathers only to hang their houses in the sky. It’s just sick.
Higher than the nest boxes, you are to build a roost. This is where the birds crap at night so they do not crap on your breakfast eggs. Of course the roost is usually OVER the nesting boxes, so whatever you do, don’t use those perforated plastic milk crates.
For young birds maintain a heat light in the hen house. Then on cooler nights an animal with a brain the size of an bulimic toe nail clipping will make the conscious decision to forgo your nest boxes, bypass the instinctual roost and leap into a tanning bed.
And finally there is the feed regime. I asked several experts and read up on feeding as well. Make sure to give your chickens, starter formula, mash, growth formula, start & grow, brood formula, grit, no grit, scraps, no scraps, goat placenta, nothing suggested on the internet, tetramyaicn, no antibiotics, medicated starter, non-medicated starter and never ever switch in-between.
I may not be Queen of the Coop yet, but I’m working on it. Though I am still a zoologist and I still know Birds 101. Here are two myths I can help with. First, you do not need a rooster to get eggs. Most folk, especially those who have never owned chickens, will advise you on chickens. Each will insist you need a rooster for a while to do his manly duties, then you can slip him in the pot. As appealing as this concept is, your pot is a separate issue.
Roosters are only needed to make fertile eggs. Hens are all that is needed to make breakfast eggs. Fertile eggs are just peachy if raising chicks was such a joy the first time you want to repeat the whole freakin’ process. In addition there is always the risk of breaking a fertilized egg open and finding a 50% formed chick fetus hitting your hot skillet. Yum! Years of therapy will follow.
To keep it straight in your mind consider this: You are going about your life. Suddenly massive balls of calcium start stacking up inside your abdomen. Are you going to hold on to them just because you have not had sex lately?
The second bird myth is totally unrelated so I thought I would mention it. Penguins occur in nature from the Equator on Southward. That is down to the Antarctica, not the Arctic! No, they do not hang out with Polar Bears who live in the Arctic. No, you did not see them when you worked in Alaska, in the Arctic. Those were puffins. No, I am not sorry you look stupid to all those folks you told penguin tales to.
Yes, some penguin species even reside on the Galapagos Islands at the equator (Cold weather would kill them), not floating around on icebergs - and not in the Arctic! Yes, I realize my eggs are not all in one basket. Delusional, close-minded people who insist you need a rooster to fertilize your penguin eggs so polar bears won’t loose their food supply drove me crazy!
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
Capon: A castrated male used for meat. (How much could that yield?)
Pullet: A female chicken under one year old.
Hen: A female chicken over one year of age
Rooster: A male chicken over one year of age.
Raising Chickens for the first time can be intimidating. When I first called the Feed Shop, I was trying to sound like a pro. I asked, “Do you sell pullets?” “Yes”, the man replied. “Are they all females?” It’s been an uphill battle ever since.
Pullet parenthood is an much of an adventure as child rearing, only with more feces per pound of body weight. However, I’ve been reading quite a bit on poultry matters. (Yes, my coolness just turned over in its grave.) So if I am correct and I am quite certain I am not, here is how chicken rearin’ goes.
Go to your local feed store and purchase $10.00 worth of chicks and $50 worth of food and supplies. Don’t forget the water dispensers. Buying the metal ones, never plastic is always advised. I have yet to see a metal one.
Next, place the chicks somewhere sheltered, like a bedroom closet. Toss in some highly flammable straw or wood shavings and promptly dangle a glowing heat lamp just above them. Note to self: Update homeowner’s policy.
For the next several weeks feed them 3 lbs of food per day and remove 4 lbs of sh*t per day from the closet. Despite all logic the birds get bigger. As the adult feathers grow in be sure to clip one of their wings. That is one per bird, not just one wing total. If clipping is done late chicks will nest in your toilet. This is a bad thing.
Clipping can be accomplished by tossing your scissors and your body into the heaping mound of chicks, poop and straw. Grab a wiggling screeching bird from the bile pile. Restrain it with one hand. Stretch the wing out with your second hand. Clip off 50% of the wings outer ten feathers with your third hand.
As the birds grow adjust the heat light temperature down by one degree per day. No, this is not actually possible. That’s not my point. You start at 100 degrees for hatchlings then continue down by one degree per day until your bedroom is a minimum of 3 degrees cooler than the spring blizzard outside your window.
Once you have frozen your ear to your semi-cannibalistic down pillow and the chicks have grown their adult feathers, they can be moved outside to the coop. I estimate the initial closet rearing stage to have taken five years.
Before the move, experience the Joy of Wing Clipping one more time. Feather clipping never works the first time. No one knows why. Still, after all the hassle you probably don’t want them to fly the coop in under sixty seconds. Of course, if you’re like me, by this time you may be inclined to pack them each a lunch and leave a stack of Greyhound tickets by the open coop gate.
Regarding habitat construction: Hen houses and chicken coops are a competitive art form. There are a myriad of web sites showing off architectural designs from Chicken Chateaus to Bird Bordellos. The meticulous craftsmanship makes my own home look like – well – like a chicken coop.
Always fashionable, I went with a shabby chic motif for my coop. The nesting boxes are an eclectic mix of stolen milk crates affixed to the wall by anything in arms reach. As for the coop itself, there is a gift for tight chicken wire, which eludes me. Quite frankly, my first attempt at a coop looks like Dr. Seuss dropped a hit of acid, blasted some Jefferson Starship and rolled around on the wire with every Who in Whoville. I think I’ll keep it.
Inferior design aside, I ultimately learned a thing or two. The nesting boxes are supposed to be up off the ground. That is correct. For those of you keeping score you just spent two weeks cutting back the birds flight feathers only to hang their houses in the sky. It’s just sick.
Higher than the nest boxes, you are to build a roost. This is where the birds crap at night so they do not crap on your breakfast eggs. Of course the roost is usually OVER the nesting boxes, so whatever you do, don’t use those perforated plastic milk crates.
For young birds maintain a heat light in the hen house. Then on cooler nights an animal with a brain the size of an bulimic toe nail clipping will make the conscious decision to forgo your nest boxes, bypass the instinctual roost and leap into a tanning bed.
And finally there is the feed regime. I asked several experts and read up on feeding as well. Make sure to give your chickens, starter formula, mash, growth formula, start & grow, brood formula, grit, no grit, scraps, no scraps, goat placenta, nothing suggested on the internet, tetramyaicn, no antibiotics, medicated starter, non-medicated starter and never ever switch in-between.
I may not be Queen of the Coop yet, but I’m working on it. Though I am still a zoologist and I still know Birds 101. Here are two myths I can help with. First, you do not need a rooster to get eggs. Most folk, especially those who have never owned chickens, will advise you on chickens. Each will insist you need a rooster for a while to do his manly duties, then you can slip him in the pot. As appealing as this concept is, your pot is a separate issue.
Roosters are only needed to make fertile eggs. Hens are all that is needed to make breakfast eggs. Fertile eggs are just peachy if raising chicks was such a joy the first time you want to repeat the whole freakin’ process. In addition there is always the risk of breaking a fertilized egg open and finding a 50% formed chick fetus hitting your hot skillet. Yum! Years of therapy will follow.
To keep it straight in your mind consider this: You are going about your life. Suddenly massive balls of calcium start stacking up inside your abdomen. Are you going to hold on to them just because you have not had sex lately?
The second bird myth is totally unrelated so I thought I would mention it. Penguins occur in nature from the Equator on Southward. That is down to the Antarctica, not the Arctic! No, they do not hang out with Polar Bears who live in the Arctic. No, you did not see them when you worked in Alaska, in the Arctic. Those were puffins. No, I am not sorry you look stupid to all those folks you told penguin tales to.
Yes, some penguin species even reside on the Galapagos Islands at the equator (Cold weather would kill them), not floating around on icebergs - and not in the Arctic! Yes, I realize my eggs are not all in one basket. Delusional, close-minded people who insist you need a rooster to fertilize your penguin eggs so polar bears won’t loose their food supply drove me crazy!
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
Cell Phones and the Dentist
Don't you just hate people who talk on their cell phones while they drive? Blindly babbling away, not paying attention to the road, endangering everyone nearby … so inconsiderate.
Anyway, today while I was chatting on the phone and driving to the dentist, I got a tiny bit distracted and turned onto the wrong road … twice. But I cleverly figured out a shortcut back to where I belonged and pulled into the parking lot right on time. Unfortunately, it was the parking lot at my doctor's office, not my dentist's.
Now, I've always been a little reluctant to go to the dentist. When I was young, they used to lie to me to get me there. Of course once I knew what was happening I would throw a crying fit — in the car on the way to the dentist, in the elevator on the way up to the office, in the waiting room, in the dentist's chair throughout the entire visit, in the office while my mother paid, in the elevator on the way down, in the car on the way home, and once again when my father came home that night just to be sure everyone knew how I felt about it.
My mother was afraid of the dentist. And she shared that fear and its effects with her children. She picked our dentist based solely on the fact that he would give her lots of Novocain. Lots of Novocain. Much Novocain. Beyond that, she never really bothered about the skills-as-a-dentist thing.
My own theory is that dentistry was invented by Beelzebub, based largely on the fact that our dentist looked exactly the way I imagined a Devil's minion would look. And, oh, by the way, when we were finally done and wanted nothing more than to run as fast and as far as possible, he would smile at us kids, with his coke-bottle-thick glasses making him look popeyed, and hand us each a lollipop. Maybe not the best dentist, but surely a clever businessman lining up return customers.
Today, even after better dentists have shown me that there may possibly be some redeeming value in dental care, I still get a bit unsettled before an appointment. Therefore, I have two things to say about the cell phone thing:
1) It might have been the fact of going to the dentist that distracted me and not the cell phone. I think, maybe, my subconscious was trying to get me to go to the wrong place and miss my appointment completely. Self-protection is a very powerful instinct in times of peril. That could explain it.
2) If it was the cell phone use, I think I deserve an exemption from condemnation because, after all, I was on my way to the dentist. Maybe I wouldn't have been able to talk again when I came out. One little slip of the drill and, oops. Or I could have choked on one of the forty appliances they had crammed into my mouth just before asking me how I was doing.
Either way, I feel completely justified in continuing to judge others if they use a cell phone while driving. Unless, of course, I learn that they were on their way to the dentist.
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
Anyway, today while I was chatting on the phone and driving to the dentist, I got a tiny bit distracted and turned onto the wrong road … twice. But I cleverly figured out a shortcut back to where I belonged and pulled into the parking lot right on time. Unfortunately, it was the parking lot at my doctor's office, not my dentist's.
Now, I've always been a little reluctant to go to the dentist. When I was young, they used to lie to me to get me there. Of course once I knew what was happening I would throw a crying fit — in the car on the way to the dentist, in the elevator on the way up to the office, in the waiting room, in the dentist's chair throughout the entire visit, in the office while my mother paid, in the elevator on the way down, in the car on the way home, and once again when my father came home that night just to be sure everyone knew how I felt about it.
My mother was afraid of the dentist. And she shared that fear and its effects with her children. She picked our dentist based solely on the fact that he would give her lots of Novocain. Lots of Novocain. Much Novocain. Beyond that, she never really bothered about the skills-as-a-dentist thing.
My own theory is that dentistry was invented by Beelzebub, based largely on the fact that our dentist looked exactly the way I imagined a Devil's minion would look. And, oh, by the way, when we were finally done and wanted nothing more than to run as fast and as far as possible, he would smile at us kids, with his coke-bottle-thick glasses making him look popeyed, and hand us each a lollipop. Maybe not the best dentist, but surely a clever businessman lining up return customers.
Today, even after better dentists have shown me that there may possibly be some redeeming value in dental care, I still get a bit unsettled before an appointment. Therefore, I have two things to say about the cell phone thing:
1) It might have been the fact of going to the dentist that distracted me and not the cell phone. I think, maybe, my subconscious was trying to get me to go to the wrong place and miss my appointment completely. Self-protection is a very powerful instinct in times of peril. That could explain it.
2) If it was the cell phone use, I think I deserve an exemption from condemnation because, after all, I was on my way to the dentist. Maybe I wouldn't have been able to talk again when I came out. One little slip of the drill and, oops. Or I could have choked on one of the forty appliances they had crammed into my mouth just before asking me how I was doing.
Either way, I feel completely justified in continuing to judge others if they use a cell phone while driving. Unless, of course, I learn that they were on their way to the dentist.
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
Canada In Secret Talks To Trade Quebec For Florida
History does not record the existence of a single Canadian who has not wished his nation had a bit of tropical diversity.
As chilliness North of Niagara would have it, Ottawa has had an ongoing freeze-on, freeze-off relationship with the relatively trendy Province of Quebec, that charming faux-French survival of the Sun King’s proud misjudgments about the importance of the new world.
Now, Canadian legislators have given voice to the sunny idea, Let’s see if we can swap the independent-minded province for Florida.
The offer comes at a particularly opportune time, as a result of the unusually severe hurricanes that have been selecting the Sunshine State as a favorite destination.
The Bush administration has agreed to consider the proposal but admits that there are certain difficulties. For instance, the President will have to explain to his brother and closet presidential wannabe, Jeb, that he’s now a Canadian and can no longer run for President.
To make the loss of their palm-treed haven more palatable to Americans, the Canadians have volunteered to teach everybody in Florida how to speak French. Once, they reason, Florida is enlivened with the sounds of bon jour and merci beaucoup, the switch will seem as uneventful as just swapping one champagne and brie festooned place for another.
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
As chilliness North of Niagara would have it, Ottawa has had an ongoing freeze-on, freeze-off relationship with the relatively trendy Province of Quebec, that charming faux-French survival of the Sun King’s proud misjudgments about the importance of the new world.
Now, Canadian legislators have given voice to the sunny idea, Let’s see if we can swap the independent-minded province for Florida.
The offer comes at a particularly opportune time, as a result of the unusually severe hurricanes that have been selecting the Sunshine State as a favorite destination.
The Bush administration has agreed to consider the proposal but admits that there are certain difficulties. For instance, the President will have to explain to his brother and closet presidential wannabe, Jeb, that he’s now a Canadian and can no longer run for President.
To make the loss of their palm-treed haven more palatable to Americans, the Canadians have volunteered to teach everybody in Florida how to speak French. Once, they reason, Florida is enlivened with the sounds of bon jour and merci beaucoup, the switch will seem as uneventful as just swapping one champagne and brie festooned place for another.
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
Calvin and Hobbes: A Brief History
Calvin and Hobbes has been one of the most popular comic strips for quite some time now. The story details the adventures of an imaginative young boy named Calvin, and his pet tiger, Hobbes. The comic strip was run in papers from 1985 to 1996 and was printed in over 2400 papers all over the world. Within a year of syndication, the article was being printed in over 250 newspapers, and really took off after it was featured in the Los Angeles Times newspaper in 1987, just 16 months after it was first printed. The cartoon strip earned its cartoonist, Bill Watterson, two Reuben Awards that are given out annually by the National Cartoonists Society, in the category of “Outstanding Cartoonist of the Year” in both 1986 and 1988. In total, 3,160 total strips were created and printed up until 1995 when Watterson retired from printing more Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strips. The strips have been complied and printed in a series of 18 books that have sold 30 million copies. There are no more new cartoon strips and Calvin and Hobbes cartoons can only be enjoyed in the books featuring hundreds of cartoon strips.
The Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strips have been enjoyed by hundreds of thousands of fans throughout the world. The strips feature the entertaining adventures of a six your old boy and a pet Tiger, which is actually a stuffed animal. The strips feature sledding rides and trips to the beach as well as hundreds of comical jokes that are played on all characters featured in the strips. Most of the strips feature just Calvin and Hobbes; however, there are a number of strips that feature other characters such as Calvin’s parents and Susie Derkins, one of Calvin’s classmates, Moe, a bully at Calvin’s school, Miss Wormwood, Calvin’s teacher, as well as Rosalyn, Calvin’s babysitter. For the most part the strips are realistic; however, there are a few cartoon strips which feature the trip of Calvin and Hobbes into outer space and back to prehistoric times. The Calvin and Hobbes cartoon is one of the most famous in the world and has captivated hundreds of thousands of readers.
Calvin and Hobbes: The Characters
As the title suggests, the Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip features two main characters, Calvin and Hobbes. Calvin is a young six year old imaginative and curious boy who quite often, can be a bit selfish. The story details his adventures with his pet tiger, known as Hobbes. (In reality, Hobbes is just a stuffed animal which resembles a tiger). Hobbes is a more responsible and rational figure in the cartoon; however, he goes along with all of Calvin’s troublemaking schemes and plots. Hobbes can best be described as Calvin’s sidekick in all the adventures presented in the cartoon strip.
Although the bulk of the strips revolve around Calvin and Hobbes, Calvin’s parents, teacher, babysitter, as well as a classmate and the class bully are all present in some scenes. Calvin’s parents are unnamed and referred to only as “Mom” and “Dad”. They resemble the typical American parent, allowing Calvin to use his imagination and play with Hobbes, while still expressing concerns of the safety of their son as well as trying to teach him responsibility and the importance of performing well in school. Calvin’s Teacher is known as Miss. Wormwood and is Calvin’s first grade teacher in every comic strip. She is old and strict and is a heavy smoker just waiting to retire. Calvin’s babysitter, known as Rosalyn, is the only baby sitter who puts up with Calvin’s mischievous behaviour and thus uses the grief of having to deal with these antics as justification for raises in pay. Susie Derkins is one of Calvin’s first grade classmates and a close neighbour. She is a very intelligent girl who gets perfect grades. Calvin and Susie are traditional first grade boy-girl enemies and Calvin plays many practical jokes on Susie. Underneath this relationship, it is suspected that Calvin may have a crush on Susie. Finally, the last character which is presented in this comic strip is Moe, the class bully who is often regarded as the only first grader who has to shave. He is the traditional school bully taking Calvin’s money and lunches and constantly shoving him and dropping his books.
For more information visit http://www.calvinandhobbes.co.uk
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
The Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strips have been enjoyed by hundreds of thousands of fans throughout the world. The strips feature the entertaining adventures of a six your old boy and a pet Tiger, which is actually a stuffed animal. The strips feature sledding rides and trips to the beach as well as hundreds of comical jokes that are played on all characters featured in the strips. Most of the strips feature just Calvin and Hobbes; however, there are a number of strips that feature other characters such as Calvin’s parents and Susie Derkins, one of Calvin’s classmates, Moe, a bully at Calvin’s school, Miss Wormwood, Calvin’s teacher, as well as Rosalyn, Calvin’s babysitter. For the most part the strips are realistic; however, there are a few cartoon strips which feature the trip of Calvin and Hobbes into outer space and back to prehistoric times. The Calvin and Hobbes cartoon is one of the most famous in the world and has captivated hundreds of thousands of readers.
Calvin and Hobbes: The Characters
As the title suggests, the Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip features two main characters, Calvin and Hobbes. Calvin is a young six year old imaginative and curious boy who quite often, can be a bit selfish. The story details his adventures with his pet tiger, known as Hobbes. (In reality, Hobbes is just a stuffed animal which resembles a tiger). Hobbes is a more responsible and rational figure in the cartoon; however, he goes along with all of Calvin’s troublemaking schemes and plots. Hobbes can best be described as Calvin’s sidekick in all the adventures presented in the cartoon strip.
Although the bulk of the strips revolve around Calvin and Hobbes, Calvin’s parents, teacher, babysitter, as well as a classmate and the class bully are all present in some scenes. Calvin’s parents are unnamed and referred to only as “Mom” and “Dad”. They resemble the typical American parent, allowing Calvin to use his imagination and play with Hobbes, while still expressing concerns of the safety of their son as well as trying to teach him responsibility and the importance of performing well in school. Calvin’s Teacher is known as Miss. Wormwood and is Calvin’s first grade teacher in every comic strip. She is old and strict and is a heavy smoker just waiting to retire. Calvin’s babysitter, known as Rosalyn, is the only baby sitter who puts up with Calvin’s mischievous behaviour and thus uses the grief of having to deal with these antics as justification for raises in pay. Susie Derkins is one of Calvin’s first grade classmates and a close neighbour. She is a very intelligent girl who gets perfect grades. Calvin and Susie are traditional first grade boy-girl enemies and Calvin plays many practical jokes on Susie. Underneath this relationship, it is suspected that Calvin may have a crush on Susie. Finally, the last character which is presented in this comic strip is Moe, the class bully who is often regarded as the only first grader who has to shave. He is the traditional school bully taking Calvin’s money and lunches and constantly shoving him and dropping his books.
For more information visit http://www.calvinandhobbes.co.uk
Courtesy of magazine online profesionale
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