In a busy Parisian café, a tourist is sitting alone, enjoying a crème caramel.
Another tourist approaches:Me sit here?
No problem...
Thank you, very nice...

Are you on vacation?
Me, I arrive yesterday...
What country are you from?
From Québec.
Québec? Me not know Québec...

Québec... near the Atlantic, next to Ontario, the Great Lakes...

No, me not know these places.

Never mind then, I'm from Canada...

Ah! Canada! Canada I know!
So why you tell me you come from Québec?

Because, my first country is Québec!

Oh, you were born in Québec and immigrated to Canada....

No, no, I was born in Québec and I stay in Québec...

Oh, then your father is from Canada?

No, no, my father, my mother, my wife, my dog, everybody, they come from Québec....

So why you say Canada?

For Christ sake, because you say you don't know where is Québec!

OK, but if you say you not know Norway, me I not say that my country is Japan...
Shit! Canada isn't Japan.

Canada, it's my country.

Oh, your country not Québec anymore?...

My country is Québec. But my country, it can be Canada too, if the person I speak to not know where is Québec, Tabarnak!

Me not understand...

Look, it's simple: I come from the Province of Québec, in the country of Canada.Ok!

But me not ask you what province you're from, I ask you what country. Me, I come from Lofoten region in Norway, but I answer you Norway when you ask me what country I come from...

I know, I'm not stupid, Câlisse! But me, when they ask me what country I come from, I answer Québec. Even if it's the name of my province. For me, it's my country.

Oh, now I understand. You are a separatist, you want your Quebec province to be your country...

Are you crazy, Hostie? I don't want to know nothing from that shit!

Me, I not understand anything anymore.

I tell you before, it's simple! You ask me what country I come from, I answer Québec because Québec is my country, but I don't really want it to be my country, it would be too much trouble. I just want to say it. So, why don't you just let me say it?

Me all mix up. You have passport from what country: Québec or Canada?

CANADA, Hostie!

So why you not tell me Canada right away?

Because it don't feel right.
For me, Canada is Anne Murray, the Calgary Stampede, the Mounted Police, SARS, it's not my home all that.
Home, it's La Famille Plouffe, Séraphin Poudrier, La P'tite Vie, Félix Leclerc, La Poune, Les Canadiens de Montréal, Les Bougons... Do you understand???

Less and less...

Listen, forget all that shit.
Ask me another question.

Ok, what town you come from?

Mmm..., I don't know anymore...

You not know what town you come from?

Yes, yes, I know what town I come from, but my town it merge with another town, but soon it is going to demerge from the town that was supposed to be my town...

Oh, that very complicated!

When you write your address, what do you write?

I don't know anymore. Before, I used to write Hull, but Hull changed to Gatineau, but they tell us to wait 3 years before stopping to write Hull to not mix up the mailman. But now, the Liberals they pass a law that make it ok for Gatineau to be Hull again, but I don't know if we have to wait 3 years to be able to write Hull, or when the 3 years are passed, if we have to write Gatineau for 3 years, and after we write Hull. Unless, of course, the PQ come back in power and we remerge with Gatineau, then we'll have to write Gatineau for 3 years.I leave now,

I have hurt in my head...

It's so simple Tabarnak: My town is Hull, my country is Québec. But if you prefer, my town is Gatineau and my country is Canada.

OK, I think I understand!

It's about time.
Anyway, it was fun talking to you, if you come around where I live, maybe you come and see me...

OK, but where? Hull in Québec or Gatineau in Canada?

You're a pain in the ass. Forget the whole thing!

Sent by Linda

The Old Phone

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box.

I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know. Information Pleas e could supply anyone's number and the correct time.

My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone!

Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear. "Information, please" I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.
"I hurt my finger...
" I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.
"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.
"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open the icebox?" she asked.
I said I could.

"Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.

After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called, Information Please," and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?" She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Wayne always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone, "Information Please." "Information," said in the now familiar voice. "How do I spell fix?" I asked. All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest.

When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall.

As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone wi th my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please." Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well. "Information." I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now." I laughed, "So it's really you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?" I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your call meant to me. I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls."

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister. "Please do", she said. "Just ask for Sally."

Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered.
"Information." I asked for Sally.
"Are you a friend?" she said.
"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."

Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute, did you say your name was Wayne?"
"Yes." I answered.
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you."

The note said, "Tell him there are other worlds to sing in.He'll know what I mean."

I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.

Sent by Linda


Golf and Retirement

It is important for men to remember that as women grow older, it becomes harder for them to maintain the same quality of housekeepingas when they were younger.

When you notice this, try not to yell at them.
Some are overly sensitive and there's nothing worse than an overly sensitive woman.

My name is Ron. Let me relate how I handled the situation with my wife, Julie.

When I took "early retirement" last year, it became necessary for my wife Julie to get a full-time job, both for extra income and for the health benefits that we needed.

Shortly after she started working, I noticed she was beginning to show her age.

I usually get home from the Golf Course about the same time she gets home from work.

Although she knows how hungry I am, she almost always has to rest for half an hour or so before she starts dinner.
I don't yell at her.
Instead, I tell her to take her time, and just wake me when she gets dinner on the table.
I generally have lunch in the Men's Grill at the club so eating out for dinner is not reasonable.
I'm ready for some home cooked grub when I hit that door.

Julie used to do the dishes as soon as we finished eating.
But now, it's not unusual for them to sit on the table for several hours after dinner.
I do what I can by diplomatically reminding her several times each evening that they won't clean themselves.
I know she appreciates this, as it does seem to motivate her to get them done before she goes to bed.

I really think my experience as a teacher helps a lot.
I'm good at telling people what they ought to do; it's one of my strong points.

Now that the wife has gotten older, she does seem to get tired so much more quickly.
Our washer and dryer are in the basement.
Sometimes she says she just can't make another trip down those steps.
I don't make a big issue of this as long as she finishes up the laundry the next day.
Not only that, but unless I need something ironed to wear to the Monday lodge meeting, or to Wednesday's or Saturday's poker club, or to Tuesday's or Thursday's bowling, or something like that, I will tell Julie to wait until the next evening to do the ironing.
This gives her a little more time to do some of those odds and ends like polishing, vacuuming or dusting.

Also, if it was wet and muddy on the course, my clubs are a mess so I let her clean them.
You know, get the grit off the grips and a little light Brillo on the club faces at a casual pace.

My golf bag is heavy so I lift it out of the trunk for her.
Women are delicate, have weak wrists and can't lift heavy stuff as good as men.

But I did tell her I don't like to be wakened during my after-golf nap, so rather than bother me, she can put them back in the trunk when she's finished.

Another symptom of aging is complaining, I think.
For example, she will say that it is difficult for her to find time to pay the monthly bills during her lunch hour.
But boys, we take 'em for better or worse, so I just smile and offer encouragement.
I tell her to stretch it out over two or even three days.
That way she won't have to rush so much.

I also remind her that missing lunch completely now and then wouldn't hurt her any (if you know what I mean).
I like to think tact is one of my strong points, too.

When doing simple jobs, she seems to think she needs more rest periods.
She had to take a break when she was only half finished mowing the yard.
I try not to make a scene. I'm a fair man.

I tell her to fix herself a nice, big, cold glass of freshly squeezed lemonade and just sit for a while.
And, as long as she is making one for herself, she may as well make one for me too, and then take her break by my hammock.
That way she can talk with me until I fall asleep.

I know that I probably look like a saint in the way I support Julie.
I'm not saying that showing this much consideration is easy.

Many men will find it difficult. Some will find it impossible.
Nobody knows better than I do how frustrating women get as they get older.

However, guys, even if you just use a little more tact and less criticism of your aging wife because of this article, I will consider that writing it was well worthwhile.
After all, we are put on this earth to help each other.


Ron died suddenly on Wednesday, November 22.
He was found with a Calloway extra long 50 inch Big Bertha Driver II rammed up his posterior, with only 2 inches of grip showing.
His wife Julie was arrested, but the all-woman Grand Jury accepted her defense that he accidentally sat on it, and died.

Sent by CL


Hair Raisng Experience


Fair Ladies and Noble Gentlemen:

I, RaPUNzel, have a HAIR-raising tale to SHEAR with you written by the Brothers TRIMM.

When I was a young CURL, a jealous queen LOCKed me in a tower.

I was STRANDed and was at my SPLITS END -- truly a damsel in THESE TRESSES!

The queen thought it was a PERMANENT SOLUTION but, day after day, knight after knight would try to climb the tower, which was so tall the FOLLICLE you!

They would climb my BRAID, and if they weren't so handsome, I would give them the BRUSH off.

Gee, I wonder if that's where I got my reputation for being such a big TEASE.

One day, a handsome knight named Prince LATHERRINSE tried to rescue me.

He was HEAD & SHOULDERS above the rest.

I said, "COMB and SHAVE me!"

The queen found out about it and cut off my hair.

And let me tell you, Hell hath no fury as a woman SHORNED!

She'll have H e l l TOUPEE because I am not someone to TANGLE with.

Prince Latherrinse WISPed me away and we got married and had twins.

But, we didn't live happily ever after because he placed too many CONDITIONERS on our marriage, which were really CRIMPING my STYLE.

So, we PARTED ways and a custody battle ensued.

It came down to SPLITTING HAIRS (heirs) so he took one twin and I took the other.

So, now I don't date princes anymore because I don't want a LATHER RINSE REPEAT... (read the shampoo label).

And I've gotten back to my ROOTS by changing my hair from BLONDE to brown and this new color is to DYE for.

After all, BRUNETTES have more pun.

Well, that's the LONG AND SHORT of my HAIRY tale.

I bid you all ADO!

Sent by B