God and Earth
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God and Earth

God was missing for six days. Eventually, Michael, the archangel, found him, resting on the seventh day.

He inquired, ‘Where have you been?’ God smiled deeply and proudly pointed downwards through the clouds, ‘Look, Michael. Look what I’ve made.’ Archangel Michael looked puzzled, and said, ‘What is it?’

‘It’s a planet,’ replied God, ‘and I’ve put Life on it. I’m going to call it Earth and it’s going to be a place to test Balance.’ ‘Balance?’ inquired Michael, ‘I’m still confused.’

God explained, pointing to different parts of earth. ‘For example, northern Europe will be a place of great opportunity and wealth, while southern Europe is going to be poor. Over here I’ve placed a continent of white people, and over there is a continent of black people. Balance in all things.’ God continued pointing to different countries. ‘This one will be extremely hot, while this one will be very cold and covered in ice.’

The Archangel, impressed by God’s work, then pointed to a land area and said, ‘What’s that one?’ ‘That’s Washington State, the most glorious place on earth. There are beautiful mountains, rivers and streams, lakes, forests, hills, and plains. The people from Washington State are going to be handsome, modest, intelligent, and humorous, and they are going to travel the world. They will be extremely sociable, hardworking, high achieving and they will be known throughout the world as diplomats, carriers of peace, and producers of software.’ Michael gasped in wonder and admiration, but then asked, ‘But what about balance, God? You said there would be balance.’ God smiled, ‘There is another Washington. Wait till you see the idiots I put there.’

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New York Hairdresser
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New York Hairdresser

A New York woman was at her East Side hairdresser’s getting her hair styled prior to a trip to Rome with her boyfriend. She mentioned the trip to the hairdresser, who responded, “Rome? Why would anyone want to go Rome? It’s crowded and dirty and, worse yet, full of Italians. You’re crazy to go to Rome.

So, how are you getting there?”

“We’re flying on United,” was the reply. “We got a great rate!”

“United?” exclaimed the hairdresser. “That’s a terrible airline. Their planes are old, their flight attendants are ugly, and they’re always late.

So, where are you staying in Rome?”

“We’ll be at this exclusive little place over on Rome’s left side called Teste…..”

“Don’t go any further. I know that place. Everybody thinks its gonna be something special and exclusive. But it’s really a dump, the worst hotel in the whole city! The rooms are small, the service is surly and they’re way overpriced.
So, whatcha doing when you get there?”

“We’re going to go to see the Vatican and we hope to see the Pope.”

“That’s rich,” laughed the hairdresser. “You and a million other people trying to see him. He’ll look the size of an ant. Boy, good luck on this lousy trip of yours. You’re sure going to need it.”

A month later, the woman, all smiling, came in for her hair appointment. The hairdresser asked her about her trip to Rome.
“It was absolutely wonderful,” explained the woman, “not only did we arrive on time in one of Continental’s brand new jets, but it was overbooked and they bumped us up to first class. The food and wine were wonderful, and I had a handsome 28 year old steward who waited on me hand and foot.

And the hotel — it was fabulous! They’d just finished a $5 million remodeling job and now it’s just a jewel, the finest hotel in the city. They, too, were overbooked, so they apologized and gave us their owner’s suite at no extra charge!”
“Well,” muttered the hairdresser, “I know you didn’t get to see the Pope.”

“Actually, we were quite lucky, for as we toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder and explained that the Pope likes to personally meet some of the visitors, and if I’d be so kind as to step into his private room and wait, the Pope would personally greet me.” Sure enough, five minutes later, the Holy Father walked through the door and shook my hand! I knelt down and he spoke a few words to me.”

“Really?” asked the hairdresser. “What’d he say?”

He said, “Where did you get that horrible haircut?”

“““““

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Sends home a letter
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Sends home a letter

An Australian Army Recruit sends home a letter . . .

Dear Mum & Dad,

I am well. Hope you’re are too. Tell me big brothers Doug and Phil that the Army is better than workin’ on the farm – tell them to get in quick smart before the jobs are all gone! I wuz a bit slow in settling down at first, because ya don’t hafta get outta bed until 6am. But I like sleeping in now, cuz all ya gotta do before brekky is make ya bed and shine ya boots and clean ya uniform. No cows to milk, no calves to feed, no feed to stack – nothin’!! Ya haz gotta shower though, but its not so bad, coz there’s lotsa hot water and even a light to see what ya doing!

At brekky ya get cereal, fruit and eggs but there’s no kangaroo steaks or possum stew like wot Mum makes. You don’t get fed again until noon and by that time all the city boys are dead because we’ve been on a ’route march’ – geez its only just like walking to the windmill in the back paddock!!

This one will kill me brothers Doug and Phil with laughter. I keep getting medals for shootin’ – dunno why. The bullseye is as big as a possum’s bum and it don’t move and it’s not firing back at ya like the Johnsons did when our big scrubber bull got into their prize cows before the Ekka last year! All ya gotta do is make yourself comfortable and hit the target! You don’t even load your own cartridges, they comes in little boxes, and ya don’t have to steady yourself against the rollbar of the roo shooting truck when you reload!

Sometimes ya gotta wrestle with the city boys and I gotta be real careful coz they break easy – it’s not like fighting with Doug and Phil and Jack and Boori and Steve and Muzza all at once like we do at home after the muster.

Turns out I’m not a bad boxer either and it looks like I’m the best the platoon’s got, and I’ve only been beaten by this one bloke from the Engineers – he’s 6 foot 5 and 15 stone and three pick handles across the shoulders and as ya know I’m only 5 foot 7 and eight stone wringin’ wet, but I fought him till the other blokes carried me off to the boozer.

I can’t complain about the Army – tell the boys to get in quick before word gets around how good it is.

Your loving daughter,
Sheila

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A drunkard applys at a winery
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A drunkard applys at a winery

At a winery, the regular taster died and the director started looking for a new one to hire.

A drunkard with a ragged, dirty look came in to apply for the position. The director of the winery wondered how to send him away. He gave him a glass to drink.

The drunk tried it and said, “It’s a Muscat, three years old, grown on a north slope, matured in steel containers. Low grade, but acceptable.”

“That’s correct”, said the boss. Another glass…

“This is a Cabernet, eight years old, a south-western slope, oak barrels, matured at 8 degrees. Requires three more years for finest results.”

“Correct.” A third glass… “It’s a Pinot Blanc Champagne, high grade and exclusive,” the drunk said calmly.

The director was astonished. He winked at his secretary, secretly suggesting something. She left the room, and came back in with a glass of urine.

The alcoholic tried it. “It’s a blonde, 26 years old, three months pregnant and if I don’t get the job I’ll name the father.”

“““““

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