I'd like to share with you an excerpt from "British Veterinary News" which I stumbled across recently:
"Few English vets know about the key role played by one of our number in a sorry tale of Australian marsupial research some 40 years ago. My interest, sparked by an off-hand comment at a BVA dinner, led me to the archives of the Australian Veterinary Association and several retired veterinary surgeons in that country. The story, as I have pieced it together, goes as follows:
In February 1960, a bright young English veterinary science graduate began work in Sydney, under an exchange programme between British and Australian veterinary communities. For some years, Australian wildlife specialists had been concerned that numbers of Western Red Kangaroos were on the decline, and one theory held that it was linked to an unexplained but steady and measurable decline in the size of the females' pouches, resulting in increased mortality of joeys, possibly through suffocation.
At that time the drug thalidomide, after promising laboratory and clinical trial results, had recently been approved for human use. The young vet suggested to his Aussie colleagues that they try thalidomide on the pregnant kangaroos. The initial results were spectacularly promising. The drug appeared to have the effect of relaxing the abdominal muscles, expanding pouch size by as much as 35%, which resulted not only in more full-term successful rearing of joeys, but also in increased multiple births. The only side effect appeared to be that the fur of the the treated does and their offspring turned a darker richer shade of red. After limited lab and zoo-based trials, a programme of mass treatment in the wild was undertaken.
Unfortunately, about two years after the start of the programme, a worrying and statistically significant increase of limb deformities in the joeys concerned was noted, and the programme was immediately terminated. The devastated young vet returned home in shame, and immediately abandoned veterinary science as a career, training instead to become a University lecturer.
I tracked him down at his Lancaster home, where I was granted an interview, provided that I identify him only by his curious nickname "The Rhubarb Commando". Although the ageing ex-vet insists that he has had a long and rewarding career as a history academic, it is clear that he still harbours some bitterness for what he sees as his unfair treatment by the veterinary community in general. He did add, however, sniffling and wiping tears from his eyes, that he regrets the suffering that he caused the affected animals of the red kangaroo population."
That wasn't good, it was downright GREAT. It's just too bad that it needs such a limited (and captive) audience.
Ted
Here's one I wrote a few years ago.
God, how I loved that little flower shop. Of course it's closed now. The owner's in St. Elizabeth's. Probably won't get out until sometime after Hinkley does. You remember him, the guy who shot Reagan. President Reagan. Back about twenty five years or so ago. Yeah, most people try to forget.
But I wish you could have seen that little place in its prime. The only flower shop in DC with a revolving door. Like they have in fancy hotels. but it was what was just inside the door that always caught my fancy. George had this great big room about twenty feet square, kind of a lobby I guess you'd have called it. And that room was just full of statues. All of em sheep. George had a thing for sheep.
Now, I have to tell you this right up front. I wasn't there for the sanity hearing. I've read the transcripts, even though they're sealed to protect the public. But I think the public has a right to know. I'll probably go to jail for contempt of court. But I've only got a few months left, so maybe they'll be lenient on me.
Here goes. George's best friend is a guy named Sam, who travels a lot, and hardly ever got back to Washington. But one day, the revolving door dumped Sam into George's lobby, where he was greeted as a long lost brother. "God, Sam, it's good to see you. Want some coffee?"
"Love some, George. Then we can sit in the conversation nook here and catch up." No sooner had they settled in than Sam took a look around. "Interesting room, George. Love the statuary. Particularly that one over in the corner. The alabaster one."
George's eyes lit up. "Yes, that's my favorite of the whole lot, isn't she a beauty? A Merino. I had her specially commissioned a few years ago."
Sam sat for a moment, puzzlement evident on his face. Finally, he spoke, "Gee, George, if she's so special why do you have her hidden in the corner like that behind a potted palm? If I owned that statue I'd have it all by itself with a spotlight on it and special flowers around it. It truly deserves that kind of treatment."
George smiled ruefully. "That's what I thought. But it didn't work. I had her over there opposite the doorway when I first got her. But I had to hide her. It was either that or go bankrupt."
"Huh? Bankrupt? What the hell you talking about, George?"
"Sam, I don't expect you to believe this. But I'll tell you anyway. When I had the Merino over there by herself instead of hidden in the corner the customers stayed away in droves. They'd come in one side of the revolving door, see the statue as the door turned, and keep right on going out the other side. Business was off about 93 percent. Nothing but phone orders. And those were dwindling as word got around."
"Word? What word? George, this doesn't make any sense at all."
"Tell me. I couldn't figure out what it was, so I began calling my best customers and asking them point blank what was wrong. Every one of them told me that the setup in the lobby, with that one statue by itself, gave the whole entryway an aura of perversity. And before you ask, I haven't the slightest idea why. It just did. I pushed her back in the corner there, sent out letters to all my customers, and things are finally turning around a little. Most of them are starting to come back. But, damn it Sam, I do not understand it to this day."
Sam thought for a minute. "Well, George, I guess it proves what Smokey Bear always said. Lonely ewes can pervert florist foyers."
And to this day George drools onto his straight jacket.
I leap to follow up on Jackie's suggestion. The quotation is from a motto : "Only you can prevent forest fires." Many years ago, LIFE magazine's last page always had The Picture Of The Week and one week it was a photo of a singed baby bear cub that had been rescued from a forest fire in New Mexico. He was named Smokey. The photo caused quite a national stir and the little bear became famous and was adopted as a mascot by the Fire Service. Since most forest fires are started by careless disposal of matches or by campfires that are not put out properly the slogan was adopted and "spoken" by Smokey. The real Smokey was at the National Zoo in Washington D.C. where he lived a good life until his death. However Smokey is still the Forest Service representative in public service announcements. More info than you ever wanted to know about Smokey is available at www.smokeybearestore.com Aloha, wow
Denial is not just a river... the contr(a)ction came from your comb(o)(in)nation ... don't Miss quote or forget the placement of the WOMB-AT an a-lass... for you must speak more often and sooner (as warned) to avoid being accused of singing a nickel raga...
Psst--d'you reckon we ought to cue the young folk and the outlanders whence came this pun?
Jazz has spoken for the young, so I think I can say the same for the "outlanders", having all the qualifications of outlandishness. Smokey bear is not unknown over here, although he hasn't received much prominence lately, so maybe the set that includes young AND outlander would miss the point. It was good to see the full story, though - thank you wow!
I feel it is time I added an histerical aspect to this thread, histery being my bag. So, I will tell you a tale of the Norsemen and their impact on civilization. Many of you will know that the Vikings travelled to the Mediterrannean, via the rivers of what is now Russia. And there they found in use a type of boat, known as a caique, which is still in use round there to this day. They are fine looking, practical vessels, well suited to their task of carrying freight, passengers or fishermen. One Norseman, Eric the Unlikely, was so impressed that he purchased one, with the intention of introducing its use into the Norwegian Fjords. Now, the quickest way to Norway from the Med. is via the Atlantic, the English Channel and the North Sea (to use their modern names, thereby hiding my ignorance of what they were called at the time by pretending to pander to my readers' lack of knowledge of this period) And this is the route that Eric set out on, late in September in the year ninehundred and blank. It is fine in the Mediterranean at that season, and he did well. When he reached the Atlantic, however, he encountered contrary gales that delayed him by blowing him almost to Madeira. (He didn't know that, or he might have overwintered in that delightful isle - but it hadn't beeen discovered yet, so he couldn't do that without altering history) By the time he reached the North Sea, it was early November, and the weather had turned very cold indeed. Added to which, the winds were contrary - as they usually are when you are in a hurry. There is probably a law of nature to describe this phenomenon Eric began to run short of food, and to get very cold indeed. He was afraid of hypothermia - or would have been, had the term been thought of by then. So he built a big fire on the deck, in the place where he usually did the cookiong. This was a great comfort, and he felt much better, even to the point where he was no longer so worried about his hunger. The firs began to die down, so he piled on the remains of his fuel, hoping that the wind would change and blow him home swiftly. It did no such thing, of course! He ran out of fuel, so he used his wooden shield. Still the wind did not blow the right way. He used all of his luggage and all of the things he'd bought in the souvenir shops along the Mediterranean, Still the wind blew contrary-wise. He pulled down the sails and burnt them (they were blowing him away from Norway, anyway, he reasoned) Then he pulled up the seats and burnt them. At last - he pulled the off sides of the boat as fuel and the inevitable happened. Waves came over the sides and swamped the boat, not only quenching the fire, but sinking the vessel.
Which just goes to show that you can't have your caique and heat it.
So, I will tell you a tale of the Norsemen and their impact on civilization. Many of you will know that the Vikings travelled to the Mediterrannean, via the rivers of what is now Russia.
This passage is now known as the Varangian Highway. The people who plied it were indeed Nordic folk, of a tribe called the Russ, whence Russia. Like your Eric, there was another Eric who pioneered this route, but died in his hasty first trip through unfamiliar teritory, going down in history as, of course, Eric the Dead. Sven the Foolish tried it next, and also died. Then Lars the Lost tried it and, well, you can guess what happened. Eventually some of decendants succeeded, and settled many cities along the route, but not before spawning the saying, Fools, Russ kin, where wise men fear to tread.
Which just goes to show that you can't have your caique and heat it.
I heard another version, wherein he was travelling with his wife, Edith. He had to toss Edith overboard to keep the caique from sinking, so he couldn't have his caique and Edith too. Maybe I heard wrong, though.
There is yet another version, which I am certain is apocryphal, that Eric was carrrying a Papal Bull (or edict) back to Scandinavia and was attacked by pagan pirates who confiscated the ship so that the Bull should not be delivered. Maybe you heard the same version, Geoff, but delivered by a Castillian.
Maybe you heard the same version, Geoff, but delivered by a Castillian.
In the version I heard, the haughty Illian wasn't cast, but merely dropped on his head. This formerly aragon womanizer eventually recovered enough to go into a pub where he met a friend from Pisa who inquired, "How-a com-a you arrive inna da barsalona, whenna you likea da women?
This may also be the origin of Bullship
Oh, RC, I am cowed by your grasp of nautical lore!
A full helping, and certainly mooving! And despair not, Sparteye - RC obviously is staggering under the load of a parcel (there is no more charitable explanation
"How-a com-a you arrive inna da barsalona, whenna you likea da women?
Geoff, it took me a second reading to get this one! Two points, my friend.
Have your cake and edict, too...
Rhuby, come on now, stop it, you guys and Sparteye (she said feeling smug that she correctly discerned Sparteye's gender without being told)--you-all're givin' me a tummy-ache from making me laugh so hard. S&M ads! Ohhh...
(she said feeling smug that she correctly discerned Sparteye's gender without being told)
Hey, now, Jackie! I saw "Sparteye", and I immediately thought "Hawkeye" from M*A*S*H! You can't blame me for having been raised in the sitcom generation!
Upon further reflection, it's kind of a cross between Hawkeye and Spartacus. Now do you understand my confusion?
Regarding the Shaggy Sheep Story heading, I'm wondering if I'm the only one here who appreciated Jazzoctopus' name for his character in his "Let's Write a Story" thread? Gunther Nilpferd= Gunther No horse. He saddled his sheep, as a consequence. Ursala Ovisrender= Ursala tearer apart of sheep. His story didn't develop allegorically, as these names suggested it should have. Might we have another go at it?
I'm wondering if I'm the only one here who appreciated Jazzoctopus' name for his character in his "Let's Write a Story" thread? Gunther Nilpferd= Gunther No horse.
Hmmm. . . was I supposed to notice that? The only creativity I was intending to use in his name was Nilpferd, which is Hippopotamus in German.
The only creativity I was intending to use in his name was Nilpferd, which is Hippopotamus in German.
I ignored the "nile-horse" of the literal German and saw "nil," as in none, and horse. Oh, well, silly me! Of course, a hippo riging a sheep does conjure quite a mental image!
"Perish the thought that I should go into a subject that's already long in the tooth...", she started her post. Fiberbabe had grown to really enjoy posting to the board, and while it may have been a subject discussed previously, she truly wanted to hear the opinions of her educated & thoughtful new community.
Unfortunately, the subject on which she posted had been discussed and discussed and discussed until everyone was positively nauseated by it. Some collective unconscious took over the larger group and they all shunned her. No one would post a response to her new thread, and flame emails came to her private message box by the score.
That did not dissuade her, however; she returned to the thread at least once a day to edit and recraft her thoughts on the topic. She tended the unfollowed thread like a garden, with a devotion that rivalled the mother/child bond.
And it was due to this that she became known on the board as the Owner of a Lonely YART.
Thanks, Fiberbabe, fo giving me this. It sounds so much more likely than the version to which I have heretofore clung, which concerned (to cut a very long story to its minimalist extremes) an Outer Mongolian with unattractive personal habits allied to extreme halitosis, who became the Owner of a Lonely Yurt.
This one lacks the majesty of many of the other contributions, but given its link (in the non-URL sense) to another thread, I felt I had to share it:
It is well known that Mahatma Gandhi walked barefoot everywhere, to the point that his feet became quite thick and hard. He also was quite a spiritual person, frequently engaged in prayer, meditation and inner seeking. In addition, even when he was not on a hunger strike, he did not eat much and became quite thin and frail. Furthermore, he paid little mind to what little he did eat and, due to this haphazard diet, he wound up with very bad breath.
Thus, he came to be a super calloused fragile mystic plagued with halitosis.
Does anoyne recall the nameless fellow who took over for Quasimodo after his death? He had no arms, so the priest at Notre Dame didn't think he could do the job. They gave him a try, however, and he did marvellously - striking the bells with his face!
After many years of faithful service, the unfortunate man with no name and no arms slipped and fell from the belfry, falling to his death. As the crowd gathered around, someone inquired as to his name. Nobody knew, but one fellow said that his face had a fimiliar ring.
After him a beautiful young woman applied for the job. This seemed blasphemous to the priest, but, upon orders from the Cardinal, he allowed her to demonstrate her skills. She exceeded even her famed predecessor. So good was she that the townspeople and the clergy became convinced that she was a sorceress. The priest sent for the inquisitor, and he examined her. Upon finding no demonic affiliations, he declared her gifts to be God-given. He used the words, later stolen by a second-rate Englishman, "Therefore send not to ask for whom the Belle tolls."
Does anyone recall the nameless fellow who took over for quasimodo after his death? He had no arms, so the priest at Notre Dame didn't think he could do the job. They gave him a try, however, and he did marvellously - striking the bells with his face!
After many years of faithful service, the unfortunate man with no name and no arms slipped and fell from the belfry, falling to his death. As the crowd gathered around, someone inquired as to his name. One of the onlookers replied: "I don't know, but his face sure rings a bell."
Desperate for a replacement bell-ringer, the priest asked the dead man's twin brother to take over. He also did a tremendous job, until with remarkable coincidence, he too fell from the belfry. Again a crowd gathered and somebody inquired as to his name. "I don't know," replied the same onlooker, "but he's a dead ringer for his brother."
Geoff, I loved your Notre Dame story! :-)) A real bell-ringer. Took a toll on my diaphragm muscles. The belle rang it so well, let's clapper.
Do you know what the priest said when he got hungry for a chocolate snack cake? He thought maybe she was, too, so he asked her, "Would you like a Ding-Dong, belle?"
Do you know what the priest said when he got hungry for a chocolate snack cake? He thought maybe she was, too, so he asked her, "Would you like a Ding-Dong, belle?" And: let's clapper.
I heard that the priest was having impure thoughts, and was plying her with sweets, thereafter giving her a disease, so that she died of the clap. I could be wrong, though.
A guy in Organic Chem lab took me in completely with a shaggy dog joke. He had mentioned that he had spent the summer in Europe. He said he had been in Budapest, where some friends talked him into going to see a spiritualist who was famous about being able to tell people things about their deceased loved one, even to get messages from them. Having nothing better to do at the moment, he went by himself. The door of the spiritualist's appartment was very elaborately decorated with mysterious symbols. He could smell incense burning, and weird music in the background. He rang the doorbell, and waited a long time. When the doorbell was not answered, he noticed a very large gong, with a hammer hanging beside it. He picked up the hammer, and because he was annoyed, struck it violently. Almost immediated the door was opened by a very small wizend wizard, who just stood there grinning at him without saying a word. "So, I smashed him in the mouth as hard as I could!" I bit. "What in hell did you hit him for?" "My mother told me always strike a happy medium."
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... don't Miss quote or forget the placement of the WOMB-AT an a-lass... for you must speak more often and sooner (as warned) to avoid being accused of singing a nickel raga...
The only creativity I was intending to use in his name was Nilpferd, which is Hippopotamus in German.
