|What's the difference between a normal politician and
Normal Politician: People who live in glass houses should not throw stones.
Shashi Tharoor: Individuals who make their abodes in vitreous edifices would be advised to refrain from catapulting perilous projectiles.
Normal Politician: Twinkle, twinkle, little star...
Shashi Tharoor: Scintillate, scintillate, asteroid minim.
Normal Politician: All that glitters is not gold.
Shashi Tharoor: All articles that coruscate with resplendence are not truly auriferous.
Normal Politician: Beggars are not choosers.
Shashi Tharoor: Sorting on the part of mendicants must be interdicted.
Normal Politician: Dead men tell no tales.
Shashi Tharoor: Male cadavers are incapable of rendering any testimony.
Normal Politician: Beginner's luck.
Shashi Tharoor: Neophyte's serendipity.
Normal Politician: Birds of a feather flock together.
Shashi Tharoor: Members of an avian species of identical plumage tend to congregate.
Normal Politician: Beauty is only skin deep.
Shashi Tharoor: Pulchritude possesses solely cutaneous profundity.
Normal Politician: Cleanliness is godliness.
Shashi Tharoor: Freedom from incrustations of grime is contiguous to rectitude.
Normal Politician: There's no use crying over spilt milk.
Shashi Tharoor: It is fruitless to become lachrymose of precipitately departed lactile fluid.
Normal Politician: You can't try to teach an old dog new tricks.
Shashi Tharoor: It is fruitless to attempt to indoctrinate a superannuated canine with innovative maneuvers.
Normal Politician: Look before you leap.
Shashi Tharoor: Surveillance should precede saltation.
Normal Politician: He who laughs last, laughs best.
Shashi Tharoor: The person presenting the ultimate cachinnation possesses thereby the optimal cachinnation.
Normal Politician: All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
Shashi Tharoor: Exclusive dedication to necessitous chores without interludes of hedonistic diversion renders Jack a hebetudinous fellow.
Normal Politician: Where there's smoke, there's fire!
Shashi Tharoor: Where there are visible vapours having their provenance in ignited carbonaceous materials, there is conflagration.venance in ignited carbonaceous materials, there is conflagration.
|A man is in court.|
Judge: "You are accused of beating your wife to death. If you want to expect any mercy, you'll have to give us a damn good reason."
Man: "She was so stupid, I just had to kill her."
Judge: "That is even worse. If you don't want to be declared guilty on the spot, you better give us a plausible reason."
Man: "Well it happened like this. We live in this apartment complex and the property manager lives in the first floor with his family. The kids all have a growth deficiency. So one day, my wife comes up and says: Those little kids, they look like pyrenees."
So I say: "You mean pygmy?"
"No," says my wife. "Pygmy is what you have under your skin, it causes freckles."
"That's pigment," I say.
So she says, "No, pigment is what the ancient Romans were writing on."
I sigh and say, "No, that's parchment!"
"No," says she, "Parchment is an unfinished sentence."
"Your honor, you can imagine, I swallowed the 'fragment', I got back to my armchair and my newspaper. But then suddenly she's back with a book, and she says, "Honey, check out this weird sentence, it says: 'The sun roof of the purse was the teacher of pimp fifteen.'"
I take the book and say, "But honey, this is in French. It says 'La Marquise de Pompadour est la Maitresse de Lois XV.' It means 'The marquise of Pompadour was the lover of Louis the 15th'"
"No!", says my wife, "You have to translate it literally: La Marquise - the sunroof. Pompadour - the purse. La Maitresse - the teacher, Louis XV - pimp 15. I should know, I got a legionnaire for my french lessons."
I say, "You mean a lector?"
"No," says my wife, "Lector was an ancient Greek hero."
I say, "That was Hector, and he was a Trojan."
"Nope", says she, "Hector is a measure of area."
"That'd be hectare"
"No! Hectare is the drink of the gods!"
"That'd be nectar."
"No," says she, "the Nectar is a river in southern Germany."
So I say, "That's the Neckar."
She says, "No, I must know, there's even a song about it. I recently sung it in a duo with my friend."
I say, "It's a duet!!"
She replies, "No, that's when two men are fighting with a saber."
"That's a duel," I say.
"No, a duel is where a railway goes through a mountain!"
Well, your honor, so I took a hammer and beat her to death...
There was a long silence, shocked faces.
Finally the judge says: Not guilty. I would have killed her at "Hector"
|This, apparently, is an actual letter received by the UK Passport Office.|
I'm in the process of renewing my passport, and still cannot believe how is it that Sky Television has my address and telephone number and knows that I bought a bleeding satellite dish from them back in 1988, and yet, the Government is still asking me where I was bloody born and on what date.
Do you guys do this by hand?
My birth date you have on my pension book.
It's on all the income tax forms I've filed for the past 30 years.
It is on my National Health card.
My driving license.
My car insurance.
On the last eight damn passports I've had.
It's on all those stupid customs declaration forms I've had to fill out before being allowed off the plane over the last 30 years.
All those insufferable census forms.
Would somebody please take note, once and for all, that my mother's name is Mary Anne, my father's name is Robert and I'd be absolutely astounded if that WOULD ever change between now and when I die!!!
I apologize, I'm really pissed off this morning. Between you an' me, I've had enough of this bullshit! You send the application to my house, then you ask me for my bleeding address!!!
What is going on? Do you have a gang of neanderthal A***holes working there?
Look at my damn picture.
Do I look like Bin Laden?
I don't want to dig up Yasser Arafat, for Christ sakes. I just want to go and park my ass on some sandy beach somewhere.
And would someone please tell me, why would you give a crap whether I plan on visiting a farm in the next 15 days?
If I ever got the urge to do something weird to a chicken or a goat, believe you me, you'd be the last f******* people I'd want to tell!
Well, I have to go now,'cause I have to go to the other end of the poxy city to get another f****** copy of my birth certificate, to the tune of 30 pounds.
Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot to assist in the issuance of a new passport the same day?
Nooooooooooooo, that'd be too damn easy and maybe make sense.
You'd rather have us running all over the frickin' place like chickens with our heads cut off, then WE have to find some one to confirm that it's really me on the damn picture - you know, the one where we're not allowed to smile?! (bureaucratic frickin' morons)
Hey, do you know why we couldn't smile if we wanted to? Because we're totally pissed off!
An Irate Citizen
P.S. Remember what I said above about the picture and getting someone to confirm that it's me?
Well, my family has been in this country since 1776 ...
I have served in the military for something over 30 years and have had full security clearances over 25 of those years enabling me to undertake highly secretive missions all over the world.
However, I have to get someone 'important' to verify who I am - you know, someone like my doctor...
WHO WAS BORN AND RAISED IN FRICKIN' Afghanistan!
|Verne was teeing off from the men's tee. On his downswing, he realized that his wife, Joy, was teeing up on the woman's tee directly in front of him. Unable to stop his swing, he nailed it, and hit her directly in the temple, killing her instantly.|
A few days later, Verne got a call from the coroner regarding her autopsy.
Coroner: Verne, your wife seemed to have died from blunt force-trauma to the head. You said you hit a golf ball and hit her in the temple, is that correct?
Verne: That's correct.
Coroner: Well, inexplicably I found a golf ball wedged in her ass.
Verne: Was it a Titleist 3?
Coroner: Yes, it was.
Verne: That was my mulligan.