Email to Sis
mailto:Sis@thisisn
Hey,
I got your email this morning, the one you sent but didn't get return receipt on. Let me know if you get return receipt, or for that matter let me know if you don't. You'll know if you don't, you won't get it and then you'll know. Further, let me know if you don't get this email. I can call you with the contents but it won't be nearly as funny since I'll be distracted by the cat trying to bury its food.
You know, email packets are basically switched in one place on earth. If something's going to get lost or if an attachement doesn't come through, I'm convinced that there's a Depanneur in Jonquierres, Quebec that all the emails cycle through. They have a back room, and right next to some RC Cola from the seventies that's long since been forgotten about is the central switching hub for global email.
Like the global economy; it starts with an old woman in the Brighton neighborhood of Brooklyn going out for a can of tuna for Mr. Fickle, the cat. Her 32 cent purchase pulls the trigger on everything.
But back to packet switches. Jean Luc, or Claude, the brothers who own the place, basically know about the hub and are the only ones who can do anything about it. If you get an "undeliverable", don't call your help desk or even find out if you have a system administrator. You can rant about Bill Gates quietly for a few minutes if it makes you feel better, but the thing to do is call one of the boys that owns the grocery store.
Trouble is, they are volunteer firemen in rural French Canada and as such, their English is limited to "where is the fire?" and "the autoroute, she's back there." Just like my French pretty much cuts off after "Ou sont les Femmes sportifs?"
A friend down here just came back from her honeymoon. She got married, which of course is the natural precursor to going on a honeymoon. Anything else is just basically, a trip. A honeymoon is special in that you don't really care how much things cost and you are trying to remember every nanosecond for posterity. Like what your foot felt like when your sweetie dropped her makeup case on it in the Delta counter line at JFK.
"Boy Dear, I'll never forget my foot swelling up two shoe sizes for as long as we're together."
Needless to say, I've forgotten.
I like weddings. They're these huge ceremonies that paper over the fact that you are screwing yourself for life. Everybody gives you presents and money, you dance, you go on a long, elaborate trip and you feel great. Then you come home and she's (or he's) still there. Then the reality sets in. There's a phrase for that of course: "The honeymoon's over." I'm more inclined to describe it as "I didn't think spitting milk at Shirley in first grade would land me in this hell."
These sentiments may account for my being single. Just a guess. But I promised I wouldn't lament.
So I was out running with the boys yesterday. Usual couple of miles before one of us realizes "crap, we still have this much distance left just to get back." I mused on why Barbaro was still around as he had reacted poorly to surgery and could no longer run. For that matter, given the pain meds he had been on, I wondered that they were keeping him around to stud. That's sort of like being asked to perform with fresh gall bladder stiches in. Hey, I've known randy guys but there's a limit.
So don't we get back and they've euthanized the poor thing. Causally, I wonder aloud what the animal is still doing alive and the reaction is it gets put down.
So I was wondering, what's that really irritating judge on American Idol still doing around? Or for that matter, what's the IRS still here for?
That's about all I've got. They're calling for an inch of snow here tonight so the Governor is thinking about declaring martial law and a state of emergency. All the schools will probably shut down until the spring solstice just to be certain and old Bob across the street is probably cutting ridges into the tires of the '77 Dodge Aspen he still motors around in.
I hope you're well and hubby has gotten back from Arctic search and rescue training without being tarred with the nickname "Blackfingers."
your brother the bunny
Bunny on!
By the way, did you ever notice that if you shift your fingers over one key position on the keyboard, it's like writing in Polish?
nimmu pm!
Hey,
I got your email this morning, the one you sent but didn't get return receipt on. Let me know if you get return receipt, or for that matter let me know if you don't. You'll know if you don't, you won't get it and then you'll know. Further, let me know if you don't get this email. I can call you with the contents but it won't be nearly as funny since I'll be distracted by the cat trying to bury its food.
You know, email packets are basically switched in one place on earth. If something's going to get lost or if an attachement doesn't come through, I'm convinced that there's a Depanneur in Jonquierres, Quebec that all the emails cycle through. They have a back room, and right next to some RC Cola from the seventies that's long since been forgotten about is the central switching hub for global email.
Like the global economy; it starts with an old woman in the Brighton neighborhood of Brooklyn going out for a can of tuna for Mr. Fickle, the cat. Her 32 cent purchase pulls the trigger on everything.
But back to packet switches. Jean Luc, or Claude, the brothers who own the place, basically know about the hub and are the only ones who can do anything about it. If you get an "undeliverable", don't call your help desk or even find out if you have a system administrator. You can rant about Bill Gates quietly for a few minutes if it makes you feel better, but the thing to do is call one of the boys that owns the grocery store.
Trouble is, they are volunteer firemen in rural French Canada and as such, their English is limited to "where is the fire?" and "the autoroute, she's back there." Just like my French pretty much cuts off after "Ou sont les Femmes sportifs?"
A friend down here just came back from her honeymoon. She got married, which of course is the natural precursor to going on a honeymoon. Anything else is just basically, a trip. A honeymoon is special in that you don't really care how much things cost and you are trying to remember every nanosecond for posterity. Like what your foot felt like when your sweetie dropped her makeup case on it in the Delta counter line at JFK.
"Boy Dear, I'll never forget my foot swelling up two shoe sizes for as long as we're together."
Needless to say, I've forgotten.
I like weddings. They're these huge ceremonies that paper over the fact that you are screwing yourself for life. Everybody gives you presents and money, you dance, you go on a long, elaborate trip and you feel great. Then you come home and she's (or he's) still there. Then the reality sets in. There's a phrase for that of course: "The honeymoon's over." I'm more inclined to describe it as "I didn't think spitting milk at Shirley in first grade would land me in this hell."
These sentiments may account for my being single. Just a guess. But I promised I wouldn't lament.
So I was out running with the boys yesterday. Usual couple of miles before one of us realizes "crap, we still have this much distance left just to get back." I mused on why Barbaro was still around as he had reacted poorly to surgery and could no longer run. For that matter, given the pain meds he had been on, I wondered that they were keeping him around to stud. That's sort of like being asked to perform with fresh gall bladder stiches in. Hey, I've known randy guys but there's a limit.
So don't we get back and they've euthanized the poor thing. Causally, I wonder aloud what the animal is still doing alive and the reaction is it gets put down.
So I was wondering, what's that really irritating judge on American Idol still doing around? Or for that matter, what's the IRS still here for?
That's about all I've got. They're calling for an inch of snow here tonight so the Governor is thinking about declaring martial law and a state of emergency. All the schools will probably shut down until the spring solstice just to be certain and old Bob across the street is probably cutting ridges into the tires of the '77 Dodge Aspen he still motors around in.
I hope you're well and hubby has gotten back from Arctic search and rescue training without being tarred with the nickname "Blackfingers."
your brother the bunny
Bunny on!
By the way, did you ever notice that if you shift your fingers over one key position on the keyboard, it's like writing in Polish?
nimmu pm!
posted by The Caustic Bunny at Tuesday, January 30, 2007
1 Comments:
seriously? laughing out loud!!!
depanneur in Jonquierres -HA!
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