Read more: http://www.jesurajlove.com
Jack decided to go skiing with his buddy, Bob. They loaded up Jack’s mini van and headed north. After driving for a few hours, they got caught in a terrible blizzard.
They pulled into a nearby farm and asked the attractive lady who answered the door if they could spend the night.
“I realize it’s terrible weather out there and I have this huge house all to myself, but I’m recently widowed,” she explained. “I’m afraid the neighbors will talk if I let you stay in my house.”
“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “We’ll be happy to sleep in the barn. And if the weather breaks, we’ll be gone at first light.”
The lady agreed, and the two men found their way to the barn and settled in for the night. Come morning, the weather had cleared, and they got on their way. They enjoyed a great weekend of skiing.
A Godfather in the mob finds out that his bookkeeper has stolen ten million bucks.
This bookkeeper happens to be deaf, so the Godfather brings along his attorney, who knows sign language. The Godfather asks the bookkeeper: “Where is the 10 million bucks you embezzled from me?” The attorney, using sign language, asks the bookkeeper where the 10 million dollars is hidden.
The bookkeeper signs back: “I don’t know what you are talking about.” The attorney tells the Godfather: “He says he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”
However, I must share the following:
After putting a short program on the board, I told the students to type “R,” “U,” “N” and press return to see the program execute.
A hand went up in the back of the room, waving to get my attention, and the person attached to the hand said, “I did what you said and it didn’t work.” Knowing full-well that all of us make mistakes when typing at the computer, I suggested she retype “R,” “U,” “N” and press return. A few seconds later, the lady’s hand goes up again. “It still doesn’t work,” she said.
So… I went back to see what the problem was … only to find that instead of typing RUN, she had typed in the following: ARE YOU IN !
A farmer in the country noticed that a gentleman would fish at the lake (close to the farmer’s house) and would always leave with a stringer full of fish. The fellow had a boat but a fishing pole was not to be seen.
The farmer mentioned the situation to the lake ranger. The ranger then started watching this man and all that the farmer said was true! The man would arrive at the lake in the morning and by early afternoon, he had a stringer full of fish. The ranger dressed like a fisherman one day and approached the man. They exchanged pleasantries and the stranger asked the ranger in disguise to come fish with him. They boated for 45 minutes and arrived at a secluded spot. The stranger then pulled out a stick of dynamite.
Ranger: “I’m going to have to place you under arrest – I am a Ranger and you are fishing illegally!”
The stranger calmly lit the stick of dynamite and handed it to the ranger. Stranger: “Are you gonna talk or fish?”
THE Superintendent said to me: “I only keep you out of regard for your worthy father; but for that you would have been sent flying long ago.” I replied to him: “You flatter me too much, your Excellency, in assuming that I am capable of flying.” And then I heard him say: “Take that gentleman away; he gets upon my nerves.”
Two days later I was dismissed. And in this way I have, during the years I have been regarded as grown up, lost nine situations, to the great mortification of my father, the architect of our town. I have served in various departments, but all these nine jobs have been as alike as one drop of water is to another: I had to sit, write, listen to rude or stupid observations, and go on doing so till I was dismissed.
When I came in to my father he was sitting buried in a low arm-chair with his eyes closed. His dry, emaciated face, with a shade of dark blue where it was shaved (he looked like an old Catholic organist), expressed meekness and resignation. Without responding to my greeting or opening his eyes, he said:
“If my dear wife and your mother were living, your life would have been a source of continual distress to her. I see the Divine Providence in her premature death. I beg you, unhappy boy,” he continued, opening his eyes, “tell me: what am I to do with you?”
Olenka, the daughter of the retired collegiate assessor, Plemyanniakov, was sitting in her back porch, lost in thought. It was hot, the flies were persistent and teasing, and it was pleasant to reflect that it would soon be evening. Dark rainclouds were gathering from the east, and bringing from time to time a breath of moisture in the air.
Kukin, who was the manager of an open-air theatre called the Tivoli, and who lived in the lodge, was standing in the middle of the garden looking at the sky.
“Again!” he observed despairingly. “It’s going to rain again! Rain every day, as though to spite me. I might as well hang myself! It’s ruin! Fearful losses every day.”
He flung up his hands, and went on, addressing Olenka:
“There! that’s the life we lead, Olga Semyonovna. It’s enough to make one cry. One works and does one’s utmost, one wears oneself out, getting no sleep at night, and racks one’s brain what to do for the best. And then what happens? To begin with, one’s public is ignorant, boorish. I give them the very best operetta, a dainty masque, first rate music-hall artists. But do you suppose that’s what they want! They don’t understand anything of that sort. They want a clown; what they ask for is vulgarity. And then look at the weather! Almost every evening it rains. It started on the tenth of May, and it’s kept it up all May and June. It’s simply awful! The public doesn’t come, but I’ve to pay the rent just the same, and pay the artists.”
The next evening the clouds would gather again, and Kukin would say with an hysterical laugh:
VANKA ZHUKOV, a boy of nine, who had been for three months apprenticed to Alyahin the shoemaker, was sitting up on Christmas Eve. Waiting till his master and mistress and their workmen had gone to the midnight service, he took out of his master’s cupboard a bottle of ink and a pen with a rusty nib, and, spreading out a crumpled sheet of paper in front of him, began writing. Before forming the first letter he several times looked round fearfully at the door and the windows, stole a glance at the dark ikon, on both sides of which stretched shelves full of lasts, and heaved a broken sigh. The paper lay on the bench while he knelt before it.
“Dear grandfather, Konstantin Makaritch,” he wrote, “I am writing you a letter. I wish you a happy Christmas, and all blessings from God Almighty. I have neither father nor mother, you are the only one left me.”
Vanka raised his eyes to the dark ikon on which the light of his candle was reflected, and vividly recalled his grandfather, Konstantin Makaritch, who was night watchman to a family called Zhivarev. He was a thin but extraordinarily nimble and lively little old man of sixty-five, with an everlastingly laughing face and drunken eyes. By day he slept in the servants’ kitchen, or made jokes with the cooks; at night, wrapped in an ample sheepskin, he walked round the grounds and tapped with his little mallet. Old Kashtanka and Eel, so-called on account of his dark colour and his long body like a weasel’s, followed him with hanging heads. This Eel was exceptionally polite and affectionate, and looked with equal kindness on strangers and his own masters, but had not a very good reputation. Under his politeness and meekness was hidden the most Jesuitical cunning. No one knew better how to creep up on occasion and snap at one’s legs, to slip into the store-room, or steal a hen from a peasant. His hind legs had been nearly pulled off more than once, twice he had been hanged, every week he was thrashed till he was half dead, but he always revived.
At this moment grandfather was, no doubt, standing at the gate, screwing up his eyes at the red windows of the church, stamping with his high felt boots, and joking with the servants. His little mallet was hanging on his belt. He was clasping his hands, shrugging with the cold, and, with an aged chuckle, pinching first the housemaid, then the cook.