Posted By Darren J Fraser
Some (apparently) true accounts following car accidents...............
-The guy was all over the road; I had to swerve a number of times before I hit him.
- I pulled away from the side of the road, glanced at my mother-in-law and headed over the embankment.
- In my attempt to kill a fly, I drove into a telephone pole.
- I had been shopping for plants all day and was on my way home. As I reached an intersection, a hedge sprang up obscurring my vision. I did not see the other car.
- I had been driving my car for forty years when I fell asleep at the wheel and had an accident.
- I was on my way to the doctors with rear end trouble when my universal joint gave way causing me to have an accident. As I approached the intersection, a stop sign suddenly appeared in place where no stop sign had ever appeared before. I was unable to stop in time to avoid the accident.
- To avoid hitting the bumper of the car in front, I struck the pedestrian.
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LOST ON AN ISLAND
A Safety Officer took a cruise to the Caribbean. It was wonderful; the experience of his life. But, alas, a hurricane came up unexpectedly and the ship went down. He was swept onto the shore of an island. No people, no supplies, nothing.
He explored but found nothing other that some bananas and coconuts. He was desperate and forlorn, but what could he do? For the next four months he ate bananas, drank coconut juice and looked for a ship to come to his rescue.
One day, he spotted a rowboat coming from what looked like the other side of the island. In it was a gorgeous woman: She was tawny and tanned, and her hair flowing in the breeze gave her an ethereal quality. When she reached him, he asked excitedly, "where did you come from? How did you get here? "She said, "I rowed from the other side of the island. My cruise ship sank four months ago." "Amazing," he said, "I didn't know anyone else had survived. How many of you are there? You are really lucky that a rowboat washed up with you."
There is no one else--only me," she said, "and the rowboat didn't wash up. I built it out of raw material I found on the island. The oars I whittled from gum tree branches, I wove the bottom from palm branches, and the sides and stern came from an eucalyptus."
"But--but," asked the man, "What did you use for tools?" "Oh, no problem," replied the woman, "On the south side of the island there is a very unusual stratum of alluvial rock. I found that if I fired it to a certain temperature in my kiln, it melted into forgeable iron.
But enough of that," she said. Where do you live?" The man confessed he had been sleeping on the beach.
"Let's row over to my place," she said. So they got into the rowboat and left for her side of the island. The woman tied up the rowboat with a beautifully woven hemp rope. They walked up a stone walk to an exquisite bungalow. "It's not much," she said, "but I call it home. Would you like a drink?" "No," he answered, "One more coconut juice and I will puke." "I have a still," said the woman, "How about a PinaColada?" Trying to hide his amazement, the man accepted, and they sat down on her couch.
After a while, the woman asked, "Tell me, have you always had a beard?" "No," the man replied, "I was clean shaven all my life." "Well, if you would like to shave, there is a razor in the cabinet in the upstairs bathroom." The man, no longer questioning anything, went to the bathroom. In the cabinet was a razor made from a bone handle, two shells honed to an edge were fastened to its end inside of a swivel mechanism. The man shaved, showered and went back downstairs. "You look great," she said. "I think I will slip into something more comfortable.
"After a short time, she returned wearing strategically positioned fig leaves and smelling faintly of gardenia. "Tell me," she asked, "We have both been out here for a very long time with no companionship. Have you been lonely? Is there anything that you miss? Something that all men and women crave? Something that would be really nice to have right now?" "Yes there is," the man replied, and moved closer to her. "Tell me, do you have an Internet connection?"
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A highly successful Human Resources Manager was tragically knocked down by a bus and killed. Her soul arrived at the Pearly Gates, where St. Peter welcomed her:
"Before you get settled in," he said, "We have a little problem... you see, we've never had a Human Resources Manager make it this far before and we're not really sure what to do with you."
"Oh, I see," said the woman. "Can't you just let me in?"
"Well, I'd like to," said St Peter, "But I have higher orders. We're instructed to let you have a day in hell and a day in heaven, and then you are to choose where you'd like to go for all eternity."
"Actually, I think I'd prefer heaven", said the woman.
"Sorry, we have rules..." at which St. Peter put the HR Manager into the downward bound elevator.
As the doors opened in hell she stepped out onto a beautiful golf course. In the distance was a country club; around her were many friends - past fellow executives, all smartly dressed, happy, and cheering for her. They ran up and kissed her on both cheeks and they talked about old times. They played a perfect round of golf and afterwards went to the country club where she enjoyed a superb steak and lobster dinner. She met the Devil, who was actually rather nice, and she had a wonderful night telling jokes and dancing. Before she knew it, it was time to leave; everyone shook her hand and waved goodbye as she stepped into the elevator. The elevator went back up to heaven where St. Peter was waiting for her.
"Now it's time to spend a day in heaven," he said.
So she spent the next 24 hours lounging around on clouds and playing the harp and singing, which was almost as enjoyable as her day in hell. At the day's end St Peter returned.
"So," he said, "You've spent a day in hell and you've spent a day in heaven. You must choose between the two."
The woman thought for a second and replied, "Well, heaven is certainly lovely, but I actually had a better time in hell. I choose hell."
Accordingly, St. Peter took her to the elevator again and she went back down to hell.
When the doors of the elevator opened she found herself standing in a desolate wasteland covered in garbage and filth. She saw her friends dressed in rags, picking up rubbish and putting it in old sacks. The Devil approached and put his arm around her.
"I don't understand," stuttered the HR Manager, "Yesterday I was here, and there was a golf course, and a country club, and we ate lobster, and we danced and had a wonderful happy time. Now all there's just a dirty wasteland of garbage and all my friends look miserable."
The Devil looked at her and smiled. "Yesterday we were recruiting you, today you're staff."
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On board HMS Vulnerable Somewhere in the north Atlantic 00.43hrs Zulu time. The giant sub had been sitting 40 metres below the churning waves for eight straight hours. The crew were edgy, nervous, sweaty, knowing that the fate of the nation and the free world was being discussed in the skipper's wardroom. The order to fire the boat's nuclear weapons deep into the heart of enemy territory had been received and authenticated at 08.00hrs. But now it was gone midnight and still the missiles were in their tubes.
Behind the oak-panelled door of his cabin, Captain Clint Thrust was listening wearily to his health and safety executive officer, Nigel Ormskirk, who had read the risk assessment form and was not satisfied.
"Captain, you say here that these missiles contain plutonium and you are proposing that we detonate them over a city. Do you not realise people could be hurt here?"
Twenty-five-year-old Ormskirk had left Keele University with a third in human resources, having impressed the examiners with his paper on the perils of hand and arm vibration injuries among stone masons. Since being posted to the sub fleet, he had chalked up a number of successes, chief among which was changing his boat's name from HMS Vanquish to HMS Vulnerable. He was particularly proud of his 1997 "Be Seen" campaign after which the sub had not hit a single trawler. Thrust, the gnarled old salty sea dog captain, had objected, of course, saying the point of a submarine was rather lost if it was bright orange and had to spend its entire time on the surface. But what did he know.
"You see," Ormskirk was saying . . . But a shrill beep from the PA system cut him off: "Con. Sonar. Contact bearing 270 degrees. It's a destroyer, sir, and it's coming right at us." Thrust keyed the mike. "Stay calm, people. We've plenty of air cover. They can take care of this."
On board the aircraft carrier HMS Weak Somewhere near the Vulnerable 00.47hrs Zulu Time. Veteran pilot Jack Kill simply could not believe what he was being told by the Weak's health and safety officer, Ron Stapleford. "This is a Harrier GR7," he screamed. "What do you mean by saying the wings don't look long enough?" "I'm just saying," said Ron in his Brummie drawl, "that with all those bombs and missiles, it really doesn't look very safe." "Look," said Kill. "We've just got word from the Vulnerable that she's under attack. I have to get out there with my cargo of death. I must spit fire into that enemy ship or the war will be lost and your children will grow up speaking Russian." "Don't worry," said Ron. "Ormskirk's on the Vulnerable. He's a good man. He'll make sure they're safe."
On board the Vulnerable somewhere in the north Atlantic 00.55hrs Zulu time The depth charges were raining down, sending the orange sub reeling from side to side. Thrust was barking orders to the helmsman: "Flood tubes one and four." "Sorry, sir," said the burly helmsman. "New regulations from health and safety. After the Herald of Free Enterprise disaster, the doors have been welded shut."
"Oh, for Christ's sake," yelled Thrust as yet another depth charge hammered the hull. "Where's Ormskirk?"
He was in the galley, a look of abject horror on his face: "For crying out loud. How many times do I have to tell you people that you must not store meat and dairy products in the same fridge. Do you want to have tummy ache?"
Before they could answer, an enormous explosion ripped the propeller from its mountings and a wall of freezing sea water spurted into the engine room. "Close all hatches," yelled Thrust over the PA system. Oh no, thought Ormskirk. Some of the men have boyfriends back there. They must be allowed to try to save them.
Back in the engine room, the trapped men were trying to open the hatch to get out before the north Atlantic claimed yet another teenage soul. Some were screaming. Some were praying. Some were struggling with the latch. But each and every one breathed a sigh of relief when the man from health and safety appeared at the window. "Do you need counselling?" he said. "No," they shouted. "We want you to open this hatch. It can only be done from the outside." "Yes," said Ormskirk, "that's a valid safety point and I'll be sure to file a report when we get back." "Open the bloody thing," they shouted. "I can't," said Ormskirk. "You know as well as I do that it's a two-man job. I could crick my back if I tried to do it on my own."
But then he had an idea. He opened a secure channel to Thrust. "Captain: there are men back here in water that's 4oC colder than we recommend. I order you to surrender."
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Gulag 43 Siberia, Russia - Three months later.
It was a grey, misty morning and silence hung over the prison yard like an old dishcloth as Nigel Ormskirk was tied to the bullet-ridden post.
"Ready," screamed the Russian execution party leader. "Take aim . . . "
"Hold on a minute," said Nigel. "You aren't allowed to use loaded weapons unless there's a trained armourer on the . . ."
"Fire!."