Diagnostic Computer @ Wal-Mart

One day, in line at the company cafeteria, Joe says to Mike behind him, "My elbow hurts like crazy. I guess I'd better see a doctor." "Listen, you don't have to spend that kind of money," Mike replies "There's a diagnostic computer down at Wal-Mart. Just give it a urine sample and the computer will tell you what's wrong and what to do about it. It takes ten seconds and costs ten dollars - A lot cheaper than a doctor."So, Joe deposits a urine sample in a small jar and takes it to Wal-Mart. He deposits ten dollars, and the computer lights up and asks for the urine sample. He pours the sample into the slot and waits. Ten seconds later, the computer ejects a printout:

"You have tennis elbow. Soak your arm in warm water and avoid heavy activity. It will improve in two weeks.

Thank you for shopping @ Wal-Mart."

That evening, while thinking how amazing this new technology was, Joe began wondering if the computer could be fooled. He mixed some tap water, a stool sample from his dog, urine samples from his wife and daughter, and a sperm sample from himself for good measure. Joe hurries back to Wal-Mart, eager to check the results. He deposits ten dollars, pours in his concoction, and awaits the results . The computer prints the following:

1. Your tap water is too hard. Get a water softener. (Aisle 9)
2. Your dog has ringworm. Bathe him with anti-fungal shampoo. (Aisle 7)
3. Your daughter has a cocaine habit. Get her into rehab.
4. Your wife is pregnant. Twins. They aren't yours. Get a lawyer.
5. If you don't stop playing with yourself, your elbow will never get better!

Thank you for shopping @ Wal-Mart.

I pulled into the crowded parking lot at the
local shopping center and rolled
down the car windows to make sure my
Labrador Retriever Pup had fresh air.

She was stretched full-out on the back seat
and I wanted to impress upon her that she must
remain there.

I walked to the curb backward,
pointing my finger at the car and saying emphatically,
'Now you stay. Do you hear me?'

'Stay! Stay!'

The driver of a nearby car, a pretty blonde young lady,
gave me a strange look and said,


'Why don't you just put it in PARK?'

Preface: Seeing the acronym ROFLMAO quite frequently in another Chat thread, so deadicated to those:


PS: Think it's a reprise posted in the thread before, but for the occasion ;>)

While I played with a couple of his I.R.S. action figures, my accountant did some calculations on a notepad. “Let’s assume you live to a hundred and four,” he said, looking up from the desk and folding his hands. “You’d still never earn as much as you owe, and, by the way, are you aware that your monthly parking spot in the garage is in foreclosure?” I wondered how much I could get on Craigslist for my cat. My accountant wished me well and said not to worry—he’d already deducted his fee and Christmas tip from my estimated taxes. Maybe his assistant felt sorry for me or maybe she thought it wasn’t good for business to have a client collapsed in prayer on the waiting-room floor, but, anyway, she slipped me a card on which was written the initials T.M.W. and an 800 phone number. “Make the call,” she said. “It’s what the big boys do.”

I’d heard rumors. They said that he could move decimal points telekinetically, that he owned the global rights to the number three quintillion seventeen, that he could make a penny feel like a million bucks. Everyone knows that money talks, but only he, it was said, knew how to talk back. It had to do with fricatives and glottal stops. They also said that his real name was Herbert, but they were wrong. It was Mrs. Sherbet.

“You didn’t honestly think a man could go forth and multiply, did you?” Mrs. Sherbet said with a sneer, noting my surprise, when she showed up at my door. Before getting into professional whispering, Mrs. Sherbet said, she’d done volunteer work with commemorative coins. “Show me your wallet,” she said. Mrs. Sherbet had a soft spot for dough, but, to her, people were just people. While she was inspecting the compartments in my billfold, her cell phone rang. I feel funny telling you who it was, but suffice it to say that the caller was high up at Treasury.

“Put the currency on the phone,” I heard Mrs. Sherbet say, and then her voice turned cozy. “Buck up,” she said. “I never said you were worthless. What I said was you’re not worth your weight in gold.” She examined my photo I.D. as she listened. “Nobody blames you. They blame that fellow in China. And aren’t you glad you’re not the Icelandic krona? The point is, everyone wants you. Didn’t I step into traffic yesterday to pick up a dime?” Mrs. Sherbet looked at me, and mouthed the words “hothouse flower.” “Hey, hey, hey, why would you say such a hurtful thing?” she said into the phone. “Of course I wouldn’t short you. Aren’t I your friend? Remember how much fun we had before the crash? Good times. Hug.” Mrs. Sherbet kissed my Amex.

Her cell phone never stopped ringing. She was rifling through my silverware drawer, apparently unimpressed, when a hedge-fund manager with a fund on the ledge called. “Repeat after me,” she said to the derivative who felt that nobody understood it. “I am not ‘volatile.’ I am ‘exciting.’ I am not depressed. I am going through a life transition and, yes, maybe that makes me a little bit triste.”


After texting the Greek economy (“move 2 Albania ASAP hehe”), she asked for my financial records. I watched anxiously as she flipped through the pages. Let’s face it, my losses were small potatoes compared with the federal deficit. How could I make her desire my portfolio? “Did you get to the part where I invested in a pyramid scheme to sell pyramids?” I said. Mrs. Sherbet shot me a supercilious look. “May I be alone with these?” she said. That was good news, wasn’t it? I waited in the bedroom, looking through my jacket pockets for coins or gum. To this day, I don’t know what really happened in the living room, but I hope you never have to hear a whisperer shout. I was this close to calling the police when Mrs. Sherbet summoned me.

“Okey-dokey,” she said, winking at my dossier before handing it over. An instant later, she was gone, evanescing like a housing bubble. Maybe it was my imagination, but the stack of papers seemed thicker, shinier, silkier, revitalized, less tangled, more manageable. Indeed, over the next few weeks my assets quadrupled. Even the price of creamed-corn futures rose. To celebrate, I bought some stocks on margin, shopped for pocketbooks, and ordered the blue-cheese dressing with my salad.

I guess I should have suspected something when the A.T.M. declined to give me cash, opining, “PIN number juvenile.” Still, I was not prepared for the postcard I received the next day. It was from Cancún. “I don’t know how to say this,” my money began. I couldn’t make out the next couple of lines, owing to an oily splotch of what smelled like suntan lotion. Then there was a bit about “you deserve to be with legal tender that fulfills you more than I ever could.” Another smudge. The last sentence, however, was plangently clear. “Some may call it embezzlement,” it said, “but to us it’s love.”

At my wit’s end, I suggested that we see a financial counsellor, but my money curtly told me that if I came near it Mrs. Sherbet would move it into escrow. I took to roaming the streets. “Spare change?” a man on the corner said. I was ready to accept the offer when I spotted my money and Mrs. Sherbet, clinking champagne glasses at an outdoor hummus café. I had a good mind to march up and put in my two cents, but, of course, there was the obvious problem. Instead, I looked down nervously at the sidewalk and snarled, “My accountant will be sending you an invoice and a self-addressed stamped envelope.” I heard a familiar laugh. It was my accountant, approaching the table with his date, a cheap piece of foreign moolah. I glared at the merry foursome. My ex-money asked the waiter for the wine list, and I couldn’t resist. Out of my mouth came words I never thought I’d utter: “Dirty, filthy lucre.”

David Beckham has handed over a 1752 page book to FIFA containing
details of Britain's World Cup 2018 bid.

He says he used all his own crayons and he didn't go over the lines once. Clever boy.

A mate of mine sent me this, so just HAD to put it here!!