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Poignant Pearls & Potbellied Pigs - October 16, 2001
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sheldene chant
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Oct 17, 2001 20:48 PDT
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POIGNANT PEARLS & POTBELLIED PIGS
Vol. 2 Issue 17 16th October, 2001
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CONTENTS
- Hello there . . .
- Inside Story
- Blatant Plagiarism - and a trip
down memory lane
- Games Cats Play
- Gone Fishing? - not likely!
- Racism Hides in So Many People!
- Are You Programmed?
- eNonyMouse - relegated to the end
for harboring such nasty thoughts...
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HELLO THERE . . .
…you with the stars in your eyes, a grasshopper brain
and thoughts without boundaries…
As usual Griselda has latched on to all the moans and
excuses, so I'm free to deal with the contents of this
issue. Fishermen - or rather the lack of them - have
been on my mind lately. The shad season closed a few
weeks ago so here in Amanzimtoti we are enjoying a
temporary respite from men waving long sticks, who
clutter the rocks and leave their unpleasant litter behind
them.
Which reminded me of feeble attempts at fresh water
fishing - see 'Gone Fishing? - not likely' - and you will
understand why I have never been tempted to dip
anything with a hook attached into the sea.
Durban hosted a much publicised conference on
racism recently and when I read Melvin Durai's, Racism
Hides in So Many People, I was sorry he had not
attended - as one of the speakers. Some of his
suggestions would have livened things up.
Of course you may not get past the first article - Blatant
Plagiarism... which wallows in nostalgia and could be
annoying if you don't happen to hail from Zimbabwe (or
Rhodesia).
Fortunately Pam Allen's Games Cats Play is very
unlikely to irritate anyone, and Jan Tincher's Are You
Programmed? should also prove soothing. But then I
go and spoil it all with eNonyMouse's nonsense...
So, if variety is the spice of life....we must be pleasing
someone.
Keep well - and have a nice month.
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INSIDE STORY
(Quite a mild offering from Griselda -
perhaps she's ill - Ed.)
HERE we go again - and only two days late which is
nothing short of miraculous, considering.
For weeks Sheldene has been completely immersed in
her notorious web page, which has involved staying
awake for days on end, walking about like a zombie,
hysterical screaming and outbursts of bad behaviour too
numerous to mention.
I am sure her husband would rather be anywhere but
here, but so far he has restricted himself to comments
about how strange he finds the main heading on the
web page which reads 'You Can Have Fun WIth Your
PC and The Internet...' Need I say more?
Anyway you can see the page for yourself at
http://www.newbiesandnitwits.com - if you are lucky. It
all depends on whether she is tampering with it - again -
or if the web host has closed - again - for maintenance.
Since acquiring Sheldene's masterpiece the said host
has gone off-line for long periods and been forced to
change servers, update equipment, and embark on an
overhaul of the whole system.
At the same time Topica, who hosts our two ezines, has
also clocked up extensive downtime recently - for
maintenance.
Can this really be coincidence?
And not content with the above Sheldene has also
managed to totally confuse her PC. More often than not
these days it doesn't work at all - or it's doing something
really peculiar.
Today, for instance, the printer has disengaged itself
from the fray, so we won't be able to do our usual
printout to check this for spelling mistakes. Which
might, for a change, let me off the hook...but that is
unlikely.
I know this is boring but she's been extra-tedious lately
and I'm sure you don't expect me to start telling lies and
making things up.
In the meantime, if you hear of any suitable job in a safe,
sane environment, please don't forget that I'm still
looking.
(For once I agree - how boring - Ed.)
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BLATANT PLAGIARISM - and a trip
down memory lane.....
WHEN the winds of change first swept Africa 'whenwe's'
moved to new climes and made themselves unpopular
by saying how much better life was 'when we were in the
Congo...Kenya…or Rhodesia…' Although the migration
has continued for various reasons, fortunately the
'whenwe's' seem to have died out.
This is not an attempt to revive the 'whenwe' syndrome
but when I received a long email listing all the things
defining ex-Zimbabweans I couldn't resist it. Whoever
compiled this list was without doubt the genuine article.
Most of it hit home and left me smiling, but immersed in
nostalgia. Which is ridiculous as I am 'just down the
road' and still living in a land which is home to
chongololos and Christmas beetles.
The possibilities are that few of our readers are African
exiles. Please will the rest of you bear with us this once.
Recent emails out of Zimbabwe have been fraught with
emotion arising from the horrific effects of rampant
Mugabe's self-serving land-grabs. So it's good to be
reminded of how it was - and in many instances still is -
thanks to the resilience of courageous people across
the racial barriers.
Let me state categorically that I lay no claims to
authorship here. What follows was produced by
persons unknown. I merely strung their thoughts
together and rearranged them a bit, with minor
additions.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * **
YOU know you are an ex-Zimbo if you can still
remember Sally Donaldson's voice on the radio, if you
saw Grease four or five times and failed your driving
license at least once. If you still wear trainers without
socks, and horrify people by eating dried, raw meat. If
you miss the smell of rain on a hot, tar road, and a whiff
of red stoep (verandah) polish takes you back to
Christmases by the pool and makes you long for a
great, bed-rattling, window shaking, earth tremoring, all-
kids-and-animals-in-the-parents-bed storm.
If you went to school in Zimbabwe you were taught real
subjects like history and grammar and you are probably
still convinced day scholars are pampered mommie's
boys. You surely sang rude or witty words to hymns in
school assembly and you are still absolutely certain your
A-levels were harder than most first-year university
courses today. And of course you know, or still write to,
someone who went to Prince Edward, Saints, Falcon,
Marymount, Peterhouse, Chaplin, Guinea Fowl or
Gwebi Agricultural College.
At your school, instead of being counselled, unruly
students were beaten - and it worked. And it was no
use complaining to your father because he thought this
was a good idea. Now you bore or frighten your children
with harrowing tales of your deprived upbringing - when
TV started at 17.00 hrs and kids were expected to ride
push bikes to school.
Ex-Zimbos have their own dialect. Trafffic lights are
robots, crocodiles 'flatdogs', while Koki pens are
Neons to this day. What is this thing called polystyrene -
you call it kaylite - and 'muush' is still part of your
vocabulary - as is braai, kopje, fundi and lekker
(translation - barbecue, hill, expert, nice, and BTW,
'muush' also means 'nice').
If you are an ex-Zimbo you know all about playing in
sandpits and on jungle-gyms and you had avocado,
mango, guava and paw-paw trees in your garden. You
still remember the taste of gemsquash with melted
butter, mealies and Mazoe Orange Juice, and yearn for
bream fried on the side of a dam, five minutes after it
was caught.
You can still sing 'Ag Pleeze Daddy' and treasure Wrex
Tarr's Chilapalapa LP's. Of course you still know the
words of 'Cockie Lobbin' and all the Abba songs. You
remember Jacaranda trees in bloom on Selous Avenue
and own at least one ivory, soapstone or wooden
carving.
You are an ex-Zimbo if you or someone very close to
you did wheelies on the Enterprise Road outside
Gremlins; lost some teeth, or worse, on the rockslide at
Mermaid's Pool; spat from your bedroom window at the
Monomatapa onto the pool deck, then ducked your
head in quick. Or perhaps you injected Cane spirit into
a pocket of oranges to beat the booze ban at the Rugby
at Police Grounds - or sat at Castle Corner in the cricket
grounds, then couldn't remember who won the match.
You think the All Blacks are the Zimbabwe Tennis
Team, and you recall carefree, noisy days at Lake Mac,
before the hyacinth took over.
Ex-Zimbos know how to drive on strip roads and most
collected speeding tickets while racing to make the Beit
Bridge border post by 6 pm. Remember the 'Coke'
cans you collected on trips to South Africa, because
they were so cool, and all that enthusiastic hooting and
waving when you spotted another 'Zim' car while
travelling 'down South'?
Old habits die hard so you still can't get your head
around the idea of throwing away a glass Coke or beer
bottle, instead of taking it back for the deposit. And you
still find it hard to discard anything which, in your humble
opinion, could be fixed. You hate washing your car and
mowing the lawn, while ironing is something other
people do.
It goes without saying that you've never carried your own
golf clubs, and you think golf carts are for weaklings.
When you hear crickets in July you immediately think of
Christmas beetles and after an afternoon rain you
expect to see chongololos plus a 'few' flying ants. You
will never forget sitting for hours, sometimes days, in a
petrol queue - and not getting any.
As an ex-Zimbo you used to believe that people in
England and the USA, or wherever, had to be much
better at everything than you were - until you visited
those countries and found they were inhabited by
ordinary beings living ordinary lives. So it wasn't too
difficult to adapt to new circumstances but it can be
lonely…
Ex-Zimbos still think the most haunting sound in the
world is the cry of the fish eagle, and you long for the
soft morning glow that brightens the Mashonaland sky
between 5 and 6 am, and highlights the Msasa trees.
I hope, far-flung ex-Zimbos, you all have someone
who also remembers….
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GAMES CATS PLAY
by Pam Allen
WE'RE all familiar with the feline version of hockey,
usually played with a handy milk cap, or the cellophane
off of a cigarette pack.
My cats enjoy a rousing round of bat a cap as much as
the next cat, but due to their extremely high intelligence
quotient (and their desire to irritate me and the other
cats as much as possible), they've come up with their
own versions of hockey, along with some cat games I've
never heard of before. I'd strongly suggest you keep
your cat far out of viewing distance while you read this,
or you may possibly be subjected to some of the same
activities I have.
NotBear (he certainly seems to star in a good
percentage of these cat articles, doesn't he?), finds milk
cap hockey boring, and decided to create his own
hockey game. Realizing that part of the fun of hockey is
the possibility of war and injury breaking out, he set
about finding a cat sized substitute.
After carefully testing many possible pucks for speed,
distance and the ability to cause suffering, he finally
settled on...potatoes. Yes, potatoes. He will rip open a
brand new bag and paw through the contents until he
locates a few of the small ones. He then rolls his finds to
a position next to a doorway, and waits for another cat
to stroll unsuspectingly into the room.
Moving too fast for the human eye to see, his paw
flashes forward, connects with the potato, and sends it
flying across the floor, where it thumps into the surprised
victim. Needless to say, the other cats consider
NotBear somewhat of a troublemaker.
A few years ago, we had another scarily intelligent cat
that found a novel way to amuse himself and torment the
others. Coincidentally, Red was NotBear's grandfather.
Red would take position next to the water bowl, just
sitting there looking innocent. He'd sit there for hours if
he had to. When another cat approached and began
getting a drink, Red would hook the water dish with one
paw and start backing slowly up.
The thirsty victim would dutifully follow the water dish
around as Red towed it. As soon as he noticed the
other cat was keeping pace and continuing to drink,
Red would speed up until the poor cat stopped in
confusion. Red would stop dragging the dish until the
other cat resumed drinking, then off he'd go again.
After the other cats got wise to this trick, he gave up for
a while, then started on the food dish. This time though,
he didn't drag it; he'd just give it one hard yank, sending
food flying all over the floor, and into his victim's face.
After a while, the other cats learned not to even go near
the food or water when Red was near.
NotBear has another game he likes to play, called
'ghostly guitar'. My daughter has a junior sized acoustic
guitar that NotBear finds fascinating. Being an
inquisitive cat (more so than most), he has to thoroughly
explore everything that's new to him. He discovered that
a cat claw makes a darn good guitar pick, and he had a
hell of a time picking at the strings making noise. The
other cats find the fact that a guitar makes noise quite
interesting, but they haven't discovered exactly how one
makes noise.
NotBear will wait until a nearby cat has its back turned,
then pluck a string. Of course, the other cat comes
racing over to check it out, but the guitar remains
stubbornly silent until his back is turned again. It took me
a couple of weeks to discover why the guitar was
playing itself in the other room.
Every cat that has been in NotBear's lineage has been
extraordinarily intelligent, and active. I've only had one
other cat in all my years of cat ownership that has come
anywhere close to showing the kind of brains NotBear's
whole family has shown.
It's actually rather scary seeing a cat show the level of
thought and planning that these cats have. Not to
mention the fact that my other cats seem rather boring
with their regular cat activities.
NotBear is the last of his line, and he's been neutered,
so I guess when he's no longer with me, I'll once again
be accustomed to plain old regular cats. But it's been
fun and enlightening while it's lasted
© Copyright 2001 Pam Allen
_______________________________
Pam Allen writes about cats, decor and computers.
If you are having problems with your pc surf to
http://www.newbiesandnitwits.com where Pam is
resident computer guru, and ask her for help.
To read more cat stories visit
http://www.calamitycats.com
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GONE FISHING? - Not Likely!
SOMEHOW or other fishing never caught on in our
family. Of course we've tried it, but the consequences
were never encouraging.
Although Zimbabwe is land-locked, watery types are
catered for with large lakes and dams. Trout fishing is a
popular pastime in the Inyanga highlands so, when we
arranged to spend a weekend in these hills, my two
teenage sons lost no time borrowing fishing rods and
promising all and sundry that their deep-freezes would
be restocked, shortly.
At this time Inyanga was more of a guerillas' playground
than the tourist venue it is now, so the unsuspecting staff
at our chosen hotel welcomed us enthusiastically. We
literally had the place to ourselves and within hours our
sons had tried out the golf course, and been banned
from it for breaking an iron on a tree.
A little later my husband smoked out the ground floor of
this upmarket hostelry, including the reception area, by
attempting to light the fire laid in the snooker room.
After that there was nothing much for us to do apart from
retire to bed and make plans for the following day.
We decided, in order to leave the tennis courts and
bowling greens intact, to go fishing. The lake was close
by and clutching the borrowed rods (not designed for
trout, naturally) we set off.
Adrian and Llewelyn quickly unearthed a wooden boat
which had been mouldering on the banks of the lake for
years. Overjoyed by this discovery they rowed away,
leaving Keith and I plus Merlyn (then only three) to sit
around admiring the spectacular mountains. I think our
daughters, Miranda and Avalon, must have stayed in the
hotel because I have no memory whatsoever of their
role in this fiasco.
At first the boys amused themselves with yells and wild
castings, but were too far off to bother us much.
However shrieks of 'We're sinking!' had instant impact.
Galvanised into action their furious father charged up
and down the bank screaming 'I told you to leave that
**** boat alone' . Not knowing what else to do Merlyn
ran here and there after Keith, while I sat and watched
the drama unfold. After all I knew they could swim.
Slowly but surely the ancient boat filled and sank to the
bottom of the lake, taking one of the borrowed fishing
rods with it. The brats reached the shore safely, despite
being helpless with laughter, and Keith refused to speak
to any of us for hours.
The rest of the weekend was spent hiking grimly through
the mist, which didn't appeal to anyone, and probably
explains why this type of family togetherness took place
about once every decade..
A couple of years passed then Adrian and I decided to
'go fishing'. By this time he had left school and was
supposed to be studying something. I didn't begin work
until 5.30 pm which meant we had all day to mess
around in.
Lake Mac, about 20 miles, away was a favourite haunt
and this time we were going to embark on real fishing -
none of that trout nonsense. No-one wanted to risk
lending us any equipment so we were forced to go
shopping in cash-strapped Zimbabwe, where you were
lucky to find anything so don't expect a choice.
We acquired one very expensive and sophisticated
fishing rod (definitely a case of take it or leave it); a
toolbox for storing all our hooks, floats and sinkers, and
a huge landing net which we were particularly pleased
with.
For several months we went on fishing expeditions at
least twice a week. Loading our gear and sandwiches
into the car took forever but eventually we would arrive
at the lake. Unpacking the car and setting up our 'camp'
also took time but during this process we often made
speeches about how marvellous it was having the lake
to ourselves, etc etc.
At the beginning gaining possession of the only fishing
rod was quite an issue - until we both began to hate it
with a passion. The high-speed reel unravelled like
lightning and without the hook ever touching the water
we would be left with a gigantic snarl-up. Untangling this
nasty nylon nest took up most of the hours left to us - and
when we weren't involved in that we were carrying out
recce's to find better fishing sites (because there had to
be a reason why we never caught anything ).
Although the charms of Lake Mac itself never palled, the
lure of real fishing certainly did. Scrambling over the
rocks in the blazing sun is fun, but not when you're
hauling all your fishing 'katunda' with you.
To add to our bad temper we were not really alone
either. At least once on each excursion, a local would
emerge from the bushes, cast a superior or sometimes
pitying look at us crouching amidst our heap of useless
gear, and then drop a piece of string with a hook tied
on it into the water.
Within seconds he would be reeling in a fat fish,
smirking while we snarled 'Oh, well done!', before
strolling away quietly.
For the sake of our blood pressure, to say nothing of our
frazzled, sun-wizened skin, we finally abandoned the
project. I have no idea what eventually happened to the
extra-special rod and the prized net which never got the
opportunity to land anything. I only know neither Adrian
nor I have any desire to go fishing - ever.
I suppose it should have taught us not to be
materialistic….
Copyright 2001 Sheldene Chant
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'RACISM HIDES IN SO MANY PEOPLE'
says Melvin Durai
I WAS listening to National Public Radio (NPR) the
other day and heard a South African man speaking in
support of segregation: 'I feel more comfortable with
my own people. I don't see anything wrong with that.'
'Good for you,' I felt like saying. 'Pat yourself on the
back! You're willing to state your feelings on the radio,
so everyone can understand, quickly and easily, that
you're a racist.'
I'd rather deal with an outspoken racist than a quiet
racist. At least I'd know where I stand: As far away
as possible.
I wish all racists would come out of the closet. I wish the
white racists and black racists and brown racists would
organize a joint rally on television, so we can all watch
them beat each other up. It would be more fun than the
Olympics. A ratings bonanza.
That raises an interesting question: Is it OK to
discriminate against racists? After all, if racism is
wrong, what about racistism?
Racism is like a disease, an epidemic that afflicts
people to varying degrees. Some suffer from acute
racism. Even on their deathbeds, they'll be saying
things like, 'I hope I don't go to hell. I've heard that it isn't
segregated. But on the bright side, I'd be able to meet
Adolf Hitler.'
Others suffer from moderate racism. They don't
practice it all the time. They're part-time racists.
Whenever a person of another race knocks on their
doors, a warning flashes in their brains: 'Danger!
Danger! Be very suspicious. Could be a robber, could
be a kidnapper, could be a neighbor trying to borrow
something! It's much safer to pretend you're not home.'
Many suffer from mild racism. They enjoy having friends,
co-workers or neighbors of other races, but the moment
their son or daughter attempts to date one of 'those
people,' the wheels fall off the welcome wagon.
Sixteen-year-old son: 'Why can't I date Tanya? She has
a great body and a great CD collection, too. What more
could I want?'
Father: 'You're Asian. You're not supposed to date
someone named Tanya. You're supposed to date
someone named Tan Ya.'
When people apply for driver's licenses or other
identification cards, perhaps they should answer
multiple-choice questions such as these:
---I am a racist (a) all the time; (b) most of the time; (c)
only when I drink beer; (d) never; (e) whenever I lose
my job; (f) whenever I meet an inter-racial couple; (g
whenever I meet my Klan brothers.
---I believe that white people are (a) filthy rich; (b)
trustworthy; (c) country music fans; (d) rednecks;
(e) not much different from other people; (f) fat.
---I believe that black people are (a) cool; (b) lazy; (c)
good dancers; (d) Democrats; (e) not much different
from other people; (f) rap artists.
---I believe that Asians are (a) mathematical geniuses;
(b) short; (c) identical; (d) bad dancers; (e) not much
different from other people; (f) nerds.
---I believe that Hispanics are (a) farm workers (b)
Mexicans; (c) related to each other; (d) from a country
called Hispania; (e) not much different from other
people; (f) named Pedro.
All the people with incorrect answers would be required
to attend weekly Racists Anonymous meetings.
'Hi, my name is John Rocker and I'm a racist.'
Of course, almost all of us have at least a little prejudice,
hiding somewhere in our bodies. We have to fight the
impulse to think irrationally, so our prejudice doesn't
come out at the wrong time, such as on National Public
Radio.
(c) Copyright 2001 Melvin Durai. All Rights Reserved.
_____________________________
Melvin Durai is an Indiana-based writer, humorist and
occasional stand-up comedian. A native of India, he
grew up in Zambia and moved to the U.S. in the early
1980s.Through the Internet, his column is read by
thousands of people in more than 70 countries.
For a free subscription to one of America's
most entertaining and thought-provoking columns,
send a blank message to
durai-h-@mail-list.com
or go to http://www.melvindurai.com
öÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖö
HAVE YOUR SAY...
You can join the discussion list, Pigchat, by
simply sending a blank email to
<mailto:pigchat-s-@topica.com>.
öÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööOo
ARE YOU PROGRAMMED?
asks Jan Tincher
ARE you programmed? Definitely. How can you tell
what programming you have in your unconscious mind?
That's easy. Just look around your life and see what has
manifested. If it's happening -- manifested -- you have a
program that says it should happen, should manifest.
Now, don't go blaming yourself for what's happened, or
not happened, in your life. The same goes if you're
ashamed of what is manifesting in your life. Don't
blame yourself or feel shameful. Just read on and learn.
This knowledge can change your life around.
You did not choose your programming. I repeat, you did
not choose your programming. You must accept that
before you can change.
Programming was thrust upon you, and everyone else,
by the people in charge of your care as you were
developing mentally.
TIP: It doesn't matter who those people were or are --
there's no need to get angry with them at this late date.
They just, like you, lifted their programming off them and
set it on you. Let's face it, they couldn't, like, lift up
someone else's programming and set it on you nearly
as well as they could their own, so they did what comes
naturally.
That's what most people do. They try to make everyone
else's world fit theirs. Face it, you've caught yourself
doing it, too, haven't you?
Your life basically boils down to what you are is who, or
what, you came into contact with when you were
vulnerable and growing up.
It might not have been a person you actually know who
programmed you in some things. It could have been a
favorite TV show, radio personality, an idol of some
sort, whatever.
But, guess what. You're not in that vulnerable stage so
much anymore. Now, you can make your own mature
decisions. You can now take charge of your life. Now,
you know that when you look at something, or think
about something, that nothing is actually good or bad,
as in *nothing is good or bad, but thinking makes it
so.*
You can feel strongly about something, and probably do.
On the other hand, you won't have to walk too far to find
someone who feels strongly *against* what you feel
strongly for.
Who is to say who is right? What if suddenly you saw
the way he or she was thinking about it, and realized,
hey, THEY might be right!
What about what you felt strongly about? Did it
suddenly change? No, what changed is how you were
looking at it, what you were thinking.
All you really need to know is whether the programming
you've grown up with is truthful or not. If it is
programming that manifests as love and peace, it is
truthful. *Anything* else indicates some degree of
untruth. When you realize that, there will be more times
than not that you realize, 'I can let this go. This anger,
this judgment, isn't what I want in my programming.'
And then, let it go.
You need to let the untruthful programs come to
conscious awareness, then dissolve. This means that
you have to let them come into conscious awareness --
you have to think about them -- without resistance,
check it out, and make the decision to keep it,
or to let it go.
If it's something you *used* to hate, don't jump up
and down and get all bothered with it -- let it go. If you
get angry with it, you are keeping it. Let it go.
Do you feel you have to *be in control* of everything?
Feel the peace of *being in control* by making the
decision to let it go.
Have this be your thought pattern -- Feel the peace. Let
it go. Feel the peace. Let it go. Feel the peace. Let it
go.
Good luck!
Thanks for reading,
Jan
Copyright 2000, Jan Tincher, All Rights Reserved
Worldwide
------------------------------
Learn unique strategies and techniques for
personal success from Jan Tincher online at
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eNonyMouse....
( ...must have been associating with some
absolutely awful women...... or reading the
wrong sort of newsletters...and of course we
are only including this to keep you in touch
with some of the dreadful things happening
out there...)
What should you do if you see your ex-husband
rolling around on the ground, in pain?
Shoot him again!
How can you tell when a man is well-hung?
When you can barely slip your finger in between
his neck and the noose.
How many men does it take to screw in a light bulb?
One. He just holds it up there and waits for the world
to revolve around him.
How many men does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Three. One to screw in the bulb, and two to listen to
him brag about the screwing part.
What do you call a man in handcuffs?
Trustworthy.
What does it mean when a man is in your bed,
gasping for breath, and calling your name?
You didn't hold the pillow down long enough.
Why do female black widow spiders kill their mates
after mating?
To stop the snoring before it starts.
How do you keep your husband from reading your
e-mail?
By renaming the mail folder 'instruction manuals'.
(Apologies to all our male subscribers. We know
you wouldn't be reading this if you deserved
treatment like that...Ed)
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<br>
<x-tab> </x-tab><b>POIGNANT
PEARLS & POTBELLIED PIGS<br><br>
<x-tab> </x-tab>
Vol. 2 Issue 17 16th October,
2001<br><br>
</b>:<br>
öÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖö<br><br>
<br>
Our subscriber list is confidential
and we respect<br>
your privacy. All SUBSCRIBE
and UNSUBSCRIBE<br>
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the end of this issue.<br><br>
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<br>
<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab> </x-tab>
<b>CONTENTS<br><br>
</b><x-tab> </x-tab>-
Hello there . . .<br><br>
<x-tab> </x-tab>- Inside
Story<br><br>
<x-tab> </x-tab>- Blatant
Plagiarism - and a trip<br>
<x-tab> </x-tab>
down memory lane<br><br>
<x-tab> </x-tab>- Games
Cats Play<br><br>
- Gone Fishing? - not
likely!<br><br>
- Racism Hides in So
Many People!<br><br>
- Are You
Programmed?<br><br>
- eNonyMouse - relegated
to the end<br>
for
harboring such nasty thoughts...<br><br>
öÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖö<br><br>
<br>
<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab> </x-tab>
<b> HELLO THERE . . .<br><br>
</b>…you with the stars in your eyes, a grasshopper brain<br>
and thoughts without boundaries…<br><br>
As usual Griselda has latched on to all the moans and<br>
excuses, so I'm free to deal with the contents of this<br>
issue. Fishermen - or rather the lack of them - have<br>
been on my mind lately. The shad season closed a few<br>
weeks ago so here in Amanzimtoti we are enjoying a<br>
temporary respite from men waving long sticks, who<br>
clutter the rocks and leave their unpleasant litter behind<br>
them.<br><br>
Which reminded me of feeble attempts at fresh water<br>
fishing - see 'Gone Fishing? - not likely' - and you will<br>
understand why I have never been tempted to dip<br>
anything with a hook attached into the sea.<br><br>
Durban hosted a much publicised conference on<br>
racism recently and when I read Melvin Durai's, Racism<br>
Hides in So Many People, I was sorry he had not<br>
attended - as one of the speakers. Some of his<br>
suggestions would have livened things up.<br><br>
Of course you may not get past the first article - Blatant<br>
Plagiarism... which wallows in nostalgia and could be<br>
annoying if you don't happen to hail from Zimbabwe (or<br>
Rhodesia).<br><br>
Fortunately Pam Allen's Games Cats Play is very<br>
unlikely to irritate anyone, and Jan Tincher's Are You<br>
Programmed? should also prove soothing. But then I<br>
go and spoil it all with eNonyMouse's nonsense...<br><br>
So, if variety is the spice of life....we must be pleasing<br>
someone.<br><br>
Keep well - and have a nice month.<br><br>
öÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖö<br><br>
NEWBIES, NERDS & NITWITS<br><br>
'Support' ezine for everyone needing a helping<br>
hand with their first forays around a PC and the<br>
Internet.<br>
Subscribe today by sending a blank email to:<br>
<<a href="mailto:nerdsandnitwi-@topica.com" eudora="autourl">mailto:nerdsandnitwi-@topica.com</a>><br>
To view previous issues surf to:<br>
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VISIT the new website at<br>
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<br>
<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab> </x-tab>
<b>INSIDE STORY<br><br>
</b>
<i> (Quite a mild offering from Griselda -<br>
perhaps she's ill - Ed.)<br><br>
</i>HERE we go again - and only two days late which is<br>
nothing short of miraculous, considering.<br><br>
For weeks Sheldene has been completely immersed in<br>
her notorious web page, which has involved staying<br>
awake for days on end, walking about like a zombie,<br>
hysterical screaming and outbursts of bad behaviour too<br>
numerous to mention.<br><br>
I am sure her husband would rather be anywhere but<br>
here, but so far he has restricted himself to comments<br>
about how strange he finds the main heading on the<br>
web page which reads 'You Can Have Fun WIth Your<br>
PC and The Internet...' Need I say more?<br><br>
Anyway you can see the page for yourself at<br>
<a href="http://www.newbiesandnitwits.com/" eudora="autourl">http://www.newbiesandnitwits.com</a>
- if you are lucky. It<br>
all depends on whether she is tampering with it - again -<br>
or if the web host has closed - again - for maintenance.<br>
Since acquiring Sheldene's masterpiece the said host<br>
has gone off-line for long periods and been forced to<br>
change servers, update equipment, and embark on an<br>
overhaul of the whole system.<br><br>
At the same time Topica, who hosts our two ezines, has<br>
also clocked up extensive downtime recently - for<br>
maintenance.<br><br>
Can this really be coincidence?<br><br>
And not content with the above Sheldene has also<br>
managed to totally confuse her PC. More often than not<br>
these days it doesn't work at all - or it's doing something<br>
really peculiar.<br><br>
Today, for instance, the printer has disengaged itself<br>
from the fray, so we won't be able to do our usual<br>
printout to check this for spelling mistakes. Which<br>
might, for a change, let me off the hook...but that is<br>
unlikely.<br><br>
I know this is boring but she's been extra-tedious lately<br>
and I'm sure you don't expect me to start telling lies and<br>
making things up.<br><br>
In the meantime, if you hear of any suitable job in a safe,<br>
sane environment, please don't forget that I'm still<br>
looking.<br><br>
<i>(For once I agree - how boring - Ed.)<br><br>
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öÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖö<br><br>
<x-tab> </x-tab> <b>BLATANT PLAGIARISM - and a trip<br>
<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab> </x-tab>down memory lane.....<br><br>
</b><i>WHEN the winds of change first swept Africa 'whenwe's'<br>
moved to new climes and made themselves unpopular<br>
by saying how much better life was 'when we were in the<br>
Congo...Kenya…or Rhodesia…' Although the migration<br>
has continued for various reasons, fortunately the<br>
'whenwe's' seem to have died out.<br><br>
This is not an attempt to revive the 'whenwe' syndrome<br>
but when I received a long email listing all the things<br>
defining ex-Zimbabweans I couldn't resist it. Whoever<br>
compiled this list was without doubt the genuine article.<br>
Most of it hit home and left me smiling, but immersed in<br>
nostalgia. Which is ridiculous as I am 'just down the<br>
road' and still living in a land which is home to<br>
chongololos and Christmas beetles.<br><br>
The possibilities are that few of our readers are African<br>
exiles. Please will the rest of you bear with us this once.<br>
Recent emails out of Zimbabwe have been fraught with<br>
emotion arising from the horrific effects of rampant<br>
Mugabe's self-serving land-grabs. So it's good to be<br>
reminded of how it was - and in many instances still is -<br>
thanks to the resilience of courageous people across<br>
the racial barriers.<br><br>
Let me state categorically that I lay no claims to<br>
authorship here. What follows was produced by<br>
persons unknown. I merely strung their thoughts<br>
together and rearranged them a bit, with minor<br>
additions.<br>
</i> * * * * * * * * * * * * * * **<br><br>
YOU know you are an ex-Zimbo if you can still<br>
remember Sally Donaldson's voice on the radio, if you<br>
saw Grease four or five times and failed your driving<br>
license at least once. If you still wear trainers without<br>
socks, and horrify people by eating dried, raw meat. If<br>
you miss the smell of rain on a hot, tar road, and a whiff<br>
of red stoep (verandah) polish takes you back to<br>
Christmases by the pool and makes you long for a<br>
great, bed-rattling, window shaking, earth tremoring, all-<br>
kids-and-animals-in-the-parents-bed storm.<br><br>
If you went to school in Zimbabwe you were taught real<br>
subjects like history and grammar and you are probably<br>
still convinced day scholars are pampered mommie's<br>
boys. You surely sang rude or witty words to hymns in<br>
school assembly and you are still absolutely certain your<br>
A-levels were harder than most first-year university<br>
courses today. And of course you know, or still write to,<br>
someone who went to Prince Edward, Saints, Falcon,<br>
Marymount, Peterhouse, Chaplin, Guinea Fowl or<br>
Gwebi Agricultural College.<br><br>
At your school, instead of being counselled, unruly<br>
students were beaten - and it worked. And it was no<br>
use complaining to your father because he thought this<br>
was a good idea. Now you bore or frighten your children<br>
with harrowing tales of your deprived upbringing - when<br>
TV started at 17.00 hrs and kids were expected to ride<br>
push bikes to school.<br><br>
Ex-Zimbos have their own dialect. Trafffic lights are<br>
robots, crocodiles 'flatdogs', while Koki pens are<br>
Neons to this day. What is this thing called polystyrene -<br>
you call it kaylite - and 'muush' is still part of your<br>
vocabulary - as is braai, kopje, fundi and lekker<br>
(translation - barbecue, hill, expert, nice, and BTW,<br>
'muush' also means 'nice').<br><br>
If you are an ex-Zimbo you know all about playing in<br>
sandpits and on jungle-gyms and you had avocado,<br>
mango, guava and paw-paw trees in your garden. You<br>
still remember the taste of gemsquash with melted<br>
butter, mealies and Mazoe Orange Juice, and yearn for<br>
bream fried on the side of a dam, five minutes after it<br>
was caught.<br><br>
You can still sing 'Ag Pleeze Daddy' and treasure Wrex<br>
Tarr's Chilapalapa LP's. Of course you still know the<br>
words of 'Cockie Lobbin' and all the Abba songs. You<br>
remember Jacaranda trees in bloom on Selous Avenue<br>
and own at least one ivory, soapstone or wooden<br>
carving.<br><br>
You are an ex-Zimbo if you or someone very close to<br>
you did wheelies on the Enterprise Road outside<br>
Gremlins; lost some teeth, or worse, on the rockslide at<br>
Mermaid's Pool; spat from your bedroom window at the<br>
Monomatapa onto the pool deck, then ducked your<br>
head in quick. Or perhaps you injected Cane spirit into<br>
a pocket of oranges to beat the booze ban at the Rugby<br>
at Police Grounds - or sat at Castle Corner in the cricket<br>
grounds, then couldn't remember who won the match.<br>
You think the All Blacks are the Zimbabwe Tennis<br>
Team, and you recall carefree, noisy days at Lake Mac,<br>
before the hyacinth took over.<br><br>
Ex-Zimbos know how to drive on strip roads and most<br>
collected speeding tickets while racing to make the Beit<br>
Bridge border post by 6 pm. Remember the 'Coke'<br>
cans you collected on trips to South Africa, because<br>
they were so cool, and all that enthusiastic hooting and<br>
waving when you spotted another 'Zim' car while<br>
travelling 'down South'?<br><br>
Old habits die hard so you still can't get your head<br>
around the idea of throwing away a glass Coke or beer<br>
bottle, instead of taking it back for the deposit. And you<br>
still find it hard to discard anything which, in your humble<br>
opinion, could be fixed. You hate washing your car and<br>
mowing the lawn, while ironing is something other<br>
people do.<br><br>
It goes without saying that you've never carried your own<br>
golf clubs, and you think golf carts are for weaklings.<br>
When you hear crickets in July you immediately think of<br>
Christmas beetles and after an afternoon rain you<br>
expect to see chongololos plus a 'few' flying ants. You<br>
will never forget sitting for hours, sometimes days, in a<br>
petrol queue - and not getting any.<br><br>
As an ex-Zimbo you used to believe that people in<br>
England and the USA, or wherever, had to be much<br>
better at everything than you were - until you visited<br>
those countries and found they were inhabited by<br>
ordinary beings living ordinary lives. So it wasn't too<br>
difficult to adapt to new circumstances but it can be<br>
lonely…<br><br>
Ex-Zimbos still think the most haunting sound in the<br>
world is the cry of the fish eagle, and you long for the<br>
soft morning glow that brightens the Mashonaland sky<br>
between 5 and 6 am, and highlights the Msasa trees.<br><br>
<i>I hope, far-flung ex-Zimbos, you all have someone<br>
who also remembers….<br><br>
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<b>GAMES CATS PLAY<br><br>
by Pam Allen<br><br>
</b>WE'RE all familiar with the feline version of hockey,<br>
usually played with a handy milk cap, or the cellophane<br>
off of a cigarette pack.<br><br>
My cats enjoy a rousing round of bat a cap as much as<br>
the next cat, but due to their extremely high intelligence<br>
quotient (and their desire to irritate me and the other<br>
cats as much as possible), they've come up with their<br>
own versions of hockey, along with some cat games I've<br>
never heard of before. I'd strongly suggest you keep<br>
your cat far out of viewing distance while you read this,<br>
or you may possibly be subjected to some of the same<br>
activities I have.<br><br>
NotBear (he certainly seems to star in a good<br>
percentage of these cat articles, doesn't he?), finds milk<br>
cap hockey boring, and decided to create his own<br>
hockey game. Realizing that part of the fun of hockey is<br>
the possibility of war and injury breaking out, he set<br>
about finding a cat sized substitute.<br><br>
After carefully testing many possible pucks for speed,<br>
distance and the ability to cause suffering, he finally<br>
settled on...potatoes. Yes, potatoes. He will rip open a<br>
brand new bag and paw through the contents until he<br>
locates a few of the small ones. He then rolls his finds to<br>
a position next to a doorway, and waits for another cat<br>
to stroll unsuspectingly into the room.<br><br>
Moving too fast for the human eye to see, his paw<br>
flashes forward, connects with the potato, and sends it<br>
flying across the floor, where it thumps into the surprised<br>
victim. Needless to say, the other cats consider<br>
NotBear somewhat of a troublemaker.<br><br>
A few years ago, we had another scarily intelligent cat<br>
that found a novel way to amuse himself and torment the<br>
others. Coincidentally, Red was NotBear's grandfather.<br><br>
Red would take position next to the water bowl, just<br>
sitting there looking innocent. He'd sit there for hours if<br>
he had to. When another cat approached and began<br>
getting a drink, Red would hook the water dish with one<br>
paw and start backing slowly up.<br><br>
The thirsty victim would dutifully follow the water dish<br>
around as Red towed it. As soon as he noticed the<br>
other cat was keeping pace and continuing to drink,<br>
Red would speed up until the poor cat stopped in<br>
confusion. Red would stop dragging the dish until the<br>
other cat resumed drinking, then off he'd go again.<br><br>
After the other cats got wise to this trick, he gave up for<br>
a while, then started on the food dish. This time though,<br>
he didn't drag it; he'd just give it one hard yank, sending<br>
food flying all over the floor, and into his victim's face.<br>
After a while, the other cats learned not to even go near<br>
the food or water when Red was near.<br><br>
NotBear has another game he likes to play, called<br>
'ghostly guitar'. My daughter has a junior sized acoustic<br>
guitar that NotBear finds fascinating. Being an<br>
inquisitive cat (more so than most), he has to thoroughly<br>
explore everything that's new to him. He discovered that<br>
a cat claw makes a darn good guitar pick, and he had a<br>
hell of a time picking at the strings making noise. The<br>
other cats find the fact that a guitar makes noise quite<br>
interesting, but they haven't discovered exactly how one<br>
makes noise.<br><br>
NotBear will wait until a nearby cat has its back turned,<br>
then pluck a string. Of course, the other cat comes<br>
racing over to check it out, but the guitar remains<br>
stubbornly silent until his back is turned again. It took me<br>
a couple of weeks to discover why the guitar was<br>
playing itself in the other room.<br><br>
Every cat that has been in NotBear's lineage has been<br>
extraordinarily intelligent, and active. I've only had one<br>
other cat in all my years of cat ownership that has come<br>
anywhere close to showing the kind of brains NotBear's<br>
whole family has shown.<br><br>
It's actually rather scary seeing a cat show the level of<br>
thought and planning that these cats have. Not to<br>
mention the fact that my other cats seem rather boring<br>
with their regular cat activities.<br><br>
NotBear is the last of his line, and he's been neutered,<br>
so I guess when he's no longer with me, I'll once again<br>
be accustomed to plain old regular cats. But it's been<br>
fun and enlightening while it's lasted<br><br>
<b>© Copyright 2001 Pam Allen<br>
_______________________________<br>
</b><i>Pam Allen writes about cats, decor and computers.<br>
If you are having problems with your pc surf to<br>
<a href="http://www.newbiesandnitwits.com/" eudora="autourl">http://www.newbiesandnitwits.com</a> where Pam is<br>
resident computer guru, and ask her for help.<br>
To read more cat stories visit<br>
<a href="http://www.calamitycats.com/" eudora="autourl">http://www.calamitycats.com</a><br><br>
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<b> GONE FISHING? - Not Likely!<br><br>
</b>SOMEHOW or other fishing never caught on in our<br>
family. Of course we've tried it, but the consequences<br>
were never encouraging.<br><br>
Although Zimbabwe is land-locked, watery types are<br>
catered for with large lakes and dams. Trout fishing is a<br>
popular pastime in the Inyanga highlands so, when we<br>
arranged to spend a weekend in these hills, my two<br>
teenage sons lost no time borrowing fishing rods and<br>
promising all and sundry that their deep-freezes would<br>
be restocked, shortly.<br><br>
At this time Inyanga was more of a guerillas' playground<br>
than the tourist venue it is now, so the unsuspecting staff<br>
at our chosen hotel welcomed us enthusiastically. We<br>
literally had the place to ourselves and within hours our<br>
sons had tried out the golf course, and been banned<br>
from it for breaking an iron on a tree.<br><br>
A little later my husband smoked out the ground floor of<br>
this upmarket hostelry, including the reception area, by<br>
attempting to light the fire laid in the snooker room.<br>
After that there was nothing much for us to do apart from<br>
retire to bed and make plans for the following day.<br><br>
We decided, in order to leave the tennis courts and<br>
bowling greens intact, to go fishing. The lake was close<br>
by and clutching the borrowed rods (not designed for<br>
trout, naturally) we set off.<br><br>
Adrian and Llewelyn quickly unearthed a wooden boat<br>
which had been mouldering on the banks of the lake for<br>
years. Overjoyed by this discovery they rowed away,<br>
leaving Keith and I plus Merlyn (then only three) to sit<br>
around admiring the spectacular mountains. I think our<br>
daughters, Miranda and Avalon, must have stayed in the<br>
hotel because I have no memory whatsoever of their<br>
role in this fiasco.<br><br>
At first the boys amused themselves with yells and wild<br>
castings, but were too far off to bother us much.<br>
However shrieks of 'We're sinking!' had instant impact.<br><br>
Galvanised into action their furious father charged up<br>
and down the bank screaming 'I told you to leave that<br>
**** boat alone' . Not knowing what else to do Merlyn<br>
ran here and there after Keith, while I sat and watched<br>
the drama unfold. After all I knew they could swim.<br><br>
Slowly but surely the ancient boat filled and sank to the<br>
bottom of the lake, taking one of the borrowed fishing<br>
rods with it. The brats reached the shore safely, despite<br>
being helpless with laughter, and Keith refused to speak<br>
to any of us for hours.<br><br>
The rest of the weekend was spent hiking grimly through<br>
the mist, which didn't appeal to anyone, and probably<br>
explains why this type of family togetherness took place<br>
about once every decade..<br><br>
A couple of years passed then Adrian and I decided to<br>
'go fishing'. By this time he had left school and was<br>
supposed to be studying something. I didn't begin work<br>
until 5.30 pm which meant we had all day to mess<br>
around in.<br><br>
Lake Mac, about 20 miles, away was a favourite haunt<br>
and this time we were going to embark on real fishing -<br>
none of that trout nonsense. No-one wanted to risk<br>
lending us any equipment so we were forced to go<br>
shopping in cash-strapped Zimbabwe, where you were<br>
lucky to find anything so don't expect a choice.<br><br>
We acquired one very expensive and sophisticated<br>
fishing rod (definitely a case of take it or leave it); a<br>
toolbox for storing all our hooks, floats and sinkers, and<br>
a huge landing net which we were particularly pleased<br>
with.<br><br>
For several months we went on fishing expeditions at<br>
least twice a week. Loading our gear and sandwiches<br>
into the car took forever but eventually we would arrive<br>
at the lake. Unpacking the car and setting up our 'camp'<br>
also took time but during this process we often made<br>
speeches about how marvellous it was having the lake<br>
to ourselves, etc etc.<br><br>
At the beginning gaining possession of the only fishing<br>
rod was quite an issue - until we both began to hate it<br>
with a passion. The high-speed reel unravelled like<br>
lightning and without the hook ever touching the water<br>
we would be left with a gigantic snarl-up. Untangling this<br>
nasty nylon nest took up most of the hours left to us - and<br>
when we weren't involved in that we were carrying out<br>
recce's to find better fishing sites (because there had to<br>
be a reason why we never caught anything ).<br><br>
Although the charms of Lake Mac itself never palled, the<br>
lure of real fishing certainly did. Scrambling over the<br>
rocks in the blazing sun is fun, but not when you're<br>
hauling all your fishing 'katunda' with you.<br><br>
To add to our bad temper we were not really alone<br>
either. At least once on each excursion, a local would<br>
emerge from the bushes, cast a superior or sometimes<br>
pitying look at us crouching amidst our heap of useless<br>
gear, and then drop a piece of string with a hook tied<br>
on it into the water.<br><br>
Within seconds he would be reeling in a fat fish,<br>
smirking while we snarled 'Oh, well done!', before<br>
strolling away quietly.<br><br>
For the sake of our blood pressure, to say nothing of our<br>
frazzled, sun-wizened skin, we finally abandoned the<br>
project. I have no idea what eventually happened to the<br>
extra-special rod and the prized net which never got the<br>
opportunity to land anything. I only know neither Adrian<br>
nor I have any desire to go fishing - ever.<br><br>
I suppose it should have taught us not to be<br>
materialistic….<br><br>
<b>Copyright 2001 Sheldene Chant<br><br>
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<br>
<b> 'RACISM HIDES IN SO MANY PEOPLE'<br><br>
says Melvin Durai<br><br>
<br>
</b>I WAS listening to National Public Radio (NPR) the<br>
other day and heard a South African man speaking in<br>
support of segregation: 'I feel more comfortable with<br>
my own people. I don't see anything wrong with that.'<br><br>
'Good for you,' I felt like saying. 'Pat yourself on the<br>
back! You're willing to state your feelings on the radio,<br>
so everyone can understand, quickly and easily, that<br>
you're a racist.'<br><br>
I'd rather deal with an outspoken racist than a quiet<br>
racist. At least I'd know where I stand: As far away<br>
as possible.<br><br>
I wish all racists would come out of the closet. I wish the<br>
white racists and black racists and brown racists would<br>
organize a joint rally on television, so we can all watch<br>
them beat each other up. It would be more fun than the<br>
Olympics. A ratings bonanza.<br><br>
That raises an interesting question: Is it OK to<br>
discriminate against racists? After all, if racism is<br>
wrong, what about racistism?<br><br>
Racism is like a disease, an epidemic that afflicts<br>
people to varying degrees. Some suffer from acute<br>
racism. Even on their deathbeds, they'll be saying<br>
things like, 'I hope I don't go to hell. I've heard that it isn't<br>
segregated. But on the bright side, I'd be able to meet<br>
Adolf Hitler.'<br><br>
Others suffer from moderate racism. They don't<br>
practice it all the time. They're part-time racists.<br>
Whenever a person of another race knocks on their<br>
doors, a warning flashes in their brains: 'Danger!<br>
Danger! Be very suspicious. Could be a robber, could<br>
be a kidnapper, could be a neighbor trying to borrow<br>
something! It's much safer to pretend you're not home.'<br><br>
Many suffer from mild racism. They enjoy having friends,<br>
co-workers or neighbors of other races, but the moment<br>
their son or daughter attempts to date one of 'those<br>
people,' the wheels fall off the welcome wagon.<br><br>
Sixteen-year-old son: 'Why can't I date Tanya? She has<br>
a great body and a great CD collection, too. What more<br>
could I want?'<br><br>
Father: 'You're Asian. You're not supposed to date<br>
someone named Tanya. You're supposed to date<br>
someone named Tan Ya.'<br><br>
When people apply for driver's licenses or other<br>
identification cards, perhaps they should answer<br>
multiple-choice questions such as these:<br><br>
---I am a racist (a) all the time; (b) most of the time; (c)<br>
only when I drink beer; (d) never; (e) whenever I lose<br>
my job; (f) whenever I meet an inter-racial couple; (g<br>
whenever I meet my Klan brothers.<br><br>
---I believe that white people are (a) filthy rich; (b)<br>
trustworthy; (c) country music fans; (d) rednecks;<br>
(e) not much different from other people; (f) fat.<br><br>
---I believe that black people are (a) cool; (b) lazy; (c)<br>
good dancers; (d) Democrats; (e) not much different<br>
from other people; (f) rap artists.<br><br>
---I believe that Asians are (a) mathematical geniuses;<br>
(b) short; (c) identical; (d) bad dancers; (e) not much<br>
different from other people; (f) nerds.<br><br>
---I believe that Hispanics are (a) farm workers (b)<br>
Mexicans; (c) related to each other; (d) from a country<br>
called Hispania; (e) not much different from other<br>
people; (f) named Pedro.<br><br>
All the people with incorrect answers would be required<br>
to attend weekly Racists Anonymous meetings.<br>
'Hi, my name is John Rocker and I'm a racist.'<br><br>
Of course, almost all of us have at least a little prejudice,<br>
hiding somewhere in our bodies. We have to fight the<br>
impulse to think irrationally, so our prejudice doesn't<br>
come out at the wrong time, such as on National Public<br>
Radio.<br><br>
<b>(c) Copyright 2001 Melvin Durai. All Rights Reserved.<br>
_____________________________<br><br>
</b><i>Melvin Durai is an Indiana-based writer, humorist and<br>
occasional stand-up comedian. A native of India, he<br>
grew up in Zambia and moved to the U.S. in the early<br>
1980s.Through the Internet, his column is read by<br>
thousands of people in more than 70 countries.<br>
For a free subscription to one of America's<br>
most entertaining and thought-provoking columns,<br>
send a blank message to<br>
durai-h-@mail-list.com<br>
or go to <a href="http://www.melvindurai.com/" eudora="autourl">http://www.melvindurai.com</a><br><br>
</i>öÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖö<br><br>
HAVE YOUR SAY...<br>
You can join the discussion list, Pigchat, by<br>
simply sending a blank email to<br>
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<b>ARE YOU PROGRAMMED?<br><br>
asks Jan Tincher<br><br>
</b>ARE you programmed? Definitely. How can you tell<br>
what programming you have in your unconscious mind?<br><br>
That's easy. Just look around your life and see what has<br>
manifested. If it's happening -- manifested -- you have a<br>
program that says it should happen, should manifest.<br><br>
Now, don't go blaming yourself for what's happened, or<br>
not happened, in your life. The same goes if you're<br>
ashamed of what is manifesting in your life. Don't<br>
blame yourself or feel shameful. Just read on and learn.<br>
This knowledge can change your life around.<br><br>
You did not choose your programming. I repeat, you did<br>
not choose your programming. You must accept that<br>
before you can change.<br><br>
Programming was thrust upon you, and everyone else,<br>
by the people in charge of your care as you were<br>
developing mentally.<br><br>
TIP: It doesn't matter who those people were or are --<br>
there's no need to get angry with them at this late date.<br>
They just, like you, lifted their programming off them and<br>
set it on you. Let's face it, they couldn't, like, lift up<br>
someone else's programming and set it on you nearly<br>
as well as they could their own, so they did what comes<br>
naturally.<br><br>
That's what most people do. They try to make everyone<br>
else's world fit theirs. Face it, you've caught yourself<br>
doing it, too, haven't you?<br><br>
Your life basically boils down to what you are is who, or<br>
what, you came into contact with when you were<br>
vulnerable and growing up.<br><br>
It might not have been a person you actually know who<br>
programmed you in some things. It could have been a<br>
favorite TV show, radio personality, an idol of some<br>
sort, whatever.<br><br>
But, guess what. You're not in that vulnerable stage so<br>
much anymore. Now, you can make your own mature<br>
decisions. You can now take charge of your life. Now,<br>
you know that when you look at something, or think<br>
about something, that nothing is actually good or bad,<br>
as in *nothing is good or bad, but thinking makes it<br>
so.*<br><br>
You can feel strongly about something, and probably do.<br>
On the other hand, you won't have to walk too far to find<br>
someone who feels strongly *against* what you feel<br>
strongly for.<br><br>
Who is to say who is right? What if suddenly you saw<br>
the way he or she was thinking about it, and realized,<br>
hey, THEY might be right!<br><br>
What about what you felt strongly about? Did it<br>
suddenly change? No, what changed is how you were<br>
looking at it, what you were thinking.<br><br>
All you really need to know is whether the programming<br>
you've grown up with is truthful or not. If it is<br>
programming that manifests as love and peace, it is<br>
truthful. *Anything* else indicates some degree of<br>
untruth. When you realize that, there will be more times<br>
than not that you realize, 'I can let this go. This anger,<br>
this judgment, isn't what I want in my programming.'<br>
And then, let it go.<br><br>
You need to let the untruthful programs come to<br>
conscious awareness, then dissolve. This means that<br>
you have to let them come into conscious awareness --<br>
you have to think about them -- without resistance,<br>
check it out, and make the decision to keep it,<br>
or to let it go.<br><br>
If it's something you *used* to hate, don't jump up<br>
and down and get all bothered with it -- let it go. If you<br>
get angry with it, you are keeping it. Let it go.<br><br>
Do you feel you have to *be in control* of everything?<br>
Feel the peace of *being in control* by making the<br>
decision to let it go.<br><br>
Have this be your thought pattern -- Feel the peace. Let<br>
it go. Feel the peace. Let it go. Feel the peace. Let it<br>
go.<br><br>
Good luck!<br><br>
Thanks for reading,<br>
Jan<br><br>
<b>Copyright 2000, Jan Tincher, All Rights Reserved<br>
Worldwide<br>
</b>------------------------------<br>
<i>Learn unique strategies and techniques for<br>
personal success from Jan Tincher online at<br>
<a href="http://www.tameyourbrain.com/" eudora="autourl">http://www.TameYourBrain.com</a> While you are there,<br>
sign up for her free e-zine *Tame Your Brain!*<br><br>
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<br>
<b> eNonyMouse...</b>.<br><br>
<x-tab> </x-tab><b><i>( ...must have been associating with some<br>
<x-tab> </x-tab> absolutely awful women...... or reading the<br>
<x-tab> </x-tab> wrong sort of newsletters...and of course we<br>
<x-tab> </x-tab> are only including this to keep you in touch<br>
<x-tab> </x-tab> with some of the dreadful things happening<br>
<x-tab> </x-tab> out there...)<br><br>
</i></b> What should you do if you see your ex-husband<br>
rolling around on the ground, in pain?<br>
Shoot him again!<br><br>
<br>
How can you tell when a man is well-hung?<br>
When you can barely slip your finger in between<br>
his neck and the noose.<br><br>
<br>
How many men does it take to screw in a light bulb?<br>
One. He just holds it up there and waits for the world<br>
to revolve around him.<br><br>
<br>
How many men does it take to screw in a light bulb?<br>
Three. One to screw in the bulb, and two to listen to<br>
him brag about the screwing part.<br><br>
<br>
What do you call a man in handcuffs?<br>
Trustworthy.<br><br>
<br>
What does it mean when a man is in your bed,<br>
gasping for breath, and calling your name?<br>
You didn't hold the pillow down long enough.<br><br>
<br>
Why do female black widow spiders kill their mates<br>
after mating?<br>
To stop the snoring before it starts.<br><br>
<br>
How do you keep your husband from reading your<br>
e-mail?<br>
By renaming the mail folder 'instruction manuals'.<br><br>
<b><i>(Apologies to all our male subscribers. We know<br>
you wouldn't be reading this if you deserved<br>
treatment like that...Ed)<br><br>
<br>
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Copyright 2001 Poignant Pearls & Potbellied Pigs<br><br>
öÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖöº*°*ºöÖööÖö<br><br>
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