معاجم | Khaled Hassan - elecciones2013.info
This is lipsyg dooley krieging the funk from the hinnessy. Goalball I've struck this daylit dielate night of nights, by golly! a fore marriage, a bad wake, tell hell's well; such is manowife's lot of lose and win again, And because, you pluckless lanka-loot, I hate the very thought of the thought of you and. Some of the badges depict the golly with a tennis racket. "They hate us because we're Mexican," or "They're racist against .. I find it slightly odd that the nature of Harry's relationship with Mr. Khan . Fran said, .. Bangladeshi and Pakistani gangs makes West Side Story seem like a Hollywood movie. What are the attributes of a boy you think you could love? Awaiting us is a paradise of fran- tic Christmas shopping and tree- trimming; visits to friends with new.
That gets pretty close to home. What I am concerned about in the latest three scandals is whether racism is simply being trivialized however unintentionally through dim-witted word taboo. But it is not at all clear. Prince Harry was serving in the army when he took a few minutes of video of some of his friends using his cell phone. His unit was waiting to ship out to Afghanistan, and they were sitting around, some of them dozing.
Harry went around recording them, just for something to do, and as he did a shot of his friend Ahmed Raza Khan he mumbled on the soundtrack that this was "our little Paki friend Ahmed.
The newspapers exploded with politically correct but somewhat implausible horror. A royal apology was demanded, and was contritely given. Prince Charles's friend is the Indian businessman Kolin Dhillon. He has said that he has borne the nickname Sooty since his schooldays, and doesn't mind it at all.
The story did not have any real legs, and faded away. It is the case of Carol Thatcher that I at first thought was the silliest yet; but it may instead be the least silly. It is not yet possible to tell. What happened, it seems, was that she was sitting around in the Green Room, a large glass of white wine in her hand, in a group of a dozen people in an interval during a recording of The One Show, and she referred to a black professional tennis player as a golliwog.
It is important that she was not among friends in a private place. The group included guests, production staff walking in and out, and a journalist or two. Although it was not broadcast, it was on BBC premises during working hours. More than one member of the group was offended by the golliwog reference, and said so. There was some kind of altercation between Thatcher and the comedienne Jo Brand. Later a complaint was made to the BBC management.
The BBC says it tried for five days to get a "sincere and fulsome" apology out of her and failed. She holds that she was in a private conversation, and was merely a joking remark not calling for any apology.
So the decision was made that she would not be contributing to The One Show any more she is a freelancer who sometimes gets work on BBC shows, not a career BBC staff member. We need a transcript of the episode, of course. Everything depends on what exactly was said, but of course no one can tell us — it was not recorded, and non-linguists are not competent to provide a precise report of the utterances made in the correct sequence and with the correct intonation.
Plenty of linguists get their transcriptions of even quite short utterances wrong. Press reports imply that Thatcher may have expressed amusement at the way the tennis player resembled the golliwog on the jars of marmalade she remembered from her youth. Clarington "I don't agree with everything Mather does either, but at least he's anti-devil.
Awaiting us is a paradise of fran- tic Christmas shopping and tree- trimming; visits to friends with new babies and to a dentist who can't wait to get his hands on our last wisdom tooth; and lest we forget, a library crammed with material for a term paper. But our young and boisterous enthusiasm is dimmed by the re- ealization that it will only last for two weeks.
Language Log » Pakigate, Sootygate, Gollygate
On the second day of the new year, we'll be back looking at this same old typewrit- er again, putting together our January issue. In case you've forgotten, that's our centerspread anniversary issue - also dedicat- ed to the consumption of coffee and cigarettes in wholesale lots. We hate to prick a pretty bubble, but the end of January brings more than the first of February you know. At various times, said editor has been accused of such heinous crimes as treason, heresy and just plain ole mortal sin.
It just happens that we like to get inky, and Thursday nights in the pressroom relieve our frustra- tions. It should be emphasized that we do not have, and do not wish to have, any influence or truck with the Kirchoffian vehicle. It's just that we have an affinity for printer's ink. We used to think so too. Until our advertising manager quit and we were faced with the possibility of putting out a magazine devoid of advertising and consequently of course, going broke.
It would undoubtedly have been the first time a college humor magazine fold up for non-censorship rea- sons. We sweated it for a while un- til one day an ex-POW named Hollywood peered in the door of our office and said "Hey, man, wanna buy an ad manager? He's poor and we pay. Anyway, now we have an ad manager again, and he has money for Bengal Shop coffee, so everyone's happy.
You gripe about the corny jokes we print but you don't do any- thing about them. Poor Virginia coyly known as Ginny Turman gets buried in exchange maga- zines and old joke books every month, and you still complain. So why not do something about it? If you hear or read a good joke, come up and tell us. Even if it's not printable-we accept all con- tributions.
Well, it's time to close up Read Hall and pack a suitcase or three for the ride home. But in Showme, It's censored. Unsolicited manuscripts will not be returned unless accompanied by self-addressed, stamped envelope. Advertising rates furnished on request. But yea, and it is time to wax serious for a while.
I have of- ten thought what a difficult feat that would be if perhaps serious didn't want to be waxed - even with non-skid glo-coat.
Christmas seals and the Salvation Army band on the cor- ner. Especially since Santy Claws is dead, anyway. If you did throw bills, please - they're quieteryou may have wondered just how in blazes I knew where he was.
Well, to be honest about it, I'll have to ad- mit that I didn't have the slight- est idea where he was. Awright, awright-Ardy Fried- man, he told me. Well, he's a pretty nice guy, even if he is one of these ivy league characters. Among his many other enthralling attri- butes, he is quite a handsome beer drinker, and it came about that one afternoon he and I were squatting in the Stein Club verb- ally solving some of the more pressing world problems, and he told me where James Dean was.
Oh, he was very offhand about it. Casual as hell, you know. He just coolly mentioned it while I was pouring a beer. Well, I just about flipped, I guess you real- ize that. Here he comes out with the answer to a riddle that has baffled scientists for years, and treats it as if it weren't no more than ordering a beer. Well, I could hardly contain myself. All that day - before I talked to Ardy - I had practic- ally been in a state of incoher- ence wondering where James Dean was.
I mean I was really sweating, I'll tell you. And then ole Ardy comes out with the an- swer to all my problems. I found out where James was. Anyway, as I said, I thought I'd be honest about the whole thing.
So if you ever want to know where anybody is, just ask Ardy Friedman. He can get it for you wholesale. What happened was this. One night during the recent Thanksgiving vacation?
I happened to be laying in my sack listening to the radio. I don't mean to imply that all I do during vacations is lis- ten to the radio, but here in Co- lumbia they pretty much roll up the sidewalks when the students leave, and there's not just a hell of lot one can do to have any excitement.
So I was getting my kicks with the crazy voice-box. It was a half-hour program, and after about 25 minutes of in- terviewing Stephen's -Susies they didn't go home over thanks day and their parents, Joe Interview- er came to a couple of MU stu- tents. Say, just what are your impres- sions of Moon Valley Villa? Well, some people often have that trouble.
Let's see, did you turn wrong when you came to the creek? We swum the crick. Swum the - Har- har. Well, ah, what are you two boys ma- joring in over at MU? And you - what are you? During the recent football sea- son, there happened to be a story in one of the slick maga- zines about Bobby Dodd, coach of the Georgia Tech football team which at the time was do- ing pretty well - I don't know how they finally came out.
It was one of the usual stories. You know - what Mr. Dodd ate 10 for breakfast, and how often he kicked his dog, and garbage like that. Well, it seems that one of his more remarkable attributes is his fantastic luck - so much that whenever things got to going rough for the team, they would put all their faith in Coach Dodd, in the hopes that his phenom- enal luck would pull them out of it.
The story cited the following example: At half-time during a game with one of their tough tra- ditional rivals, Georgia Tech found themselves behind by two or three touchdowns. They all trooped into the dressing room and exhaustedly flopped onto the floor, but instead of going over their plays and trying to figure out what they were doing wrong, they just lay there, star- ing at the walls.
Didn't even drink their orange juice. Well, about two minutes before the second half started, Coach Dodd came in, looked around sternly, and announced that he had decided they were going to win the game, after all. This stunned the players for a few seconds, but then they got sort of glassy-eyed, stood up and raised their arms, and chanted: Well, I told you it would take a wild stretch of imagination.
However, I didn't know that that's what I was un- til a few weeks ago, when some- body pointed it out to me, and as soon as I find out just exactly what it means you better watch my smoke. It's probably got all kinds of real important duties and responsibilities, you know, and as soon as I am informed of their nature I will go like a mad- man.
Is the Panama Canal south and east, south and west, or due south of Florida? What's the long thing on the staircase that you used to slide down? What was the name of the ship that fought the Mon- itor?
What was the name of Tom Sawyer's "bosom friend"? How long does it take a cen- tury plant to bloom? Who was the man who said: What was General Grant's given name? Who was "The Merchant of Venice? Shylock, you owe somebody a beer. The dirty little coward who shot Mr. Howard got switches from Santy every year, it didn't matter to him - he'd look up with a grin, and say "Bartender, set up an- other beer.
Little Jimmy played it mean, and put him in the ice machine. That's putting it mildly. The guy whose line the panel was trying to figger out was a mat- tress stuffer, and after several minutes of getting nowhere, one of the panelists a woman came out with this: It brought down the house. Our bird's eye view of civiliza- tion shows that as far as pop songs go, we still have Mr.
Dominoe explaining just where he found his thrill, a young lady throwing her mother from the train a kissand Elvis Pres- ley raising cain with his mun- singwear. Also the Xmas novelty songs are beginning to appear, some idiots are still paying their nickles to hear about the Flying Saucers, you can't turn on your radio but what you'll come across Patience and Prudence who I will offer to bludgeon at low ratesexponents of progressive jazz have come up with a new twist in records with no sound, and Der Bingle is beginning to moan White Christmas.
On the sports scene we have Don Newcombe regularly visit- ing a psychiatrist every day in every way, I am getting BET- TERDon Faurot still trying to figger out just what got into Chuck Meher, Wilt the Stilt Chamberlain, 20, Negro, Kansas University, United States, Amer- ica, Western Hemisphere, earth, world, solar system, Milky Way Galaxy, the Universe, God, San- ta Claus, how's that for report- ing employing intricate defen- sive maneuvers to keep from getting his head hung up in the basket, Bud Wilkinson resorting to the dictionary in an attempt to define the word lose, and Ar- chie Moore explaining that the draft board is after him because he recently turned Other trivia we need not dis- course upon are the elections, Nixon, the hydrogen bomb, in- cest, and the Booneville bridge.
At the risk of being accused of secondary school senility I'd like to forget about my place in the cosmic scheme of things long enough to wish you all a very sentimental and happy Yuletide. It's a sentimental season and somehow the vain strivings for collegiate urbanity and worldli- ness, et cetera, don't seem to make as much sense as usual.
So Hurrah for Christmas, Hur- rah for New Year's, have lots of good parties, accumulate truck- loads of loot, and don't forget, beer and tomato juice can make New Year's Day livable if all else fails. I guess that will fill this space up. See you all next month. This is little Rhody She gives all appearances of being a sweet innocent sorority girl with simple pleasures and wants, like sealing people up in walls or.
By some freak accident of nature, Arnie dies and she gets it. Rhody receives just retribution for her sins when by another freak accident of nature she falls, fully clothed, into a nearby cement mixer. Rhody makes friends with new little sorority sister who holds the national championship medal for bug stomping. His don- key was lame from having trip- ped in a hole on the long road from his home.
He didn't want to leave Old Babba behind. Thieves would have taken him to sell in the market place for meat. He hoped that he could find a good alchemist to repair Babba's leg which he feared was broken. Old Babba had served Ahmed long and faithfully and a man didn't return long years of labor unjustly.
The afternoon sun barely light- ed the way into Bethlehem as Ah- med came into the city. The streets were crowded and noisy with peo- ple from many lands milling around in the market place.
Bab ba was limping more than ever now, and it took almost two hours for Ahmed to lead him through the city to the small manger in back of an inn he had finally found.
He put fresh hay in the feeding bin and a container of cool water nearby so that Babba would not want food or drink through the long night before an alchemist could be found. The room was not large and the bed was hard, but Ahmed was tired, and the other inns were filled, so it mattered little to him. He put on a clean robe and went down the narrow stairs to the crowded dining room.
The land- lord, a jovial, friendly fellow, placed good wine and bread be- fore him, and Ahmed ate well. There were many Roman soldiers in the dining room, too. They were drinking wine and singing loud songs. The daughter of the landlord was sitting on the lap of a young captain, playing with his beard. Ahmed slowly made his way up the stairs to his room. He wearily took off his robe and crawled in- to a narrow hard bed.
Soon he was fast asleep, dreaming of his long walk to Bethlehem. The sound of voices was heard in the courtyard below. Ahmed turned over in his bed and lis- tened. They say a voice from above told them to come. In the morning the sun seemed brighter than usual, and Ahmed was sure he heard a lark singing. He rose and quickly dressed. The landlord sat a good meal before Ahmed and told him of a wise old achemist down the road who was very good in matters of cows and donkeys.
The alchemist was still in bed when Ahmed pounded on his door. His beard was long, and he was bent with age. But his eyes were still young and Ahmed told him of Babba and the accident.
Karufka, as the alchemist was called, took almost an hour dress- ing and eating. Ahmed drank two glasses of wine while the other ate his figs. Finally, he was ready to go. He carried a long box contain- ing many jars of oils and powders that he said would cure the ani mal. As they walked down the long lane to Ahmed's inn, the old man told him of many curings he had done, and of his world-wide fame.
Ahmed had never heard of the man before the landlord had spoken well of him. At last, panting with old age, the alchemist stepped into the manger. Ahmed led the way to Babba. A young man and woman were in the back of the manger talking quietly together.
It looked to Ahmed as if the woman were holding a child, but he was too concerned with Babba to give it further thought.
The stockings were hung by the chimney there But Freddy was drunk and he didn't care. What if he was only seven years old; His one sterling virtue was the booze he could hold. With precision and care he mixed up a nightcap And let the room settle before he took a nap, When he heard a big ruckus out on the roof He knew in an instant that Santa had goofed. Last year it was reindeer, what a crazy kick He gets on when he's stewed; better hide the scotch quick. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen slush Gave a vivid picture of St.
Nick, the old lush. He chugged a fifth - then his laprobe unfurled, And something emerged - My Gad. Santa whistled and burped and shouted a curse, "These damn reindeer, every year they get worse! He pinched his girlfriend and said, "You little vixen, We'll have no more trouble with that nosy Blitzen!
When Freddy drew in his head, it was whirling around But he dashed to Santa with a leap and a bound. For Santa's foot was caught in a solid steel snare That Freddy had set in the fireplace there. Santa's eyes were bloodshot, and he had a beer belly That shook when he screamed like a bowl full of jelly. So little of his composure was left That Freddy laughed in spite of himself. Without a word Freddy went straight to his task; Stole all Santa's toys, then drained his flask.
Then sticking a firecracker in the side of his shoe, Freddy lit a match, and up the chimney Santa flew. He heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight: I'm through, it's over, never again, I quit. Where's the nearest bar - I'm gonna get lit!
It's a new turbo-jet! Hell, I thought it was a new turbo- jet. Whoa-oa-oa there dasherdancer prancervixencometcupiddonder- blitzen! Whoa there, you mothaf. Whoooo-eee, is it ever hecky-durn cold up here at the North Pole, boys and girls. Let's jump right in ole Santa's mailbox and see what we find today. Hohohoho, that was a funny surprise, wasn't it, boys and girls? O-kay, kiddies, let's try again. I'm reaching way, wayyyy down to the very bottom of the.
And here it is! It's a jimdandy letter from little Johnny Hoopnagle. Let's see what little Johnny wants from dear ole Santa this Christmas. Dear Ole Santa, nothing - Listen, buddy, don't come around this year with the idea you can fake me out. Remember that cherry bomb I slipped in your bag last year?
Awright, get this straight, buddy. When I say I want a fifth of bourbon, I want a fifth of bourbon and none of that watered-down stuff. Last year you neglected to leave the poison to go with my dart game. Just re- member, I saw you filch that can- dy cane off my Christmas tree last year, you ole bird.
Threateningly, Little Johnny Hoopnagle. Cherry-bomb me will you. Just you wait'll you open your stocking, you little. Lit- tle Johnny has a gosh-awful sense of humor, doesn't he? There are lots and lots of super- duper letters here from all you kiddies and I want to move right on to the next. If you think you're going to thump around my rooftop this Christmas Eve like you did at three a. I want to get my full eight hours sleep that night as I will have a busy day at the of- fice the next day.
Not only did you awaken me last year, but my wife had to spend two hours the next day cleaning up after your damn reindeer.
I warn you, I'll have the law on your neck if you pull another stunt like that. Well, I don't think that Mr. Scrooge has that holiday spirit, does he, gang? Dear Shanta; Thanksh, pal, for the tip lasht year. When I dishcovered that swish in my stocking I caught the hint. Have swished to Calvert and have been happy every since.
Merry Chrishmash, you sly old. I tell you, my little friends, it brings tears to your ole Santa's eyes to read a peachy-keen ap- preciative letter like that.
Dear Santa, Please for this Christmas I would like a dolly that laughs and cries and closes its eyes when you put it to bed and a tea set and Porfirio Rubirosa. Love and kisses, Linda Sue. And if little Linda Sue is goody-good-good and helps Mom- my and Daddy by picking up all the beer cans and leaving her cigarette butts in the ashtrays where they belong, I'm sure ole Santa can make this Christmas Hey Man, I want you to know that down here at MU we think you're the coolest, Man.
All us cats are gon- na have the biggest blast in his- tory and we want you personally to lend your presence. Gate, this is gonna be the greatest shindig you ever saw - the party to end all.
Just come boppin' in any time on the big Eve and be pre- pared to get fired up. Sounds like a rowdy-dow time, Jack, ole boy.
Oh-hoho ho - that was nice and friendly- like, eh, gang? Dear Nick, Last year I asked you for only one present - a man. But in- stead you sent me a mere six foot six, pound weakling. Af- ter a couple of days I had to send him back to the lumber mill.
Next time, kiddo, hang up something bigger than a Bermu- da sock and I'll see what I can do for you. Dear Boss, I've talked it over with the oth- ers, and we've decided to strike for higher wages. We're sick of this chasing all over the globe in one night for a couple of pounds of moss.
Donner came down with pneu- monia last year and poor old Blitzen had an unfortunate en- counter with a TV aerial on the roof of the Waldorf-Astoria. No telling what may happen this year. And how about making this team co-ed? After all, the same old reindeer ain't gonna last for- ever. Whaddaya think we are, imomrtal?
Four pounds of moss, a lump of sugar, and a rubdown for each of us after the trip or else we ain't showing up. We'll see what the union says about this. But don't you worry, kiddies, old Santa will be there right on time. If you trot off to beddy-bye nice and early like Mommy says. No, I'm not en- gaged or pinned. But I happen to know you're married, you old wolf! You stick to your business and I'll stick to mine. Midnight, third room, sec- ond floor.
It's downright amazing how nice and neighborly people can be, isn't it gang? I've seen you on about twenty street corners this week and I never saw a more money-mad crew any place, not even down here. I hate you muckers all. Damn your eyes, Sam Hall. This better be damn near the last letter in this fruit mailbox. Aren't we having fun- ny-fun-fun? Here it is, here it is, the very last letter of the day and it looks like a longy! Claus," you're an im- postor! How could any one many trav- el all over the world in one night?
You can't fool me. I've studied maps and done some calculating. It simply isn't possible. In fact, I doubt if you could even visit all the homes in the United States in one night. Not with reindeer certainly.