Finweek English Edition - - Piker -

WE HEAR THAT the Cabi­net is be­ing ex­panded. Now we’re go­ing to have, of all things, a Min­is­ter of Women’s Af­fairs. The ab­sur­dity of such a sug­ges­tion apart, that could set off a mas­sive chain re­ac­tion. Be­cause, on the ba­sis of our Con­sti­tu­tion’s in­sis­tence on equal­ity, peo­ple could now in­sist on a Min­is­ter of Chil­dren’s Af­fairs, a Min­is­ter of An­i­mal Af­fairs, and so on. And then each of the new min­istries could in­sist on be­ing rep­re­sented by mem­bers of their own ranks. On sec­ond thoughts, they might just fit in nicely...set­ting the scene for An­i­mal Farm? THE SE­NIOR MAN­AGER spot­ted a new staff mem­ber he didn’t know. He called the new­comer to his of­fice. “What’s your name?” he asked. “John.” “Lis­ten – when I ask your name I want your sur­name and that’s all I’ll call you by. So I ask for the last time, what’s your name?” “Dar­ling.” “All right, John – the next thing I want you to un­der­stand is…” A ZIM­BAB­WEAN jour­nal­ist goes to the lo­cal hospi­tal and asks the duty nurse if he can see “an eye-ear doc­tor”. “We don’t have any­one with that ti­tle on the staff,” the nurse an­swers. “Is there some­one else who might be able to help you?”

“No – it must be an eye-ear doc­tor. Ev­ery­where I go I keep hear­ing one thing and see­ing an­other.” A WO­MAN GOES to see a psy­chi­a­trist. “I’ve a ter­ri­ble prob­lem, she says. “I have an im­por­tant job in busi­ness. That re­quires me to meet lots of men. When­ever I meet one I find very at­trac­tive phys­i­cally I find it im­pos­si­ble not to tear off all my clothes as soon as we’re alone and then make pas­sion­ate love to him. It’s great at the time but then af­ter­wards I’m con­sumed with a mas­sive sense of de­pres­sive guilt.”

The psy­chi­a­trist says: “I un­der­stand your prob­lem very well. Ob­vi­ously, you want me to help change your whole pat­tern of be­hav­iour?” “Of course not,” replies the wo­man. “I just want you to stop the guilt.” COR­PO­RATE PER­FOR­MANCE EVAL­U­A­TIONS: Ap­proaches all prob­lems log­i­cally – al­ways tries to get some­one else to do the job.

De­serves pro­mo­tion – give him a new ti­tle (but no more money) to make him feel more ap­pre­ci­ated.

Gets along well with both su­pe­ri­ors and ju­niors – spine­less, cow­ardly creep.

Lis­tens care­fully – never has an idea of his own. A BLONDE sits down in her seat in Busi­ness Class on her re­turn flight to Syd­ney. She’s had an ex­haust­ing day at con­fer­ences in Melbourne and all she wants to do is have a G&T, re­lax and re­cover be­fore her ar­rival in the “cap­i­tal” city of Aus­tralia. A guy not shar­ing the same im­me­di­ate pri­or­i­ties in life oc­cu­pies the seat next to her. What could be more de­light­ful than shar­ing a con­fined space with a sin­gle, at­trac­tive blonde? He de­cides to chat her up.

Not re­ceiv­ing any re­sponse other than mono­syl­labic mmms to his dis­cus­sions about the weather, foot­ball, net­ball, golf, pol­i­tics, re­li­gion, etc, he de­cides she might like to en­gage in some form of repar­tee and sug­gests that they have a lit­tle quiz be­tween them­selves.

She tells him in no un­cer­tain terms to uri­nate off, but he per­sists. Fi­nally, she gives in when he of­fers US dol­lars as an in­duce­ment. If he asks her a ques­tion she’s un­able to an­swer cor­rectly, she’s to give him $50. But if she asks him a ques­tion and he’s un­able to an­swer cor­rectly he must pay her $500. He in­vites the lady to ask the first ques­tion. “OK,” she says, “what goes up­hill on four legs and down­hill on three?”

He pulls out his lap­top (by this time they’re air­borne) and looks up the three dif­fer­ent en­cy­clopae­dias on his hard drive. Af­ter 15 min­utes – no an­swer. He then ac­cesses the In­ter­net and af­ter a fur­ther 20 frus­trat­ing min­utes, as they pre­pare to land, he gives up. He pulls out 10 crisp new $50 notes and hands them to the blonde. “OK,” he says, “what does goes up­hill on four legs and down­hill on three?”

The blonde looks at him and, with­out a word, opens her wal­let into which she’s just put his $500 and re­luc­tantly ex­tracts a $50 note and gives it to him. The moral of the story? Don’t mess with blondes.

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