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Now This Just Isn't Funny

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connoisseurs said:
There is a alternative
View attachment 623943
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Or the heart-lifting,
"If you love someone (Barb), let her go. If your love is true, she's come back to you and you will feel good.
And if she doesn't...and sleeps around with every slacker in the village,
Hunt her down and kill her like a dog! Now that will really feel good!"
 
Praefectus Praetorio said:
Hunt her down and kill her like a dog!
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A hunter hunts with a dog, he might even hunt like a dog,
he may use the dog to kill his prey - but he kills her like vermin, not like a dog :cool:
 
Eulalia said:
A hunter hunts with a dog, he might even hunt like a dog,
he may use the dog to kill his prey - but he kills her like vermin, not like a dog :cool:
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You are so correct. I felt very bad after posting this, really ashamed at how I had belittled and degraded dogs!
 
Eulalia said:
A hunter hunts with a dog, he might even hunt like a dog,
he may use the dog to kill his prey - but he kills her like vermin, not like a dog :cool:
Click to expand...
Conceding your point in the context of hunting, there are many good uses of "like a dog" in literature.

As an American Civil War Buff, I am reminded of the (apocryphal?) story of Barbara Fritchie (or Frietschie)

Barbara was a 57-year-old Uniomist in the town of Frederick MD in 1862 when Lee's Army of Northern Virginia invaded the North for time first time. Barbara flew a Union Flag from her window as Stonewall Jackson's Confederates marched through town.
741px-Barbara_Fritchie_1766-1862_in_US_Civil_War.jpg John Greenleaf Whittier wrote a poem the next year "Barbara Frietchie" Excerpt:
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

“Halt!”— the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!”— out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word:

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.


Three months after the incident, Barbara had died. Nine months after incident, Jackson died of wounds received at the Battle of Chancellorsville, thirteen months after the incident, Whittier published the poem and made them immortal (so that schoolboys like me would have to memorize the poem 98 years later - and get misty every time I remember it)
 
Praefectus Praetorio said:
Conceding your point in the context of hunting, there are many good uses of "like a dog" in literature.

As an American Civil War Buff, I am reminded of the (apocryphal?) story of Barbara Fritchie (or Frietschie)

Barbara was a 57-year-old Uniomist in the town of Frederick MD in 1862 when Lee's Army of Northern Virginia invaded the North for time first time. Barbara flew a Union Flag from her window as Stonewall Jackson's Confederates marched through town.
View attachment 624105 John Greenleaf Whittier wrote a poem the next year "Barbara Frietchie" Excerpt:
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

“Halt!”— the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!”— out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word:

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.


Three months after the incident, Barbara had died. Nine months after incident, Jackson died of wounds received at the Battle of Chancellorsville, thirteen months after the incident, Whittier published the poem and made them immortal (so that schoolboys like me would have to memorize the poem 98 years later - and get misty every time I remember it)
Click to expand...
Great poem, lousy history.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/loca...ory.html?noredirect=on&utm_term=.2cfce9271034
 
An old rabbi is hard up for money. He goes into a pawn shop and tries to sell his wallet.

The pawnbroker examines the wallet and is very impressed by the fine workmanship and the good condition. He offers $20 for it.

The rabbi shakes his head. "It's worth a lot more than that, Sir" He explains that for most of his career, he was also a mohel. The pawnbroker does know what that is. "I performed circumcisions. I saved the foreskins and that wallet is made from thousands of foreskins!'

The pawnbroker is taken aback. "That is truely unique, Sir, but it doesn't add to the value of the wallet."

"You don't understand," says the old Rabbi, taking the wallet in his hands. "If you rub it like this...it turns into a suitcase."
 
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I heard this one years ago from a rabbi:
In the late 1800s, a gentile is walking through the Jewish quarter of Warsaw. He passes by a shop that has a number of beautiful clocks in its display window. One particular clock strikes his fancy so he goes in and asked the man behind the counter:
"How much is that clock with the gold angles on it?"
The man shrugs his shoulders and says: "I don't know."
Puzzled, the gentile ask: "Well, what about the porcelain clock next to it,? How much for that one?"
Again, the man replies, "I don't know."
Now, very confused and a bit perturbed the gentile ask, "Do you own this shop?"
"Yes."
"Then, why don't you know the price of the clocks?"
"Because, I don't sell clocks."
Totally befuddled, the gentile ask, "Then why do you have clocks in your display window."
The shop owner answered, "Mister, I'm a mohel. What you want I should put in the window?"
:rimshot:
 
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