In Today's Tribune
45 Days 'til the Piknik
Saturday, August 24th, 2002.
Don't forget
the yard sale!
Tony and Robin's House
Saturday July 13th at 7:00 am.
Chocolate
-submitted by
McGote
Everybody
loves chocolate.
Do you know by playing the Chocolate Game you
can determine something about you? This will freak you out!
The Taxi Cab
Fare
-submitted by
Anonymous
Something to
think about
-submitted by
McGote
Here we go
again!
Chocolate Game
-submitted by
McGote
DON'T CHEAT BY SCROLLING DOWN FIRST!
It only takes 30 seconds.......
Work this out as you read.
Make sure you don't read the bottom until you've worked it out!
This is not one of those waste of time things, it's FUN.
1. First of all, pick the number of times a week that you would like to have chocolate.
(try for more than once but less than 10)
2. Multiply this number by 2
3. Add 5.
4. Multiply it by 50.
I'll wait while you get the calculator......
5. lf you have already had your birthday this year add 1752.
lf you haven't, add 1751.
6. Now subtract the four digit year that you were born.
SEE BELOW
You should now have a three digit number.
The first digit of this was your original number (i.e., how many times you want to have chocolate each week).
The second two digits are your age
THIS IS THE ONLY YEAR (2002) IT WILL EVER WORK,
The Taxi Cab
Fare
-submitted by
Anonymous
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m.,
the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window.
Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait
a minute, then drive away. But, I had seen too many impoverished people who
depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation
smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be
someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute", answered a frail,
elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me.
She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it,
like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase.
The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the
furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the
counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to
the cab, then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me
for my kindness. "It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my
passengers the way I would want my mother treated". "Oh, you're such a good
boy", she said.
When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you
drive through downtown?" "It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly. "Oh, I
don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice". I
looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any
family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long." I
quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me
to take?" I asked. For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the
building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove
through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were
newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had
once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd
ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit
staring into the darkness, saying nothing. As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm
tired. Let's go now." We drove in silence to the address she had given me.
It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that
passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we
pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They
must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. "How much do I
owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse. "Nothing," I said. "You have to make a living," she answered. "There are other passengers," I
responded. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held
onto me tightly. "You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said.
"Thank you." I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a
door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in
thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman
had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What
if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On
a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my
life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great
moments. But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in
what others may consider a small one. PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID,
BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.
The Postal
Worker Goes Postal
-submitted by
McGote
Hey Guys, this guy worked at our P.O.
facility. He ran for Union President a couple of months ago. I had
just started to know him. He was always getting hassled at work
about his attendance and he used to talk to me and Christine about
it. Man, you just don't know about people. Here goes another postal
worker gone postal again.
THE VALLEY
Man Is Arrested After Wife Beaten, Run Over With Van
A Sylmar woman was clinging to life Tuesday after her husband allegedly
stabbed, beat and then bludgeoned her with a lead pipe before running over her in the couple's van
outside the Tarzana post office, police said.
Sophie Jennie Rodriguez, 38, was rushed to Northridge Hospital Medical Center in critical condition after the attack, which took place about 5:20 a.m. in the 18700 block of Philiprimm Street, LAPD homicide Det. Rick Swanston said.
The victim's husband, Daniel Sada, 53, was arrested at their Sylmar home on suspicion of attempted murder. He was being held at the Los Angeles Police Department's West Valley Division jail in lieu of $500,000 bail, and authorities said he will be arraigned Friday in Van Nuys Superior Court. Witnesses told police they saw Sada, a U.S. Postal Service employee, pull up in his van across the street from the Tarzana post office, Swanston said. Moments later, Sada allegedly pulled a screaming woman from the van.
"She was lying in the street when he produced a pipe and began hitting her with
it," Swanston said. "When witnesses yelled to the man to stop, he jumped back in the van and drove west on Philiprimm Street." Police said he turned the van around and allegedly began speeding back toward the post office,
"deliberately running over the
victim," Swanston said.
Investigators said they traced the van to Sada using a partial license plate number provided by a witness. Postal service spokeswoman Terri Bouffiou said Sada, a 29-year employee, worked at the
Santa Clarita mail processing plant.
Editors
Note:
Do not "piss-off" Benny, Christine, Barbara, Petra and
Johnny especially if they are:
-
behind
the wheel of an automobile
-
brandishing
a handgun or Uzi
-
or
have a section of pipe in their possession
