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My apologies to those of you who have seen this before, but when we were chatting a week or two ago I promised the Mothe that I would repost a favorite joke here rayther than mangling it from memory:

Jesus said to them, “Who do you say that I am?”

They replied, “You are the eschatological manifestation of the ground of our being, the kerygma of which we find the ultimate meaning in our interpersonal relationships.”

And Jesus said, “What?”

**Spot the quote.

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When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, thank the Japanese:

Domino’s Japanese arm has proposed a branch on Earth’s nearest galactic neighbour is the latest escalation in a pizza publicity war.

Rival chain Pizza Hut set the bar high in 2001 by delivering a pizza to astronauts orbiting the Earth in the International Space Station, but Domino’s fought back last year in a series of events to mark the 25th anniversary of its arrival in Japan.

In December, the company paid one person Y2.5 million (£20,046) to work for one hour delivering pizzas.

The competition has been taken beyond the stratosphere now, however, with construction firm Maeda Corp coming up with a plan for a dome-shaped concrete Domino’s restaurant on the surface of the moon.

The company estimates the entire project will cost Y1.67 trillion – some £13.4 billion – of which Y560 billion (£4.5 billion) will be required to transport 70 tons of construction materials and pizza-making equipment to the moon aboard 15 rockets.

It occurs to me that if the gels could get Earthside delivery jobs, they’d collect enough tips to pay for college in about a week.

 

I ask this out of utter ignorance:  Does anybody actually make money on magazine subscriptions?

The reason I ask is that there seems to be a pattern around the port-swiller household in which somebody offers an “introductory” deal and then keeps on mailing new issues long after we’ve stopped paying for them, if indeed we ever officially subscribed at all.  Thus, Vanity Fair (do you suppose these people actually get the allusion?) still makes its way into the basket in the downstairs loo, as does another glossy by somebody named Rachel Ray who seems to consider herself a younger, hipper Martha Stewart.

Then there are all sorts of local mags with names like DC Style – an oxymoron in itself – which simply appear in the mailbox, unasked for and unexplained.  These seem to consist of nothing but photos of local drinks parties and very bad “art.”

I suppose we keep these things on hand for guests.  Personally, I derive a lot more satisfaction flipping through the “Foxtrot” comic collections that the gels keep leaving in the basket.  (The local classickal radio station likes to send out a Newsweek subscription as part of its membership package but I throw those into the trash as soon as they arrive, more or less on principle.)

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