Showing posts with label dead. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dead. Show all posts

Just prop her up for the photo, then we can bury her

We order packing supplies from Uline. They are a good company and if you order enough, they give you free crap that you would never buy on your own, but since it's free it's AWESOME. I was looking through the most recent catalog when I came across this photo and thought to myself, "That woman is dead and they are propping her up for the photo." You be the judge:

I assume that she died a hour or so before the photo and the company knew that they needed more than one woman in the photo, so they kept her around long enough to get a few shots.

Good news is, Uline carries coffin sized crates!

God has determined that your life is worth $1,093.09 per day

In 1987, Oral Roberts announced that if he did not raise 8 million dollars by March 1st, 1987, god would “call him home” or die as you and I might phrase it.

Oral Roberts did indeed raise 8 million dollars. In fact, he raised 9.1 million dollars.

8, 325 days later, Oral Roberts was called home. For 9.1 million dollars, he was allowed to live an additional 22 years, 9 months and 14 days.

If you do the math, that makes it a cool $1,093.09 per day the he walked this Earth after the payment was negotiated. That also makes it $45.55 per hour (sans overtime) or $0.75 a minute or $0.012 per second.

Somehow this means that I owe god $15,802,802.00 for my time on Earth. I hope there is a payment plan in hell.

The Baby Bird that Flew Away

A few weeks ago, Greg and the neighbor girl happened upon a baby bird that was hopping through the back yard. I had them watch it from a distance and said not to bother it. The bird didn’t look injured and was hopping and then flapping it wings. It seemed like it was a day or two away from flying if the cats didn’t find it.

Lunch was served and we went inside, the bird forgotten.

Mom left to run some errands and Greg and I stayed home. I was vacuuming the living room when I noticed Greg trying to get into the doors leading from the deck. It takes him two hands to get the door open and one of his hands was occupied with holding an orange, plastic beach bucket. So without both hands, he was just yanking on the door handle, yelling at me though the glass. With various hand gestures and yells back and forth, I finally gave in and ended up turning off the vacuum and opening the door for him, warning him not to bring in a bucket that was probably filled with dirt and worms.

He said, “The baby bird is sick,” and showed me the contents of the bucket. It contained one, very dead baby bird.

I said, “Greg, this bird is pretty sick. I don’t think he is going to make it.”

Greg looked very sad. I immediately said, “You know what… I’ll give him a drink of water and put him in the front yard in the shade. Maybe he will feel better.” Greg agreed with my medical assessment and treatment. I sent him on his way to the back yard.

I gave the bird a little water and put him and his bucket in the shade in the front yard.

A few hours later, Greg happened upon the orange bucket.

Greg came running in with the bucket and said, “Dad! The bucket is empty! The bird flew away.”

And I said, “He must have felt better and flew off!”

I sent Greg back outside to rinse out the bucket with the garden hose.