*doomy music* ... *looks in mirror, sees Last Year's Man* ... "An hour has gone by and he has not moved his hand".

Hmm. Gonna lose on time here. As do we all.

Oh, that's too depressing. Switch to Viv Stanshall mode - 'Hubert Rawlinson, now in his mid-40s and Still Unusual' ...

While other words, like bilbo with a voiced labio-alveolar stop - or is it a dental plosive? - get the other message - "we entreat you to refrain from such words" or whatever it sez.

This might cheer you up. Have a look at Winston Churchill's volume

My old friend and comrade <twinlark> is hereby appointed Prof of Earth Sciences, Human Geography, & Saving the Planet from Northern Hemisphere Bastids.

<Open Defence> is Professor of Strategy and also in charge of the Tuck Shop.

<Jess> gets a PhD in Everything Under the Sun, and will be henceforth known as Dr FischerQueen.

<mack> can be chaplain, professor of surrealist theology, and Dean for observing the moral advancement of younger folk.

<Eyal> gets Rhetoric, Semiotics, and post-structural stress syndrome. And can do the actual teaching in his free time.

<YouRang> is Nickel Professor of History and author of the bestselling Nickel File.

<The World> is jointly appointed to run the chess faculty, but <Ohio> will give the theoretical lectures.

Anyone else want a job or a degree, just bribe me. I'm taking a small sinecure, like Junior Lecturer in Mathematics, Lie Groups, and Flower Arranging...

"Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a sanitary napkin!"

Suggestion: Will you perhaps name your new Institute the

Which is sufficient enough explanation for the popularity of Canada's greatest tourist attraction:

Attention Northern Hemispherical gentlefong.

A potaroo is:

(a) a kangaroo that like to get smashed

(b) an bonzai wallaroo that foxes love to snack on

(c) Dan Quayle's attempt to spell a certain vegetable

(d) a totally imaginary word

1.b! c

2.h?? f

Will we all be rooned?

"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
One frosty Sunday morn.

The congregation stood about,
Coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,
As it had done for years.

"It's looking crook," said Daniel Croke;
"Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad."

"It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil,
With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.

And so around the chorus ran
"It's keepin' dry, no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."

"The crops are done; ye'll have your work
To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke
They're singin' out for rain.

"They're singin' out for rain," he said,
"And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head,
And gazed around the sky.

"There won't be grass, in any case,
Enough to feed an ass;
There's not a blade on Casey's place
As I came down to Mass."

"If rain don't come this month," said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak -
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If rain don't come this week."

A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.

"We want an inch of rain, we do,"
O'Neil observed at last;
But Croke "maintained" we wanted two
To put the danger past.

"If we don't get three inches, man,
Or four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."

In God's good time down came the rain;
And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
It drummed a homely tune.

And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill
Kept talking to themselves.

It pelted, pelted all day long,
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song
Way out to Back-o'-Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop;
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If this rain doesn't stop."

And stop it did, in God's good time;
And spring came in to fold
A mantle o'er the hills sublime
Of green and pink and gold.

And days went by on dancing feet,
With harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
Nid-nodding o'er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face,
As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey's place
Went riding down to Mass.

While round the church in clothes genteel
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed his piece of bark.

Impressive, old son. The Tangmalangmaloo guy, wasn't it?