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phideaux said:


Jim
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I must be missing something :(. "Cannot load Facebook SDK. Disable any adblocker or tracking protection and try again."

Adblocker is built in , and the VPN never gets shut off.
 
This is hilarious! It'll take a minute to read but the laughs are worth it!!
Brock Veterinary Clinic
12 April 2014 ·
Otis the type B fat fella
Otis was a type-B fat guy. You know the kind I am talking about; he wears his pants below the belly. The type-A fat guy wears them above the belly, and those pants usually have a zipper that is about twenty inches long. Guys know what I speak of here. If you are ever at a football game, peeing at half time, and you hear a zip that lasts about two seconds next to you at the urinal, you can bet it is a coat unzipping or one of these fat guys with a twenty-inch zipper.
At two days post graduation, I was not the surest diagnostician who ever lived. This was my first case, my first day of work, my first venture into actually being a real vet. I was driving to the ranch, going through the possible causes of the symptoms that the man had explained to me over the phone. Clarendon is at the mouth of the Palo Duro Canyon and is rough country. I was going over the fifth cattle guard after the sixth turn when I saw Otis at the foot of a steep cliff. I had never met him before. He was an overly thick man who always smoked a huge cigar and had the verbiage of a sailor.
“Where is she?” I asked, only to see him point up.
At the top of this fifteen-or-so-foot cliff was a small flat spot that the cow had collapsed and lain down on. We climbed up the side of this dry riverbed together, him huffing and puffing, and me wondering what the heck this cow could have wrong with her.
When we arrived, I saw this huge Shorthorn cow lying on her side and paddling her legs. She had been paddling so long that she had dug trenches with her legs in the shape of triangles. I began to feel the sweat roll down my neck as I pondered what in the world could have caused this.
Otis said, “What in the h---could be wrong with that big ol’ cow, young doctor?”
I had no idea. I just needed to stall for a while and collect my thoughts. So I told him I had to get something out of the pickup and slid back down the bank to the truck to think about it for a second. I decided the best thing to do was to get some blood and see if some lab tests could help. With blood collection tubes in hand, I scurried back up the cliff to the side of the down cow and her big, fat owner.
Much to my surprise, when I stuck the needle in the cow’s vein, the blood came back chocolate brown. Wow! They had taught me about this in veterinary school. Nitrate poisoning from grazing the milo patch across the creek. And guess what? I actually knew what to do.
The trip down the cliff found me walking with a higher step and even a slight whistle. I picked up the antidote and once again scurried back up the cliff.
Otis was impressed with my confidence and even smiled for a second. “So how long till she gets up after you give her this stuff?” he asked.
To this question, I had no answer. The books don’t tell you that kind of information; they just tell you what to do to treat the problem. You see, this is why they call it the practice of medicine, and at this particular moment, I was working on my very first cow. There are some things you just learn as you go.
So I just said the standard “I really don’t know” answer: “It varies from animal to animal.”
I gave the bottle of medicine in the vein, and to my surprise, she hopped right up. In fact, she hopped up and looked pretty mad. She looked real mad. She looked at me, and then she looked at him, and I guess she decided that he looked easier to catch and softer to headbutt, because she went running at him with mean intention.
I did the only thing that any valiant veterinarian could do in this situation: I ran down the hill and jumped into the back of my pickup. I thought Otis was right behind me, and the cow was right behind him, but he wasn’t. She had him on that little cliff, and she was whoopin’ him. At first I was amazed at his agility. For a fat guy, he was putting some moves on this cow. But only for a while. You see, at first she was still a little uncoordinated and stiff from being down so long. That took about three or four charges to get over, and then she had her youthful athleticism back. On the fourth pass, she got him. She rolled him like a rubber ball to the cliff’s edge, and then with one mighty shove, over he went. Good thing that dry creek bed sand is soft, because he landed on his shoulder, and I really think I saw his back bend backward so far that his head touched his fanny.
“Are you okay?” I shouted from the safety of the truck bed.
“S--- no!” he screamed back at me.
“Well, you better get well quick,” I said, “because she is coming down that cliff with a bad look in her eyes!”
With this, he jumped his three hundred–pound frame up out of the sand and started rushing toward me. It was hard to tell exactly, but it looked like the cow was going to get him before he got to the truck. I noticed that his stride was getting shorter as he approached me, but I wasn’t sure why.
I screamed, “Run faster! She’s catching ya!”
He was wide open and still hadn’t lost his cigar. As luck would have it, he got to me before she got to him, but he was too tired to jump into the truck, and I wasn’t strong enough to pull him in. Plus, in the heat of the chase, his normally crack-showing pants had slipped down to just above his knees, making it impossible for him to throw a leg up over the side of the truck. As I was reaching over him, trying to pull him in, I just grabbed anything I could get ahold of—which in this case turned out to by his giant size-52 boxers. So basically I was currently giving my very first client a semi–power wedgie.
He looked at the cow and at me and then bent down to pull up his pants. This left only enough time to start running around the pickup to avoid getting rammed by the now-full-speed cow. Once again I was amazed at his speed. He managed to stay ahead of her as they made laps around the truck. Each time he would come by, I would offer him my hand and tell him to jump for it. But each time he thought she was too close, and he would back out at the last second to go on another lap. Finally, at the hood area of the pickup, on about the sixth lap, she caught him. His pants had come down again, and his stride was just too short to outrun her. He was taking about fifteen steps per yard there at the end trying to avoid her rush. But it was to no avail. He rolled up into a big ball, and she bounced him around and through everything in sight. I jumped out of the truck and did the best rodeo clown imitation that I could. She was determined to roll him awhile before she came after me.
But as suddenly as she had come up from that dose of medicine, she just quit and strolled off. When I got to Otis, he was covered in stickers and cow doo-doo. His hat had been smushed flat. His shirt was torn in several places. His pants were down around his ankles, and his giant boxer shorts were full of dirt. He was cussing a blue streak, but he never lost his cigar, nor did it have any damage to it.
I learned a lot that day. First thing is, if you are a type-B fat guy and work with cattle, you better have suspenders. Second thing is, when you got a cow down from nitrate poisoning, you better head for the truck right after you give it the antidote. Third thing is, I gave my first actual client a wedgie. I somehow knew that day that this was going to be a great career. I am convinced there are some things you just can’t learn in school.
 
Bill Grogan's goat , Was feeling fine
Ate three red shirts, Right off the line.
Bill took a stick, Gave him a whack,
And tied him to, The railroad track.
The whistle blew, The train was nigh
Bill Grogan's goat , Was doomed to die!
He gave a cough , Of mortal pain,
Coughed up those shirts , And flagged the train!
 
GrannyG said:
This is hilarious! It'll take a minute to read but the laughs are worth it!!
Brock Veterinary Clinic
12 April 2014 ·
Otis the type B fat fella
Otis was a type-B fat guy. You know the kind I am talking about; he wears his pants below the belly. The type-A fat guy wears them above the belly, and those pants usually have a zipper that is about twenty inches long. Guys know what I speak of here. If you are ever at a football game, peeing at half time, and you hear a zip that lasts about two seconds next to you at the urinal, you can bet it is a coat unzipping or one of these fat guys with a twenty-inch zipper.
At two days post graduation, I was not the surest diagnostician who ever lived. This was my first case, my first day of work, my first venture into actually being a real vet. I was driving to the ranch, going through the possible causes of the symptoms that the man had explained to me over the phone. Clarendon is at the mouth of the Palo Duro Canyon and is rough country. I was going over the fifth cattle guard after the sixth turn when I saw Otis at the foot of a steep cliff. I had never met him before. He was an overly thick man who always smoked a huge cigar and had the verbiage of a sailor.
“Where is she?” I asked, only to see him point up.
At the top of this fifteen-or-so-foot cliff was a small flat spot that the cow had collapsed and lain down on. We climbed up the side of this dry riverbed together, him huffing and puffing, and me wondering what the heck this cow could have wrong with her.
When we arrived, I saw this huge Shorthorn cow lying on her side and paddling her legs. She had been paddling so long that she had dug trenches with her legs in the shape of triangles. I began to feel the sweat roll down my neck as I pondered what in the world could have caused this.
Otis said, “What in the h---could be wrong with that big ol’ cow, young doctor?”
I had no idea. I just needed to stall for a while and collect my thoughts. So I told him I had to get something out of the pickup and slid back down the bank to the truck to think about it for a second. I decided the best thing to do was to get some blood and see if some lab tests could help. With blood collection tubes in hand, I scurried back up the cliff to the side of the down cow and her big, fat owner.
Much to my surprise, when I stuck the needle in the cow’s vein, the blood came back chocolate brown. Wow! They had taught me about this in veterinary school. Nitrate poisoning from grazing the milo patch across the creek. And guess what? I actually knew what to do.
The trip down the cliff found me walking with a higher step and even a slight whistle. I picked up the antidote and once again scurried back up the cliff.
Otis was impressed with my confidence and even smiled for a second. “So how long till she gets up after you give her this stuff?” he asked.
To this question, I had no answer. The books don’t tell you that kind of information; they just tell you what to do to treat the problem. You see, this is why they call it the practice of medicine, and at this particular moment, I was working on my very first cow. There are some things you just learn as you go.
So I just said the standard “I really don’t know” answer: “It varies from animal to animal.”
I gave the bottle of medicine in the vein, and to my surprise, she hopped right up. In fact, she hopped up and looked pretty mad. She looked real mad. She looked at me, and then she looked at him, and I guess she decided that he looked easier to catch and softer to headbutt, because she went running at him with mean intention.
I did the only thing that any valiant veterinarian could do in this situation: I ran down the hill and jumped into the back of my pickup. I thought Otis was right behind me, and the cow was right behind him, but he wasn’t. She had him on that little cliff, and she was whoopin’ him. At first I was amazed at his agility. For a fat guy, he was putting some moves on this cow. But only for a while. You see, at first she was still a little uncoordinated and stiff from being down so long. That took about three or four charges to get over, and then she had her youthful athleticism back. On the fourth pass, she got him. She rolled him like a rubber ball to the cliff’s edge, and then with one mighty shove, over he went. Good thing that dry creek bed sand is soft, because he landed on his shoulder, and I really think I saw his back bend backward so far that his head touched his fanny.
“Are you okay?” I shouted from the safety of the truck bed.
“S--- no!” he screamed back at me.
“Well, you better get well quick,” I said, “because she is coming down that cliff with a bad look in her eyes!”
With this, he jumped his three hundred–pound frame up out of the sand and started rushing toward me. It was hard to tell exactly, but it looked like the cow was going to get him before he got to the truck. I noticed that his stride was getting shorter as he approached me, but I wasn’t sure why.
I screamed, “Run faster! She’s catching ya!”
He was wide open and still hadn’t lost his cigar. As luck would have it, he got to me before she got to him, but he was too tired to jump into the truck, and I wasn’t strong enough to pull him in. Plus, in the heat of the chase, his normally crack-showing pants had slipped down to just above his knees, making it impossible for him to throw a leg up over the side of the truck. As I was reaching over him, trying to pull him in, I just grabbed anything I could get ahold of—which in this case turned out to by his giant size-52 boxers. So basically I was currently giving my very first client a semi–power wedgie.
He looked at the cow and at me and then bent down to pull up his pants. This left only enough time to start running around the pickup to avoid getting rammed by the now-full-speed cow. Once again I was amazed at his speed. He managed to stay ahead of her as they made laps around the truck. Each time he would come by, I would offer him my hand and tell him to jump for it. But each time he thought she was too close, and he would back out at the last second to go on another lap. Finally, at the hood area of the pickup, on about the sixth lap, she caught him. His pants had come down again, and his stride was just too short to outrun her. He was taking about fifteen steps per yard there at the end trying to avoid her rush. But it was to no avail. He rolled up into a big ball, and she bounced him around and through everything in sight. I jumped out of the truck and did the best rodeo clown imitation that I could. She was determined to roll him awhile before she came after me.
But as suddenly as she had come up from that dose of medicine, she just quit and strolled off. When I got to Otis, he was covered in stickers and cow doo-doo. His hat had been smushed flat. His shirt was torn in several places. His pants were down around his ankles, and his giant boxer shorts were full of dirt. He was cussing a blue streak, but he never lost his cigar, nor did it have any damage to it.
I learned a lot that day. First thing is, if you are a type-B fat guy and work with cattle, you better have suspenders. Second thing is, when you got a cow down from nitrate poisoning, you better head for the truck right after you give it the antidote. Third thing is, I gave my first actual client a wedgie. I somehow knew that day that this was going to be a great career. I am convinced there are some things you just can’t learn in school.
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Sounds like a James Herriot story.
 
A priest dies and is waiting in line at the Pearly Gates.
Ahead of him is a guy who’s dressed in sunglasses, a loud shirt, leather jacket, and jeans.
Saint Peter addresses this cool guy, ‘Who are you, so that I may know whether or not to admit you to the Kingdom of Heaven?’
The guy replies,’ I’m Jack, retired airline pilot from Houston.’
Saint Peter consults his list.
He smiles and says to the pilot, ‘Take this silken robe and golden staff and enter the Kingdom.’ The pilot goes into Heaven with his robe and staff.
Next, it’s the priest’s turn. He stands erect and booms out, ‘I am Father Bob, pastor of Saint Mary’s for the last 43 years.’
Saint Peter consults his list.
He says to the priest, ‘Take this cotton robe and wooden staff and enter the Kingdom.’
Just a minute, ‘says the good father.
“That man was a pilot and he gets a silken robe and golden staff and I get only cotton and wood. How can this be?”
“Up here – we go by results,’ says Saint Peter. ‘When you preached – people slept. When he flew, people prayed.”
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