According to a study conducted by Kaiser Permanente, 
prostitutes can suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder on a 
par with veterans of the Vietnam war. I think I speak for a lot of 
men when I say, "are there still volunteer spots available in this 
study?" 

Some time ago I was hosting a State Dinner, when at the last minute my 
regular cook took ill and they had to get a replacement on short 
notice. The fellow arrived and turned out to be a very grubby looking 
man named John. I voiced my concerns to my Chief of Staff but was told 
that this was the best they could do at such short notice, according 
to the Head of the Household Staff.

Unbeknown to me, but later reported, the following events occurred. 
Just before the meal, the Chief of Staff noticed the cook sticking his 
fingers  in the soup to taste it and again he complained to the Head 
of the Household Staff about the cook, but he was told that this man 
was supposed to be a very good chef.

The meal went okay but I was sure that the soup tasted a little off, 
and by the time dessert came, I was starting to have stomach cramps 
and nausea. It was getting worse and worse, until finally I had to 
excuse myself from the State Dinner to look for the bathroom. Passing 
through the kitchen, I caught sight of the cook, John, scratching his 
rear end and this made me feel even worse. By now I was desperately 
ill with violent cramps and was so disoriented that I couldn't 
remember which door led to the bathroom.

I was on the verge of passing out from the pain when I finally found a 
door that opened and as I undid my trousers and ran in, I realized to 
my horror that I had stumbled into Monica Lewinsky's office with my 
trousers around my knees.

As I was just about to pass out, Monica bent over me and heard her 
President whisper in a barely audible voice, "Sack my cook."

And that your Honor, is how the whole misunderstanding started.

After the birth of her new baby, my cousin brought him to my place for a visit.
While there, she decided to prepare dinner one night and the three of us went
to the grocery store to get the things she needed.  While she was shopping, I
was holding the baby and slowly meandering through the place.  A woman walked
past me, knocked my purse from my shoulder, put her hand on my arm, looked me
in the eye and said, "I'm sorry."  I said it wasn't a problem and we each went
on our way.  When I told my cousin about it she insisted that I had just been
hit by a pickpocket.  I checked and found my wallet and keys were still in my
purse.  It wasn't until at work the next day that I discovered the missing item
-- a sanitary napkin.

Sent by renae