best funny emails

A young man called Chris from London wanted to buy a Christmas present for
his new girlfriend.

They hadn't been seeing each other for very long and she lived in Scotland.

Chris consulted with his sister and decided, after careful consideration, that a pair of good quality gloves would strike the right note... not too romantic and not too personal.

Off he went with his sister to Harrods and they selected a dainty pair of fur lined quality leather gloves. His sister bought a pair of sexy knickers for herself at the same time.

Harrods had a free gift wrap offer but the assistant mixed up the two items, the sister got the gloves and Chris unknowingly got the knickers.

Good old Chris sent off his gift wrapped present in a parcel with the following letter.


Dear Maggie,

I chose these because I've noticed that you are not wearing any when we go out in the evenings. If it had not been for my sister I would have chosen the long ones with buttons, but she wears shorter ones (which are easier to remove).

These are a very delicate shade, but the lady I bought them from showed me the pair she had been wearing for the past three weeks and I hardly noticed any marks.

I had her try yours on for me and she looked really smart in them even though they were a little bit tight on her. She also said that they rub against her ring which helps keep it clean. In fact she hasn't needed to wash it since she began wearing them.

I wish I was there to put them on for you the first time, as no doubt many other hands will touch them before I have a chance to see you again.

When you take them off remember to blow into them a little bit because they will be naturally a little damp from wearing.

Just imagine how many times my lips will kiss them during the coming year.

I hope you will wear them for me on our next date.

All my love,

Chris

P.S. My mum tells me that the latest style is to wear them folded down with a little bit of fur showing.

Not funny, but does show that there are true Gods out there

SR-71 Pilots

There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the
fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this
fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the
jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this
plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled
experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest
guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed
100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready
status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made
the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were
wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about
ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but
because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past
ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could
already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally,
after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.

I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he
was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked
with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for
when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from
headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to
relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had
controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties
in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the
radio while we were on the ground, however.
Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at
sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with
years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for
beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a
sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches
and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter
was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in
their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in
uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed
to descend into their airspace.

We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a
readout of his ground speed.

Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on
the ground."

Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they
were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always
spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel
important. I referred to it as the "HoustonCenterVoice." I have always felt
that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and
listening to the calm and distinct voice of the HoustonCenterControllers,
that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that...
and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country
we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over
the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to
pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to
ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least
like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency,
in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed.

"Ah, Twin Beach: I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground
speed."

Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna
brethren.

Then out of the blue, a Navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on
frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very
cool on the radios.

"Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check."

Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a
ground speed indicator in that million dollar cockpit, so why is he asking
Center for a readout? Then I got it -- ol' Dusty here is making sure that
every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is.
He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to
know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet.

And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct
alliteration than emotion:

"Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground."

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what?
As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself
that Walt was in control of the radios.
Still, I thought, it must be done -- in mere seconds we'll be out of the
sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now.

I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we
developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would
destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his
space helmet.

Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was
the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very
professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center,
Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?"

There was no hesitation, and the reply came as if was an everyday request:
"Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots,
across the ground."

I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and
proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you
just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt
and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed
the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like
voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks. We're showing closer to nineteen hundred on
the money."

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the
armor of the HoustonCenterVoice, when L.A. came back with, "Roger that
Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a
good one."

It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint
across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq
were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter
and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work.

We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the
coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.

Written by Brian Shul, from his book Sled Driver.