During a long, long daylight flight from Heathrow to New York, three men ” an Englishman, a Frenchman and a Russian ” started chatting, and the subject turned to the ultimate definition of absolute happiness. The Englishman had no doubts. "I am sitting in the library of my Wiltshire manor house. The light from a roaring log fire falls upon rows of leather-bound books left to me by my forefathers. I have had an excellent supper of roast beef and a glass of claret stands at my elbow. The servants have gone to their quarters; my wife is visiting her parents, my trusty gun dog lies at my feet. Some agreeable light classical music envelopes me from the music centre. I have had a superb day fishing for salmon and I shall have an excellent day shooting pheasants tomorrow. Contentment is total. This, my friends, is true happiness."
The Frenchman shook his head vigorously. "No, mes amis ” true ”appiness is quite different. As for me, I am sitting at my favourite window table in the Tour d'Argent, looking out at the illuminations of my beloved Paris. A sumptuous meal is being prepared for me. At my left hand sits a stunning blonde and to my right ” an amazing brunette. A Ch”teau Mouton Rothschild is breathing in the decanter, the night ahead can only be completely fulfilling ” that, I suggest, is true ”appiness.'”
Both men turned to the Russian, who finally shook his head. He looked at them. "I am in my tiny, overcrowded and jerry-built Moscow apartment. I am in my shirtsleeves and braces, watching Moscow Dynamo knock seven bells out of Spartak, on my black and white television. Suddenly, there is a ring at the door. I rise, and peer through the keyhole. Needless to tell you that I have no hallway ” the entrance door goes directly into my living room. Anyway, outside are two men in grey raincoats, clearly KGB. Behind them are four armed and uniformed KGB guards. There is no way out for me. With a sigh, I turn and kiss my trusted and loyal wife Ludmilla ” surely for the last time. I urge my son Boris to stick to his studies and embrace my daughter Tanya and bid her to look after her mother in the years to come. Finally, I take my jacket, my hat and my coat, knowing it will be cold in Siberia ” and open the door. The senior KGB man says "Petrov ” you are under arrest ” come with us? I reply "I am Kukushkin ” Petrov lives upstairs."
And that, my friends, is the meaning of real happiness."
Wanted: aviation jokes. ” Now is a good time to try your aviation wit. The Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop at the University of Dayton is holding a writing contest to celebrate the 100th anniversary of flight. Writers can submit stories or jokes about flying (up to 150 words) at the official web site.
http://www.flighthumor.org