 
# Butt-washing Funny

A collection of Midwest and Southern short stories and jokes by the author.

By William S. Butler

Copyright 2011 William S. Butler

Smashwords Edition

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# Dedicated to

#  

# Part One  
Humorous Short Stories

Some of these are fiction and some are based on truth. I will leave it up to the reader to decide.

# Western Introduction to European Technology, the Bidet

Yes, secretly, I have used a bidet. I encountered the wretched invention while working in Saudi Arabia. My company leased me a private villa with three bathrooms, each containing a bidet. Upon seeing the contraptions, a smile came to my face, I vowed that I certainly would have no use for such.

Over the next few weeks curiosity began to creep in. One day, I caught myself fooling with the bidet's water faucets. Being of the Western culture, I only vaguely understood the principle of the bidet. In other words, I knew that it was not a urinal nor a drinking fountain. For those of you that might not know, a Western dictionary definition of the bidet may read: a bathroom fixture used for washing the crotch area.

Finally, curiosity won the day; I decided to try it out. Foolish me.

I am sure that European parents labor with the thankless task of instructing their offspring on the proper use of the bidet. With that premise, I deemed that it would be quite simple for a full-grown adult male to learn how to use it. Silly me.

I approached the European technical advanced appliance with the American can-do attitude. During my first attempt things went wrong from the start. It ended with water down my shoes, soaked socks, and wet underwear. After cleaning the bathroom, taking a shower, and a complete change of clothing, I vowed to never again attempt such an embarrassing and ridiculous thing.

The bidets became monsters lurking in my bathrooms. Ignoring them, they would not go away. Here set something not earning its keep. Here was something, which had defeated me. I could not leave it at that. Dumb me.

My second attempt to conquer the bidet was brought about by a macho American male we can accomplish all attitude thing. This attempt failed because of an improper water pressure adjustment. Oh, for sure, this time before I approached the thing I had removed my shoes, socks, and had ensured that my underwear were well below my knees. That was a mistake, having my underwear positioned above the knees would have better served the situation.

The water bounced off me, sprayed the floor, and the better part of two walls. The towel-rack was no less than five steps out of my reach. With wet underwear draped around the ankles and with the rear-end swinging in great arcs, my duck-waddle walk to retrieve a towel served only to throw water throughout the bathroom. I can assure you I am not describing a pretty sight, the fewer descriptive words I use may well serve the reader.

One would think I would have had enough sense to leave it alone. No way.

My third and final go at the bidet was based on intellectual knowledge and principle. Intellectually, I found a book on the care and feeding of the bidet, and read it from cover to cover. (Yes, some sicko did author such a book.) The principle, I vowed that no porcelain butt-washer was going to defeat me.

Keeping in mind wet socks, splattered walls, and soaked underwear; I approached the bathroom nude. With complete confidence I stared at the medieval European torture pot. "This day, I shall conquer you," I said, with strong resolve.

Hurrying through my throne business, I eagerly looked forward to the challenge. I had carefully planned every step. Victory would soon be mine.

I took note that I could speed up the action, from where I sat I could reach the faucets on the bidet. I leaned over and carefully adjusted the flow of water. I adjusted the temperature to a degree that would be a comfort to any babies' bottom.

Then, I was ready. With adrenaline soaring, I flushed the commode and took aim at the bidet. Flushing was the error.

It was actually a plumber's principle that sent me to the emergency room. I am sure that all European mothers and father must demonstrate this principle to their offspring. On some bathroom installations the cold water supplying the commode also supplies the bidet. The water temperature of the bidet must be adjusted only after the commode's tank has refilled after flushing.

Carefully aiming my bottom at the bidet spray, I positioned myself. The ideal position being the spray of water must clean an area close to the most sensitive apparatus of the male anatomy. Accorded to the sicko book, ideally, the spray of water should be directed to hit between this area and the second most sensitive area of the male's posterior; you know, ain't one, ain't the other.

The human mind is quick. Expecting the pleasure of warmth but receiving a signal of too hot, much too hot, indeed scalding hot, the reaction to prevent irreversible damage is enormously quick. The muscle reaction that leaped me forward could have set Olympic records. I now hold the world record for the springing forward jump, both in time and distant. I could have covered considerable more distant, indeed even putting that record out of mortal man's reach, had it not been for the bathroom sink, not to mention the wall.

Now, I ask you, how do you explain to an emergency room doctor that a broken nose and left foot pinkie was the results of using a bidet?

# Butt Squeezing

There are things that a man in his late fifties should never do. Things never told to him, things he never read about, but things common sense would tell him not to do. These things can accumulate and seriously affect your status in your community.

I was working a construction management job in Malden Missouri, a small farming community in the upper Bootheel. A wonderful town full of hard working folks; folks slightly prone to gossip. We're talking about wee things entering the mind and exiting with enormous significant alterations.

One day, along a country highway a mile from my apartment, I came upon a very ragged and lost red female dog; I at once named her Amber. I took her home and began feeding her. She would come into my small apartment, eat, but when finished she demanded to be let out. After a couple weeks, I discovered why she needed to be outside. She showed up at my front door with eight fat and healthy puppies.

I soon found homes for the pups, took Amber to the vet for shots and spading, and she became my best friend.

The following month, my wife, Reggie, came to visit me for a long weekend; our home was in Las Vegas, Nevada. Reggie fell in love with Amber and all was good―until the second day of her visit.

As I was shaving, a shriek came from Reggie that should have been reserved for robbery or rape. I ran to her aid to discover her staring as Amber dragged her little bottom across the living room carpet.

During the final days of Reggie's visit I received hourly hints that I must take Amber to the vet as she suspected worms.

After Reggie departed I indeed took Amber to the vet. Told him the problem and said that my wife suspected worms.

The country Vet doctored hogs, cattle, and horses. A wise old coot with a sense about him; get things done and as cheaply as possible. He told me, "Nah, she ain't got worms, just needs a good old fashion butt squeezing."

"A butt squeezing?" I said.

"Yeah, the rectum gets a little plugged up on the sides; you just take these two fingers and squeeze the crap outta there. She'll need it from time to time. Ain't nothing to it, you can do it at home."

"Really, at home?"

I watched the smelly procedure without comment. After the deed had been finished, Amber and I left with me secretly thinking there would never be a butt squeezing conducted at the Butler home.

A couple of months later, much to my chagrin, Amber scooted her butt across the living room carpet. I quickly checked my busy schedule to see when I could fit in a vet visit. My schedule was full. Perhaps I could perform the butt squeezing myself.

With the knowledge I had obtained from the country vet I knew once the task was finished I would need to jump into a shower. Ready on all accounts, I put on a rubber glove and beckoned Amber to me. Patting her with a loving hand, I proceeded to perform the operation. Things did not proceed as smoothly as they had for the vet. I squeezed, and Amber ran through the screen door. Knowing Amber would run off I ran out the door after her. Losing my balance I fell on the sidewalk in front of my apartment.

Holding Amber by the tail, I smiled as a car with four people inside, three women and a man, drove by. The only thing I had on was a rubber glove.

I have often wondered what story they told to the good people of Malden.

# A Sunday morning walk with Amber

Not too many weeks after the pups were adopted into new homes, Amber and I were on our Sunday walk. About a mile from my apartment was an irrigation canal, which was bordered by a dusty one-lane farm road. It was far from the town and very private, with only the occasional fisherman. On this day, the weather had been threatening rain, but seemed to be holding. Half way through our five-mile walk, Amber and I were caught in a warm summer shower. Well, not really a shower, it was a downpour. I had on tennis shoes and shorts. The shorts became a wet rag within seconds. Along the canal there was a private shooting range, with a table constructed from a four by eight sheet of plywood. Amber and I huddled under the table escaping from the pelting downpour.

I always walked Amber on a leash, as she would run off after rabbits, squirrels, and a host of other wild creatures living along the canal. I had a habit of slipping my key chain over the lease so it wouldn't bounce around in my pocket and rub on my leg. Under the table, I had laid the leash down, removed my shorts, and was in the process of wringing out the water when a sudden movement in the grass got Amber's attention. It was a huge turtle. Amber ran off to chase the creature, dragging the leash behind her. My keys went along for the trip, but soon became lost in waist high weeds.

Now, chasing after a dog in your underwear is not a real good idea. With my attention focused on finding the lost keys in the tall grass, I failed to realize not thirty feet away a car was parked. Inside the car were three women and a man. They were parked to get out of the rain until they could return to fishing.

I have often wondered what story they told to the good people of Malden.

# Drowning Tom the Turkey

At a very young age I learned that all animals are not mans' best friend. For example, turkey droppings in the barnyard became instant undesirable feelings against bare-feet. It has always amazed me, with all those thousands of turkey droppings, I did not notice the odor until I would step in just one. Then, the odor became my entire nostril's intake. A special chill impregnates my spine when I think of the dreadful moments I spent in the removal of said droppings from between my childhood toes. Just thinking of it brings a yuck-odor to memory.

There was a turkey, our family named Tom. Tom was a huge gobbler that had missed Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. My dad declared Tom was too old and too tough for the table. Actually Dad had taken a liking to the big turkey. Tom became a family pet.

Tom wanted to harm me. When Tom was six years old, so was I. The turkey out weighted me by ten pounds. He could out think me and seemingly was always lying in ambush for me. If I would try to exit the house by the back door, he would be waiting for me, if I ran around to the front door, there he was. Tom would strut and hiss and ruffle his feathers announcing to all he was the ruler of the barnyard. He sure convinced me. Tom also taught me several science lessons, but that's getting ahead of the story.

By the time I was seven years old; Tom controlled my play activities. My parents thought it was kind of cute and did not interfere in the matter. It was up to me to handle the situation. One day I got a break. In the barbershop, I heard a grownup telling a turkey story. One thing he said hit me like a bolt of lightning. He said, "Not flying ain't all they can't do either, turkeys can't swim, can't swim a lick, put 'em in water an' they'll drown like a rat."

Finally, an answer to my problem; all I needed to do, drown Tom. That should be easy enough. A galvanized horse tank set beside the back porch. For those that might not know, a horse tank is a large vessel about twelve feet long, four feet wide, three feet deep, with two support beams running across the tank. In this particular application, the horse tank collected rain-water for doing the laundry.

The horse tank should be big enough to do the trick. The problem, how to get Tom into the tank?

I, as a smart seven-year-old, should be able to outsmart a seven-year-old turkey, or so I thought. I knew Tom loved corn. I reasoned if I put corn on the supports, Tom would eat his way to his demise.

My first attempt proved to be fruitless. Tom was so tall he merely walked up to the tank and picked the corn off the supports with little effort on his part. Rats!

I reasoned I would be required to get the thirty-pound sharpened-beak, ball of feathers, and spur armed bird upon the tank, not an easy task. My next attempts would incorporate the placing of plank up the side of the tank, and a narrow board across the top of the tank. The idea, Tom would be so eager to eat the corn, he would climb up the plank and walk out onto the board. There, he should lose his balance and fall in the water.

I was astounded to learn the ugly bird was into acrobatics. At first, I placed a two-by-four across the tank. This did not even slow him down. Then, I put a two-inch strip across the tank. Tom had perfect balance and appeared to be enjoying the new game.

I then reasoned I would be required to push the balancing wonder into the tank. I tied a rope to a nearby walnut tree and climbed upon the back porch roof. The plan was to swoop down and knock Tom into his watery grave. Calculating the required place to grasp the rope, I stood on the roof waiting to put my plan into motion.

Tom walked out on the board greedily pecking away at the corn. I leaped into the air and swung down to finish the fat bird. My grasping of the rope calculations were awry. I swung five feet above Tom and after several passes I hung some fifteen feet from the ground. I slid down the rope and learned, at a very young age, the science of rope burns.

To further irritate me, Tom had not moved from the tank. He finished the corn and looked at me as if I were next.

The next day, I engaged in my second rope attempt. This time I was sure I had judged the proper length of the rope. I hadn't. I came up a bit short. I swooped down and entered the horse tank a few inches before the first support beam. I maintained my grasp on the rope as I slid under the water. It was like the rope became my last chance for survival. My momentum carried me toward the far end of the tank. That's when I first discovered how strong those support beams were. It is amazing how a small boy, under water, can obtain rope burns, bare feet burns, and butt burns. At least I scared the poop out of Tom. I know that because when I surfaced and gasped for air, I inhaled poop. Never before sucking in poop, I can say without fear of contradiction, it was turkey poop.

I hesitated on attempt three. I refined my calculations. I decided I needed to grasp the rope in between my two previous attempts. With Tom picking away at the corn I leaped from the roof and swooped down on the defenseless bird. This time my aim was true. My only mistake was not controlling a basic instinct. When you are about to hit an object your hands dart out in defense. In this particular case, one hand darted out and the other remained grasping the rope, again strictly for survival.

I leaned two science lessons that day. Lesson one, when a swinging body grasps a fat turkey, the turkey poops. Lesson two, the arc and momentum of a swinging body and turkey poop are identical. As Tom and I hit the walnut tree trunk, the poop hit me. I was not alone on my fall to the earth.

Enough with the rope already; I would knock the fat bird off the support beam with a falling object. I had already learned the science of falling objects and gravity. I had tried to parachute from the barn roof. Another story.

Being a very small boy the object selected was a five-pound bag of potatoes. I stood on the porch roof with the bag of potatoes high above my head aiming at Tom, on the horse tank, with the precision of a B 17 bombsight.

I think aggression was the problem. I put that little extra power behind the throw and did not follow through, as I should. The sack of potatoes found the porch window, sent a three-gallon can of fresh cream into a case of eggs, ten dozen as I remember it. That was the second time I learned the strength of the horse tank support beams. Falling eight feet, I landed a straddling one, swiveled around and hit my head on the second.

My parents were dumbfounded as to what had hit the porch window. My dad said, "There must have been at least three objects as both support beams on the horse tank were bent. Could have been lightening."

My dad was very close to the truth. The jolt I received to my manhood rated right up there with lightening.

My last attempt to kill Tom was to place baling wire across the tank. With rubber bands, I affixed corn kernels to the wire. I would hide and rush out and club the stupid bird with a ball bat.

It was a real downer to watch fat Tom balance on the wire and strip the corn off, rubber bands and all.

During this last attempt to drown the stupid bird, my mother caught me. She let out a scream that could have been heard above the roar of a boiler factory. I dropped the bat, and I knew my buns were in for a good toasting. I was wrong.

My mother thought it was so inventive that I had taken the time to teach Tom the trick of walking a tightrope. I was in no position to correct her so I let it be as she perceived it to be.

After that, two things happened. First, I was required to tie the corn onto the wire with rubber bands and demonstrate to my dad, grandparents, and anyone else coming around, how well I had trained Tom. The second thing, during the very same week, Tom died?

It was a sad departure of an old family friend yeah, right. We held a special service for the bird just before my mother cooked him. Tom was kind of tough, my parents said, but I enjoyed eating every bite.

It would be several years before I would learn what really happen to Tom. It was another science lesson. I learned birds cannot tolerate rubber bands in their diets because of the sulfur content. Tom had poisoned himself.

# Future Value

The applause was consistent, but more polite than enthusiastic. Mortimer Peabody, an able CPA, had been employed at Investment Unlimited for thirty-five years. At sixty-five, he had been asked to retire. Had he a choice? No. A timid mouse of a man, no one believed he would fight for his position, and he did not.

"And now, "the owner and CEO announced, "this evening Investment Unlimited takes great pride in presenting to Mortimer our gift of a home computer package with an advanced future value calculation database program which will serve you in your retirement financial planning. Our distinguished colleague, Doctor Carlton Schmidt developed this program and Investment Unlimited plans to include this gift to all its retiring employees.

"Doctor Schmidt would have delighted in having been here to formally present you with this prestigious gift. Unfortunately, because of prior commitments, Carlton cannot be with us this evening to explain his program.

"So, the best of luck to you Mortimer and we hope you shall enjoy your retirement."

That had been the night before. Now, Mort sat alone in his small two-room apartment contemplating his future. He was only sixty-five. His total savings were $39,400. His Social Security monthly check was a mere $805; his rent and utilities, $305. It did not require a CPA to calculate that if he could get by with living expenses not exceeding $250 a week, he would be required to draw $500 a month from his savings. How long would those savings last?

Then, he thought of the future value database. Quickly, he assembled his new computer and went about downloading the programs supplied including the future value program.

Now, to see what this future value program was all about. As he viewed the screen, he was directed to follow the prompts and enter the data required. Entries included the balance of the account, the interest rate being paid on the account, and the amounts and how often money would be withdrawn. Once the information had been entered, a calculation button appeared on the screen.

With trembling hands, Mort moved the cursor to the button and pressed the left mouse button. Instantly a number appeared, 96 months.

96 MONTHS! 96 months is only 8 years, a voice cried in his head. At age 73 I will be broke. At 73 there will be no more money.

Then, another button appeared on the screen. The instruction read, "For a recovery program, double click."

Mort scoffed, "I don't need a computer to direct my finances, I am not brain dead yet, I'll calculate my own recovery program."

Over the next few days, Mort spent hours making calculations. No matter how he calculated, the answer always came up the same. In eight years, he would be broke.

The first month of his retirement passed with Mort spending hours each day managing his meager funds. He watched every penny. Each night he took stock of his assets and calculated and recalculated his funds, and his future value.

At the end of the second month, via his modem, he received his bank statement and set about balancing his account. He was startled to discover an error. The balance was 89 cents more than he had calculated.

A telephone call to the bank resolved very little, in Mort's mind at least. Mort was assured that his balance was correct, all was in order, and every penny in the account was his.

Now, this did not set well with Mort. No indeed, he had spent thirty-five years of his life balancing numbers and he surly could be held accountable for the total sum of money in his meager savings account. If he deemed it incorrect, then he should be listened to.

But, his mind turned to a new set of calculations. Over the eight-year period of exhausting his savings, could the 89 cents make a difference? The future value database soon proved it made little difference. A smile came to Mort's face. How desperate he had become. Not only was he seeing hope in an additional 89 cents but he was relying on a computer program to calculate for him.

When the next month's bank statement appeared on the screen, it was welcomed with great expectation. Mort had convinced himself that the bank would discover their error and would remove the money from his account and would place it in its proper place. Not to be. He looked at the statement fighting back horror; the new bank statement had credited his account with an additional $9.60.

In a fit of rage he grabbed the telephone, but suddenly felt better of it. Last month had been a trial of humiliation, this time he must put the facts together before he called the incompetent bank to set them straight.

All that day, and well into the wee hours of the morning, Mort calculated and recalculated his numbers. No matter how he would try, all seemingly was in order. How could this be? How could he had been so correct the first month, but so incorrect the past two months?

Finally, nearly exhausted, he turned on the computer, brought up the future value program, and stared at the screen. There a message appeared, "You should press the recovery button."

"I don't need this," he whispered to himself. But, repositioning his glasses, he placed the cursor over the recovery button, and pressed the left mouse button. Immediately a message appeared, "Are you sure you are ready for this program?"

"YES! You stupid computer, I'm sure I'm ready," he shouted slamming down the left mouse button.

Mort was unprepared for the next text that appeared on the screen. "To recover, with a life expectancy of seventy-eight years, you must withdraw $1000 each month from your account. To do this, you must have $112,682.68 in your account by the end of the month. With your present rate of interest, 5.2%, in 154 months your account will have a balance of one cent. If you agree with these calculations, please double click the right mouse button and Future Value will credit your account with the correct amount. _CAUTION,_ the final calculation of this sum and the addition of the funds to your account are your responsibility. A double click of the right mouse button verifies that you agree to these terms."

Mort burst out laughing. "You stupid computer, if I had $112,682.68, I would not even need you."

As Mort moved the cursor to exit the program, a new message appeared. "If you do not agree, Future Value must readjust your account."

"Over my dead body," Mort exclaimed as he exited the future value program. "I will make my own adjustments if indeed any adjustments are needed."

Sweating through another month, Mort was nearing a state of desperation. On the night of the thirty-first, Mort wearily remained at his keyboard waiting for his bank statement. When it appeared, it was indeed not what he had expected. The message read, "We have found a $10.49 error in your account and have debited the amount."

Speechless, Mort sat staring at the screen. Then, another message appeared, "See, Future Value warned you, you should have allowed the corrections required."

This was madness. How could his computer be communicating with him? With rage, Mort banged out a message on the keyboard, "If you're so damn smart, tell me how to fix the balance."

To Mort's horror, an answering message appeared on the screen. He never read it. He panicked, turned the computer off, and ran from the room.

Several hours passed. At first Mort swore never to turn the computer on again. As the clocked ticked away the hours Mort began to think twice about it. "Get hold of yourself, a computer only produces text from programmed information supplied to it," he spoke aloud. Finally, curiosity won the day, Mort returned to the computer.

"Could you please repeat your last message," he typed.

"Allow Future Value to manage your finances for the next thirteen years and all your future values are assured," the text on the screen read.

Mort thought a moment, then typed, "Only if you show me your calculation prior to any alteration to my account."

"That can be done, but with great difficulty. Are you sure that is necessary?"

"Yes!" Mort typed.

"So be it. You will need a million sheets of blank paper to print them out. The assembling of the calculations will take twenty-nine days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-eight minutes. All the while these calculations are being assembled, Future Value will be dormant."

Before Mort could react, the computer went into the calculation mode. Suddenly, the screen filled with ten rows of numbers. All the rows of number had two things in common, each had a decimal point to three places, and the numbers were moving in a blur down the screen. Mort sat mesmerized. Hour after hour the screen filled and emptied row after row of numbers. What could all this mean? Mort had no knowledge of what it was all about, and no knowledge of how to stop it. He tried to reboot the computer with no results. He executed several standard control-Alt-deletes, but the messages always read "the program had failed to respond".

Day after day, night after night, the rows of numbers came and went. Mort printed out a few screens, but his study of the numbers revealed nothing. With each passing day, anxiety swelled up within him. His mind began to think in the terms of the worse, then began to dwell on the ramifications of the consequences. What was going on? What was this computer doing to his account? And, had he not been warned the responsibility was his? This could only mean what was going on was illegal.

He could no longer eat or sleep. He stopped showering, he stopped shaving; he cowered in the darkness of his apartment watching rows of numbers enter and leave his computer screen. The days slowly passed. Then, the twenty-ninth day arrived, the minutes ticked by. Suddenly, the numbers stopped.

Mort's account's new balance appeared on the screen, $112,682.68. "My God, where did that money come from?" Mort cried in anguish, "what have I done?"

Quickly, Mort banged out on the keys, "Where did these funds come from?"

"Did you not receive the calculation?" a message appeared.

As Mort pondered his reply, a new message appeared. A message from the bank. It was Mort's monthly statement. The new balance of his savings account read, $112,682.68.

Mort could hardly believe his eyes. He now had all the money he needed to live out the remaining years of his life. His worries were over. He had no idea what had happen, but there in his account was the money and the bank was none the wiser. His celebration was short lived. A terrible guilt feeling hit him. What if the bank finds out about this? Why, this is major fraud. A horrifying thought exploded in his tired mind, I could spend the rest of my life in prison.

Stumbling to his couch, Mort curled up immersed in guilt. After trying to sleep for several hours, he gave up and returned to his computer. On the screen was a new message from the bank: there seems to be an irregularity in your savings account, we would like to see you as soon as possible. We would suggest that you entertain the possibility of commissioning the services of an attorney.

Mort slumped back in his chair. Hesitating but for a few moments, he reached into his desk drawer, removed a small handgun and placed it to his head.

The two detectives assigned to the case went through the motions of an investigation, but it was a cut and dry case of suicide by a lonely old man forced into retirement. A few things did not fit the picture, but they figured why bother with trivial. But again, why would someone shoot themselves with a savings account balance of over $112,000.00? And there was the message on the computer screen, "Only kidding, just a Future Value computer joke, Mort."

Now what was that all about?

In a private office, the CEO of Investment Unlimited was deep in discussion with Doctor Carlton Schmidt, "Is there anyway the program can be fixed?" the CEO asked.

"I'm afraid not," Carlton replied. "The basic concept of the program was the gathering of the round offs of financial dealings throughout the world. Half a penny here, and a half a penny there, transferred to the personal account of the program's owner with none the wiser. And, for now it is legal. But next month, a new law will abolish the practice. Of course, those that took advantage of the program up to now are free and clear."

# Diarrhea

When I get sick, the last place I think of going is the emergency room. That's doubly true with the flu. Having the flu would not be so bad if it were not for diarrhea. Like most men, I take a dim view of diarrhea. When it comes to farting, diarrhea is a hazard. To real men, farting is a privilege. Not only is it a privilege, farting is a sacred manhood rite passed from father to son. Though not protected by the Bill of Rights, it should be.

The rules for fart judging are rather ambiguous. This is mainly because of the great number of categories. By far, the early morning fart is the most judged. You know that you are in the competitive range when the neighbors start to complain about the noise and your wife vows to sleep at her mother's until the divorce is final.

Farting is a macho thing. It rates up there with peeing in the shower. All men do it but don't talk much about it, in mixed company anyway. Each time a male flexes those rectum muscles, he is shooting for a world record. But, it kind of takes the luster off the trophy if he craps his pants.

When a male fills his shorts, he is left with a real dilemma, what to do with the damn things. Here a great deal of cleverness and wisdom is in order. A single male simply places the mess in the garbage to be carried out to the trash, each week or so, and things go along as normal. But, a married male is confronted with an entirely different set of circumstances. A newlywed must console a weeping spouse that has called her mother fearing that her husband will crap himself into oblivion. Later on in the marriage, you would hope that your loving wife would dispose of the whole mess and keep her pretty little mouth shut. Yeah, right.

Today, because of women liberation, the second most embarrassing thing about having the flu is in knowing most of the neighborhood and all of your friends will know within the hour that you have crapped your pants.

But what does all of this have to do with anything? Like most men, when I'm sick, I suffer. When I suffer, I take it out on women's rights. When I was growing up in the Midwest, a man could get sick, go see a doctor, and actually receive treatment. Ah, the good old days. You may think this to be fiction, but in those days, a male could actually take a case of diarrhea to the emergency room, and it stayed there. Err, you know what I mean.

# Patch  
(A story from my book, Thibodaux's Trial)

Calvin Barns sat on a commode, a bit disgruntled. Calvin's nickname: Patch. Few knew his given name. Patch was a ladies' man, a skirt chaser extraordinaire; a happy-go-lucky guy, six feet, one-eighty, in his late forties. He had a subtle current of sexuality running through him, irresistible to women. He possessed two attributes most females desired, ruggedly handsome and worth millions.

A different current ran through him when dealing with men. Not to be confused with arrogance, he projected an aura of strength and competence producing both intimidation and reassurance.

He wore a patch over his right eye, an eye lost in a construction accident. He often told different stories about how he lost the eye, stories more glamorous than a mere construction accident. Tales that often attracted vulnerable females into Patch's clutches.

Patch lived for two things, women and adventure, often mixing both pleasures. Patch was a fun person to be around. With the gift of gab he produced funny and original tales in a flamboyant manner. He was a seasoned desert rat and a professional treasure hunter. He thrived on courage and strength. Once he had proved his courage, the satisfaction seemed to wane quickly. He had to prove it anew. It was like a drug, each dose had to be stronger than the last.

In the spring of 1972, Patch was not seated on the toilet because of a call of nature. He had been handcuffed there by a police officer.

_This reminds me of when I was yet with my dear mother._ _A jingle comes to mind._ "When I was a wee–wee tot, my mom would put me on a wee–wee pot, and say, wee–wee you little bastard whether you want to or not." He chuckled at his cleverness.

Patch had accompanied a young lady home, at the young lady's insistence. During the course of the frolicking the lady's husband arrived. An ugly scene ensued and concerned neighbors summoned the police.

Under normal circumstances Patch would have been long gone, but the husband displayed tendencies of wanting to harm the young lady. Because of the husband's actions Patch delayed his departure. Patch was a cad, but never found reason to physically harm women. Wasn't in him to allow others to become physical with women either. That caused his untimely departure into the waiting arms of the law.

When the police arrived, the shouts, screams, sobs and wild accusations necessitated a separation of all parties involved. The wife was taken to the bedroom, the husband to the kitchen, and Patch drew the bathroom. _They get the bed and food and I get the toilet, seems to me I have been shafted. But, sooner than I require the use of their facilities they shall require the use of mine._

The husband's obsession with getting at Patch, and Patch's eagerness to accommodate him, overcame the patience of the police and the husband was handcuffed to a refrigerator and Patch shamefully handcuffed to the toilet. "You might say that we are both close to the beer," Patch mused, "though I must admit I envy his position over mine."

The wife assured the police she wanted her husband arrested for assault. She further explained that under no circumstances did she want Patch arrested. She claimed Patch had protected her from certain harm and besides, to the female police officer on the sly, "Patch is the best lover in the state, maybe the whole world."

The female officer strived to keep the wife's attention focused on the problem at hand. The wife tried, but from time to time she drifted back to explanations of Patch's macho charm.

In 1972 female police officers were a rarity. The officer, dressed in full uniform including sidearm, nightstick, and a can of mace, entered the bathroom. Her nametag read Gloria Dobson. She had been on duty less than an hour, freshly powered and perfumed she smelled all woman. A pretty blond in her late twenties, she wore no rings and seemed to be all business. Dressed in a uniform, street clothes, or bib-overalls she could not hide her beauty.

She wore little makeup, and needed it not. She focused light gray eyes on Patch; her lead in statement, words not expected from such innocence, "Mr. Morse said he found you buck-naked in his bedroom with his wife."

Patch looked up and smiled at her, "Now that right there is a dang lie. I always wear my boxer shorts, especially in the presence of a lady. I have the best proof a fellow can have too. You can ask my mommy."

"Your mommy?" Gloria replied, with a grimace. Then, trying so hard not to smile, a snicker of a laugh.

"Yes, my dear mommy. She has forever told me if'n I don't stop with them boxer shorts someday my teeny weenie would hang down to my knees. Was her argument from the beginning. Now I ask you what's the downside of that argument?"

"Mr. Barns, we must keep to the–"

"Patch, people call me Patch."

"Stop interrupting me, Barns, we have a serious dispute here and you are one step away from a night in jail."

"I did not mean to interrupt, it's just that I prefer Patch. Most call me Patch. Mr. Barns makes me feel a lot older than I want to be. I've never been keen on Calvin. Oh, I respect my folks for givin' me the name and all, they must have had their reason, but I surely do prefer Patch."

Sensing a slight attitude adjustment, Gloria conceded there could be no harm in addressing the man as Patch. "Okay, Patch. Now we need your side of the story for our report."

"Y'all know, when I lost this eye, my other senses developed into keenly honed extensions of myself. Take my hearing for instance. Now, I can hear a pair of panties flutter to the floor behind a closed door."

"Patch, keep to the subject– "

"Wait, there's more, on a good day I can even tell the color of those panties."

"Patch, I'll not warn you again, you are in serious trouble. Now, what's your side of the story?"

Patch smiled. Gloria felt that she was in control. Patch knew better, he smiled because he had won some ground with her concession to use his nickname.

"My side of the story you say. Well, it all started just after the war. I just couldn't adjust to the eye thing at first. So, I had to face it straight on– "

"Patch, I don't mean your life story, I want to know why you are here with a married woman."

"Now hold it right there. That makes it sound like I'm a gigolo. I didn't know she was married until her husband showed up. Then, it was kinda late. It's no wonder that fellow is so upset with her. I guess I would be too. Ain't right for married women to be out carousing all hours of the night. But that don't give him no call to be hitting on her like that."

"Hit her? Did you see him hit her?" Gloria asked.

"Of course he hit her, must of hit her two, three times. Why, he slapped her around hard too. He even punched her in the stomach a time or two. That's when I nailed him. I can't see any call for a man to be hitting on a woman whether it's his wife or not; just makes my blood boil."

"What time did this all happen?"

"Time is so hard for me to tell. You see my watch only has a minute hand. The hour hand fell off years ago. All I can tell you it happen around ten past, maybe twenty till."

"How many times did you hit Mr. Morse?" she asked, holding back a menacing desire to tell him to knock off the bull.

"Hit him? Hell, I never hit the man. I just threw him against the wall and slapped him a time or two. If I'd hit him he'd most likely be in need of some doctoring."

Gloria was yet skeptical; "Mr. Morse said that you hit him from behind with a hard object. What do you say to that?"

"So, who does your hair, Gloria?" Patch asked.

The question put Gloria off stride. "That's Sergeant Dobson to you," she coolly replied, fighting hard to suppress a smile.

"Sergeant is it, and a fine looking one I must say. But tell me Gloria, does the policewoman's handbook frown on giving a smile here and there?"

"Depends on whom the smile is to be directed. Until we establish without doubt that a detainee is harmless, business must be business. Now, knock off the crap and let's get down to business."

"My God, my charm has been called witty, clever, and even scrupulous–but never crap. I have been struck down. If not for these cuffs I would hide my head in shame. Police brutality it is. A pure case of malicious rejection." Patch slumped back and shielded his head with his free hand as if expecting a blow.

Sergeant Dobson could no longer refrain from smiling. "I bet you treat all female cops this way," she said.

"My daddy always told me to do that very thing, he said, 'Son, when you come up against a women with a gun, a big stick, and heavily trained in judo, you had best get her to smiling as quick as you can.'"

"I bet he did."

"Well, I made up the part about the judo, but the rest is the truth of it."

"Your daddy must have been a smart man."

"Oh that he was, left me with untold knowledge. Told me, 'Son, never shave your armpits, change your underwear at least once a week, and always remember professional football player's jocks come in bra sizes.'"

"What a bunch of BS, Patch."

"Can't argue with you there, Gloria. That's why it's untold knowledge. But Daddy had a real social problem. An inherited problem I've been told. Every women he ever met wanted to bed and wed him. Of course, with the exception of my mommy, he only made it to the wed part once."

"An inherited problem?" she smiled, "And I suppose you have inherited the same affliction?"

"Yes, I'm very much afraid so. It's a burden to say the least but one must do with what legacy one has mustn't one?" Patch said, dryly.

"Was your daddy also full of it?"

"Yes, I'm afraid he was, but let's not split hairs here. What are your plans for breakfast?"

Again Gloria was caught off guard, "Why–I have not given that much thought–now see here, Patch, we really must stick to business."

"Good, my business is poetry."

"Poetry?

"Yes," he smiled. "Example, roses are red violets are blue, if it wasn't for these handcuffs I'd play the kazoo."

"Poetry? That's awful."

"Yes I agree, I'm more of the limerick kind of poet," he said.

"Limerick? So tell me a limerick."

"Oh, I don't know, Officer Gloria, my limericks are a bit, shall we say, risqué."

"Really? I doubt if you could say anything that I haven't heard on this job."

"Oh contraire, my limericks are a tiny bit vulgar. Tell you what, I'll tell you my cleanest one. But, it still contains words not fit for a woman's ears. So, in place of those vulgar words I shall substitute la-tee-da.

"Fair enough," Gloria smiled.

"Here goes, la-tee-da, la-tee-da, la-tee-da–la-tee-da, la-tee-da, la-tee-da–la-tee-da, la tee da, fuck."

She paused, then laughed, one of those surprised funny laughs.

Patch stared at her with big puppy-dog eyes. If he had a tail, it would have been ferociously wagging.

She smiled, a smile where the whole face joins in, "So, tell me Patch, who does your hair?"

#  Professor  
(From Thibodaux's Trial)

With a brilliant command of the English language, and fluent in twelve others, Professor rarely used profanity. Therefore, it was out of character for him to be standing by his pre WWII Rolls Royce in the California moonlight swearing.

The spring was early, bringing heat and wind to the Southern California desert. Dressed in a light-gray suit, white shirt, and string tie with black Western boots, he blended in with the California scene. Professor repositioned his gold-rimmed glasses on his mouse-like nose as he perused the owner's manual. His attire normal for him, being frustrated and not in control was not.

Things had gone awry driving to a Professional Treasure Hunting Associates convention. The Rolls had broken down between Barstow and Mojave on a little-traveled desert two-lane highway. The engine had suddenly stopped, as if it had been switched off. Auto mechanics, not Professor's forte-a subject he had not studied. Any subject Professor studied, Professor mastered. He wasn't swearing because the Rolls had broken down, and he wasn't swearing because he'd be late for his meeting, he swore because he had not studied auto mechanics. Looking under the hood reminded him how little he knew.

Professor, known as The Researcher among professional treasure hunters, satisfied a diverse group of clients. On top of his game, solving clues leading to untold wealth, compensations were often hefty.

After nightfall the wind had eased, the heat lingered. Owner's manual in hand, Professor busied himself trying to comprehend its contents. Engrossed in the manual he didn't notice the figure moving in the shadows.

"Adios, hombre," spoke a heavily accented Mexican voice.

Startled, Professor jerked back and grasped the manual to his chest, "My heavens! You frightened me nearly half to death. You should give an individual prior warning before approaching so silently at this late hour."

"Sí, señor, I send the smoke signals, did you not see them?"

He spoke through cracked front teeth with less than a friendly smile. This was not a cat playing with the mouse smile; it was more like a I am here to be dealt with smile.

"My name is Alex, señor, a name you shall maybe not forget."

Professor eyed the seedy character. _Is he someone to be leery of?_

Dressed in brown sweat stained baggy pants, a gray faded tee shirt, and a pair of worn boots with a big toe protruding through a hole in the right boot, the hatless dirty man reeked of sweat, cigarettes, and sour whiskey breath. Standing silhouetted in the moonlight he appeared to be menacing, but nothing earth shaking.

With a wave of his hand, Professor dismissed the presence of the intruder and returned to his manual. That irritated Alex.

Alex's eyes flashed, "Don't you know you are in big trouble?" he scowled.

Without looking up from the manual Professor said, "Big trouble might be an over exaggeration. I am confident the solution is quite simple. I have concluded the problem has to do with the engine. What precisely the failed function of the engine is, is indeed another question."

"Not trouble with the car, dumbass gringo, but with me," Alex screamed. "It's Alex that you must fear, not your stupid car."

"Oh, I would rather doubt that," Professor replied, still studying his manual. "I perceive the car to be in need of immediate attention. If I cannot quickly resolve the issue I shall be late tomorrow for an engagement significantly important to me. Such an occurrence is unspeakable."

Alex managed to understand the reference to the car, the rest was far beyond his English comprehension. "It is I that is your biggest threat dumbass gringo."

Looking up from the manual, Professor said, "My good fellow I would hardly consider you a threat, and certainly no more than the situation confronting me. Putting it in perspective you appear quite harmless I would judge."

"You stupid gringo fool, I shall cut off your head, steal your money, and drive off in your fancy car."

"Now, that's exactly what I mean!" Professor shouted, slamming the manual against his leg, "that is why you are no threat to me."

Such an outburst was far from keeping with Professor's demeanor, seemingly, the late hour and his lack of understanding the mechanics of the Rolls had put him on edge. But, was that the way of it?

Alex could not believe what he was hearing. He stared in disbelief at Professor. _This dumbass gringo must be taught a lesson._

Professor continued his rant, "You could cut off my head, you could steal my money—but how can you drive off in my car? If my car were running I would not be here in the first place, now would I? If you had the sense God gave a gnat you would allow me to repair the car before doing me harm."

Because of a lack of anything else to say, almost as an afterthought, Alex said, "Dumbass, I could fix your car before I drive off."

"Oh, sure, right, you're an ace mechanic I suppose?"

"What makes you think that I could not be the, how you say it, the ace mechanic?" Alex replied, forgetting to use his strong accent.

Professor pressed on, "You don't look to me as if you could be an ace at anything. I would venture to wager you can't read your native tongue let alone English, and if you can, you would understand very little."

Trembling with anger, "Damn it, I can so read, I can read as good as you. I can write reading, read writing, and speak proper speaking." Alex spoke in a low tone and with perfect pronunciation.

"Oh for Pete's sake, if that is true, prove it," Professor replied, in an equaling low tone.

"How?"

"Read this section of the manual," Professor said. With a provoking grin, he opened the manual and thrust it toward Alex.

With a jerk, Alex grabbed the manual. Suddenly it had become a matter of principle. Must prove to this ignorant gringo bastard I can read and even write, and can do that which the gringo cannot do, fix the car.

The right strings had been pulled to set Alex off. Will fix the damn gringo's car and then fix the gringo's ass. How sweet it will be proving him wrong before killing him. Have not actually killed anyone, but have I not thought of it many times? By God today I will do it.

Alex licked his thumb, turned a few pages then, slammed the manual shut. "I don't need to read your stupid manual to fix your stupid car." He tossed the manual aside and moved to inspect under the hood. He had worked as a migrant farm worker, and had become adept with engines and other mechanical equipment. Within a few minutes he suspected the fuel filter was plugged and his suspicions would eventually prove out.

He did not immediately make an announcement of his idea. Must make sure I'm right and right the first time. Then, shove the manual up the gringo's ass and stomp him to death. The cutting of the throat would be good but do not have a knife.

With a broad smile Alex retrieved a small toolkit from beneath the hood. Using an adjustable wrench he removed the fuel line. "Gringo, get in, hit the starter."

_Professor frowned._ _Had it been that simple? I'm embarrassed._

Finally, after several engine starting failures, Alex disclosed his diagnosis. "I have it," he announced in jubilation, "your stinking fuel filter is plugged."

Alex slid under the car and within a few moments produced a cup-sized item that he proclaimed to be the faulty fuel filter. He blew into a tiny pipe protruding from the filter, banged it into the palm of his hand several times, and slid back under the car.

Within seconds he slid from beneath the car, and hurried to the engine compartment. Tightening the fuel line the job was finished. He shut the hood. "There, you dumbass gringo, I have fixed the car. Now, I shall cut off your head, steal your money, and drive off in _my_ car."

"Not so fast," Professor said, holding up a hand, "how do I know the car is indeed fixed. Am I to take the word of the likes of you? I should think not. I think I should at the very least start the engine to ensure the car has been repaired as you have professed."

Alex was irate and filled with hatred for this arrogant gringo. The strings had again been pulled. He would kill the man, but first, it would give him the greatest of pleasure to prove he had found and repaired the problem. Fixed the very problem the gringo with all his wealth, with all his education, and with all his arrogance could not. _Is okay, prove it then take it._

"Start the car gringo, start the car and know the man that has killed you this day was your better."

With a push on the starter button the engine cranked over several times but did not start. The two individuals smirked at each other through the windshield. With a jerk of his head Alex beckoned Professor to try again. At last, the engine started.

"What a delightful surprise," Professor said.

Alex was beside himself. He jumped up and down in child-like gestures, then skipped on one foot clapping his hands. He had won; he had put this arrogant gringo in his place.

Alex's celebration ended in a shower of rocks and debris as Professor quickly accelerated past him.

Alex became enraged. His hatred changed to screaming agony toward himself for being so stupid. The gringo had tricked him; had left him in the road feeling foolish.

As he knelt on his knees sobbing in the dust, he saw the most unbelievable thing. The Rolls was returning?

Alex stared through disbelieving wet eyes. The damn stupid dumbass gringo is coming back?

Professor slowed the car and stopped where Alex stood. He rolled down the window and smiled, "Thank you, my friend, the car runs marvelously. You have indeed repaired it."

Alex smiled, "Of course I fixed it. Why don't you get out and we shall talk on it."

"Sure, I will be most happy to accommodate you." Professor opened the door and slid out, on his face a broad smile, in his hand a .45.

As Professor exited the car Alex was in the process of taking a step forward when he saw the weapon. He skipped on his one foot on the ground and turned and stumbled away to his right, nearly falling down.

"My sense of fairness compels me to thank you," Professor said, "now back to our business, you have vowed to rob and kill me?" Professor grinned, "Let me see, were you not going to cut off my head?"

Alex stood with fear in his eyes, dryness in his mouth, and with a weak smile on his face.

"To cut off one's head one must have a knife of significant size. Amigo, do you possess such a weapon?"

"No," Alex dejectedly admitted.

"Unbelievable," Professor mocked.

Alex fell to his knees and began praying.

Professor stared but a moment at Alex and returned to the car. He slid in and released the brake. As the car eased forward, he said, "I would have killed you earlier but I required your services to repair my car. The only reason I allow you to live now is because you rendered those services."

With that he drove off leaving Alex kneeling in the Mojave moonlight.

# Lick Lick

Many things have changed in the medical profession over the years. I will relate to you a story that for the most part is actually happening throughout the medical facilities today.

Early one morning, I awoke with chest pains. I mean big time chest pains. I felt as if a rope was being squeezed around my chest. I had heard no less than a thousand warnings on what these pains indicated, I had no doubt this was the big one. I was having a heart attack.

I called the local hospital. Big mistake. I will tell all of you right here, if you think you are having a heart attack, stay home and enjoy it. Under no circumstances take your bad heart to a modern day emergency room.

The whole disaster started with the dialing of the emergency room number. "This is the hospital emergency room hot line, please have your insurance card or a credit card available as the representative will not be able to help you without it, hold until your call is answered in the order it was received. To hear the following in English please press one, now." Which I did, I live in an English speaking country. "For insurance questions, press one, for all questions about billing, press two, for all questions about appointment press three, for doctor referrals press four, for all other questions please call back on Monday through Friday during our normal working hours of nine to eleven and one to four, except on Wednesday afternoon we're closed for golf, if none of these options address your problem, please hold the line and a representative will answer your call in the order that it was received."

About twenty minutes later, a voice in the receiver said, "Hello."

"Is this the hospital?" I asked?

"Emergency," came the reply.

"I think I am having a heart attack," I said.

"Do you have insurance?"

"Yes, yes I do, but I can't seem to locate my card just now."

"You better find it, please don't waste our time if you do not have insurance."

"I'll find it before I come. The reason I called is to find out what I should do to prevent this heart attack?"

"Well, don't get upset, drink plenty of fluids, modest exercise is good. Let's see, no salt, quit smoking as soon as possible. Oh yes, try to lose weight."

"But madam, I may be only ten minutes away from a heart attack!"

"Hey, don't yell at me, I didn't get you into your present shape," she replied.

CLICK!

Oh, I know I should not have hung up on the lady, but it would be okay, she had not gotten my name.

When I arrived at the emergency room door, it was 2 a.m. After I located a place to park and walked to the emergency room door, it was 2:15 a.m.

The place was packed. I approached the desk and smiled. I should not have smiled in the emergency room. Tip; don't smile in an emergency room. Smiles are given to denote wellness. I had wasted a friendly smile. Emergency rooms have no friendliness.

The solemn-faced nurse, seated at a large wooden desk, glared at me.

"Hi, I'm Mr. -"

"Insurance?"

"Why, yes I -"

"Take this clipboard and fill out these forms completely! If you don't return the pencil, no service."

I took the clipboard along with a stack of forms. Then, I was confronted with the problem of locating a seat. The effort soon proved to be fruitless. I managed to locate a place standing next to a dull red wall between two drunks, or to be politically correct, two substance abusing homeless people squatting on the dirty floor, one a woman, the other a man I think, could have been visa versa?

Finally, I could start the task of filling out the stack of forms. It must have been 100 degrees. The sweat would soon run down to the pencil's point causing smudging.

Item number one, list your Insurance Company; make sure you list the phone number and the address. Ha, I had them that information was in my wallet. I reached for my wallet. It was gone? I looked down dumbfounded. The two homeless people were dividing up the contents of my wallet.

I acted quickly. I placed the sweaty pencil in my pocket and pointed it at the two dirty beggars "Give it back," I said.

The two stuffed most of the contents back into the wallet and one, without looking up, handed it to me, "Here, dude, if it upsets you that much."

I think it was male? Good, the insurance card was yet there. I went back to work on the forms. The first form was for my insurance information, the second, for my credit information. Normally, I would not have been so concerned about such forms, but on each, in large red letter, "No insurance, no credit - no service." I did not know they could do that.

As I was filling out the form I noted a large lady had gotten up and was painfully limping her way to a drinking fountain. She was slow. When she started to return, she spied me in her seat. She was not happy with me. She moved her sweaty, wide, body to my abandoned place against the wall and stood joining the two homeless people leering at me.

I was rather proud of myself; I had managed to obtain a seat in only thirty minutes. Surely, I reasoned, a man with a heart attack would be much better off sitting than a fat lady with a sprained ankle.

As I returned to my form, a large multi-colored lollipop was jammed into my face.

"Lick lick," offered a small child's voice.

"No thank you, honey," I replied.

"Lick lick," she persisted.

"No, dear," I equally persisted.

"Lick lick!"

It was becoming obvious reasoning was not the key here. This little brat was less than three years old and from all indications was running a fever well into the triple figures.

"You have a cute darling child," I lied to the straggly-hair mother.

"Could you watch her for a second, I need some air," she blurted out, as she left.

"Lick lick!"

"No kid! Please go away," I said, low and between clenched teeth. A mistake.

She at once stared to cry. Before I knew it, she had crawled onto me, the lollipop was in my hair and her wet bottom was nestled in my before dry lap.

"Lick lick." Tears streamed down the small tot's face melting my heart and the dye in the print on my forms. Who would have thought that such a small tot could be so full of moisture.

All efforts to fill out the forms came to a stop. In less than an hour, and some fifty "lick licks" later, the mother returned. As she took the dripping child from me I could only remark what a cute little girl she was with her puffy red cheeks.

"Yes," the mother replied, "that's why I brought Sweet Pea here, she has the mumps."

"How interesting, the mumps you say," I said. "You know, that is the only childhood disease I escaped."

Well, being I was having a heart attack, catching the mumps seemed of a somewhat secondary concern.

I returned to the task of filling out the forms. Once finished, I asked the mother if she would hold my seat while I returned the forms to the desk. She did not want to get involved. Odd, but I understood.

As I stood two women, in print dresses with nylons rolled down below their knees, made a mad dash to my empty chair. A large lady, much in need of a bath, won out by a scant margin. Words were exchanged but punches were short in coming, though several men in the waiting room urged them on, "Cat fight, Cat fight."

"You sure smudged these," the solemn-faced nurse at the desk said, "where's my pencil?"

I handed her the pencil.

"Take a seat; you'll be called when it's your turn."

It was now 5 a.m. I tried to complain I believed I was having a heart attack and I had been sitting there for two hours.

She snapped, "This is an emergency room and many people have been here much longer than you and are much sicker than you. Besides, you're even smiling."

After an hour or so, the two homeless had been called, the fat lady with the bad ankle had been called, and the lick lick brat had been called. I never knew having a heart attack was so much work. I found a place to stand against the wall and dozed off.

"Mr. Butler, last call for Mr. Butler."

"Here!" I shouted.

"There is no need to shout, come this way," a frowning fat-jowl nurse said.

It was 6:30 a.m. Now I was getting someplace. I was going though the door to the back. I walked tall, with my shoulders held back. I wanted all to see that I was not just a number. All now knew I was somebody with insurance. I was passing through the door while they must remain here with their miserable lives waiting to be called. I was not next; I was, now!

I passed through the door. On the other side was a large room about the size of the room I had left. Here were many chairs. However, the chairs were full of people. The two homeless were there, the fat lady, and of course, Lick Lick. It was like being among old friends; well, at least among individuals I knew.

Although there was a sudden feeling of comfort by being in said room, I turned and went home. As I departed the hospital a new surge of life hit me. The visit to the emergency room had worked, I felt much better.

The insurance company received a bill for eighteen hundred and fifty dollars. Not bad, considering that no tests were performed and the doctors did not see me. A good case could be made a nurse did not see me.

I received a warning letter from my insurance company, something about refusing recommended treatment from a health care provider. This was not understandable since I had self-diagnosed myself as having a heart attack. Insurance companies can't be too careful you know, they sure don't want to insure anyone that might need it.

I still wonder, often, what is the gestation period for the mumps?

# Part Two  
Tall Ones

Growing up in Central Illinois during the Forties and Fifties, storytelling was a big part of the Midwest entertainment. Small town characters often vied for the first to tell a good story or a great line.

Tall Ones are not told to be believed, they are told to entertain, such as:

"Damn, Hubert, that truck of yours looks like it was drove through hog slop."

"Yeah, I know, told my wife to wash it. But you know, ever since she got pregnant can't get her to do a dang thing."

***

Did you hear about the semi-retired proctologist? He still likes to keep a finger in it.

***

You know what an elephant keeps in his trunk? Six feet of snot.

***

The best way to keep from being superstitious is to carry a mustard seed in your right rear pocket.

# Igod Emo  
(A story about a great storyteller)

In our young boys' eyes, Igod Emo was an icon. He represented the food for our imaginations and the respect for our dreams. He told us stories, which gave us reason to be the mischief making boys we were. Igod taught us it was okay to get into trouble once and a while, "Moreover, a boy worth his salt is supposed to," Igod said, "lessen you wanna be called a sissies."

Of course, he also represented everything our parents were against. From homework not completed to schoolhouse mischief, our parents warned us, if we did not mend our ways someday our reward would be to grow up and be just like Igod. Of course, we saw no downside to that, but we dared not express such to our parents.

Igod's name was seldom spoken in our homes other than in jest. We did not understand the concept, but it was common knowledge associating with Igod would not have been tolerated. So, of course, most young boys sought out Igod whenever the chance was presented.

Igod was a noticeable character. A squinty-eyed man with several yellow tobacco-stained fingers as well as the few teeth he had; explained by the constant hand-rolled cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. In the summer months, and during most of the winter months, Igod reeked of tobacco and sweat. Igod could never be accused of wearing out his clothes by over washing.

Liquor breath was more of now than the morning after variety. Igod always had a bottle stashed here and there but I can say with all honesty, I never saw Igod take a drink. That is not to say he didn't.

Lean to the point of being frail, and with stooped posture; he appeared to be much shorter than he was. I can still see the tongue of his belt, so oversized he had to tuck it in, twice. Igod was not toothless, but a point could be made his back teeth were very lonely. He, as well as his clothes, was in a constant need of soap and water. Forever in the need of a haircut and shave, by design or otherwise, he presented himself as a bum.

Only once do I remember Igod with a fresh haircut. One of his aunts or cousins or some kinfolk or the other had passed away. At the funeral home I saw Igod in an old hand-me-down brown suit and white shirt. He even wore a tie; someone had tied for him no doubt. Some member of the family had given him a hair trim. It grew out in a few weeks, but for a while you had to look twice to tell if it was him. But, I guess you could say he was just as ugly with the trim as without it.

Igod was employed as the town custodian. In the eyes of a small boy, he was always doing neat stuff. He maintained the town's water system, including the water tower; which proudly displayed in large bold letters the town's name. Igod had painted the name. He misspelled it the first time but put it right after a few weeks of town folks' complaints.

He was required to unplug storm drains following heavy rains. He flushed out the fire hydrants in the summer time. He mowed the empty town lots, the schoolyard, and under the water tower. Once, the town had decided to put up street signs, Igod believed he should have done it. But, with his misspelling error on the water tower, the town folks felt better of it and hired a general contractor. Igod pouted, but soon got over it.

Igod was also a gravedigger. Early on he dug graves by hand. Grave digging was hard work but Igod was not a stranger to hard work. Later, he used a motorized backhoe the town had purchased. The backhoe was constantly in need of repair. The town claimed Igod was too hard on it and didn't do the proper maintenance required. I knew better. The backhoe was a piece of junk when they bought it. Rather than listen to the complaints, Igod went back to digging by hand. Igod Emo may have very well been the last hand-gravedigger in the entire state, maybe in the whole country.

During the snowy winter months, Igod hand-shoveled the town streets. A few local farmers would help with this task, using tractors equipped with homemade plows. Heavy snows were rare in our town, but when they happened most would pitch in and plow alleys, streets, and sidewalks.

Igod got into trouble one winter with the snow plowing. The town had purchased a well-used five-ton truck for custodian work. During an unusual heavy snowfall, Igod reasoned he could keep the streets open if he tied a big board to the front of town's old truck and plow away all night. For the most part it worked well. But where it didn't work well, it worked badly. Igod found to move the heavy wet snow he had to really go along at a pretty good clip or the light rear end of the truck would cause him to lose all traction. So, he loaded it up with about two ton of rocks. That did the trick. The old truck moved right along and plowed away just about everything he put in front of it, including the downtown fire hydrant.

Now the town's old water tower kept a hefty pressure on those fire mains, enough to tip the old truck over on its side. Not only did Igod damage the truck, the fountain of water was not a real good idea since the temperature was in the low twenties. To worsen matters, the shut off valve on the water tower was frozen in place. By the time Igod managed to get the valve closed, it did not matter much as the tower was empty.

Igod's main daily chore was the town's water supply. He maintained the pumps and added the chemicals required to treat the water. He dug up and repaired broken water mains. Most of the time he wore rubber boots, drove around in the old truck, and smoked.

The town had two workshops; one at the water pumping station, and one at the water tower. These workshops were four miles apart. Igod spent a great deal of his day driving between a repair job and the two workshops. The man could not remember which tools were at which location. Often as not, the wrench he was driving around looking for was on the truck he was driving around.

The fire hydrants had a special wrench for the flushing operation. It was a two-ended wrench, one end fit the cap, and the other fit the valve. One wrench was kept on the voluntary fire truck, a modified military jeep with a water tank trailer hitched behind, the other in Igod's possession. The one on the fire truck was painted bright red; Igod's was a rusty, pitted, bent tool. Several times each year the two wrenches would end up swapped. When the volunteer fire fighters would meet to clean up the fire truck the swap would be discovered. Igod would swear he had no knowledge how that came to be. The city didn't think much of Igod's denial.

But, Igod was being truthful. We boys would swap out the tools and sit back waiting for the fun.

The next time Igod was caught with the red wrench he was in the fire station with the tool in his hand. He swore he was only returning the wrench to retrieve his, said somehow the red wrench had ended up on his truck.

The volunteer fireman didn't see it that way. To make sure Igod didn't mistakenly take the red wrench again they locked up the red wrench in the tool box on the fire truck.

The volunteer fire chief at the time, said, "Locking up the wrench was not acceptable because if the key holder failed to answer the call the wrench could become a real worrisome issue."

The call was the three sirens mounted on towers around town. They would sound to call in the firemen when a fire was reported. They also sounded when bad weather approached the town. Often firemen would show up in full gear to learn a storm was coming. Realizing their work would be interrupted by the storm anyway, it became a good time to break out the cards and sip on cold drinks.

The wrench swapping word got out at the barbershop. Snickers erupted when someone said in this town a man best keep an eye on his tools less Igod would be swapping out with you.

Old lady Eisenhower had the last word on the subject, at the post office she said, "I'm keeping an eye on my under drawers just in case."

Jiggs Ray said, "Wasn't that Igod had the lack of common sense it was more a case of being born with uncommon sense. The man ate, drank, and smoked all at the same time. I saw him choke one time and smoke and coffee came out his nose. One time he threw a hammer at a nut he couldn't get loose. The damn hammer bounced off the nut, hit the ceiling, and came down on Igod's head. The dang fool looked around trying to see who had hit him. The other person there was me. And, he reckoned I'd done it.

"For several weeks after I'd walk up behind him and yell, DUCK!

"He did too, and every dang time he said he knew it was me what cold-cocked him. Some say that hammer caused ear-reverse-able damage. Igod had ear-reverse-able damage long before that hammer hit him."

Igod's most striking attribute was the hand-rolled cigarettes seemingly always dangling from a corner of his mouth. It took a great deal of talent, or magic, for those hand-rolled cigarette's ashes to achieve the lengths they often did. He smoked the cigarette until the ash met the lip, yet the ashes never fell free. I swear to you the man could come in out of a rainstorm and the ash would be two inches long and hanging in there.

We small boys vowed someday we would be capable of producing our own ash surpassing Igod's. For a boy of ten, this produced some unique problems. The art of hand-rolling a fag we called cigarettes fags was not a genetically acquired talent.

The preferred fixings for the fag were a can of Prince Albert pipe tobacco, a pack of Zigzag papers, and a certain quantity of spit. Most boys had little trouble with the spit but the other fixings were a bit harder to come by.

The secret of the fag was getting the right amount of tobacco on the paper. This took a great deal of trial and error. Once the correct amount of tobacco was applied, then the correct amount of spit came into play. Too little spit, the whole affair fill apart in your hands. Too much spit, the thing would tear apart as you watch the tobacco fall down your front.

It took me two years before I rolled a fag that worked. By the time I was successful store-bought Viceroys, one of the first filtered cigarette brands, could be bought for eight cents a pack. Put a dime in a machine, and there was two-cent change under the wrapper on the pack. That was less than one-half cent each. This was before the government taxed our vices to hell and gone.

Hand-rolled suddenly cost more than store-bought. In my teens, hand-rolled faded into history and with it was lost an odor that had filled many a young boy's nostrils passing through puberty.

Igod had a talent for storytelling. He told stories of hunting and fishing. He told stories of mushroom hunting and Halloween. He told stories of bigger and better. His stories were of a time and place when the mischief of boys was not only expected it was accepted. But he told stories he knew were stories and all listening knew they were stories.

The lengths of Igod's stories were directly proportional to how long he could keep a captive audience. Mostly, he told his stories to us boys and a few of the town's characters. Once in a great while, a farmer or two would stop by long enough to hear Igod out, but farmers seldom had time for such. Bad weather, Easter Sunday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas day were the only things that kept a farmer from his work.

Igod never finished a full year of formal schooling. He was raised in a time and place when boys were needed at home to work for family survival. In Igod's time, a man was not looked down on for not finishing primary school. Later in his life, he was subjected to the ridicule of the local teenagers because of his seemingly lack of intelligence. In reality, they were the ignorant ones. Lack of formal education does not denote lack of intelligence. Igod always pretended this ridiculing did not bother him, but we knew it did.

In Igod's time, life was work; pleasure was something you found along the way. Igod's world was one of no television, no books, no motion pictures, and none of those other mind-altering concepts molding pure thoughts. The radio was in use and of course the newspaper. An occasional politician would pass through and offer a speech. Other than these small intrusions, the simple real human ideas remained whole and unspoiled. Igod's stories came from this untainted mind and were pure and humorous.

# T-maters

Igod received his nickname from the speech crutch he constantly used. He was really saying, my God, but it came out as Igod. He used this crutch so often it took a great deal of concentration to understand him. He used the crutch like so many today use the crutch, "you know." Igod was not capable of saying over four or five words without using the crutch.

If I were to write these stories in the dialog of Igod Emo, in short order the reader would become bored with the whole thing. To preserve the speech of Igod Emo, I have decided to write one typical story, as he would have told it.

Igod would wait for a gathering at the barbershop, the hardware store, or maybe the post office, and at the right moment, he would begin:

***

"Igod, they don't grow t-maters, today like they igod used to. Igod, they used to sell tomatoes by the count to the bushel. Igod, I can remember when a count of 3 or 4 was common.

"Igod, the real secret to big tomato growing was using the right kind of manure. Igod, old man Fox had a barn that hadn't been cleaned out in igod 15 years and igod, 20 to 30 cows had been in there all that time. Igod, that gave you the amount of manure you needed.

"Igod, old man Fox fed them cows on his straight sour mash that he used in that old secret still that everybody knew he ran out back. Igod, his cows were drunk most of the time. Igod, I'll tell you, you'd go by them cows and igod every dang one of 'em would have a big old grin on their face. But, igod, they sure did give old man Fox the right kind of tomato growing manure.

"Igod, old man Fox tore that old barn down and plowed up the ground on the very spot it stood. Igod, when it came spring, he planted some of them 3 to 4 count seeds and watched them grow.

"Igod, I'll tell you, a tomato patch like that had tomato worms as big as igod garter snakes. Igod, it took a brave man to go into a 'mater patch like that during the daylight and no one could be found that would go near it at night.

"Igod, I remember old Nellie Fox went out there to that patch and picked a two count bushel of them tomatoes. Igod, she made tomato sauce from just them two; the way I remember it, igod she got some twenty-eight quarts from 'em.

"Now she made a spaghetti sauce and took it to a church social, and igod, half them ladies got a buzz on what lasted to Igod, Tuesday next.

"Igod, I don't know how big the biggest was, but igod they told me when old man Fox died they found tomato seeds in his garage that weight near a full half pound each.

"Igod, the folks was afraid to plant the dang things and was afraid to throw them away lessen they might grow. Igod, what they done was to fetch a gallon or so of kerosene to catch 'em afire. Igod, they burnt every last one of them seeds.

"Now mind you I was not there at the time but igod I was told that the whole dang town smelt like burnt tomatoes and sour mash whiskey for nearly three months afterwards. Igod, that's what was told to me."

# Mimic-e  
(From Thibodaux's Trial)

"Been thinkin' on getting me one of them dogs what they train to do tricks," Mose said. "You know, like them dogs was in that circus show what passed through here a year or so back. One of them dogs what can jump rope, walk on their hind legs, and such."

"Get yourself a trick dog ya say?" Igod said.

"That's what I'm thinkin' on," Mose said. "How y'all think a feller would go about trainin' one of them dogs?"

Igod gave Mose a blank stare. After a few seconds he had an answer. "What y'all have to do is get yourself a mimic-e, that's how it's done."

"A mimic-e? What the Sam Hill's a mimic-e?"

"A mimic-e is a dog what knows how to do them tricks. Get yourself another dog what you want to learn them tricks and he be the mimic-er. The mimic-e does a trick and the mimic-er will copycat it."

Mose scratched his chin, said, "If'n I had a mimic-e what knew them tricks why in the Sam Hill would I need a mimic-er?"

"I knew it, there you go," Igod said, "y'all want to get in the trick dog training and don't know the first damn thing about it. If'n everyone thought the way y'all do all them mimic-e dogs would die off and the world would be left with a bunch of mimic-er dogs. Wouldn't a damn one of 'em know a single trick."

# Glenburn Creek

Igod said, "You know, when they was young and both of 'em newly married, old Ada Harper and Alma Foresee used to go on down there to Glenburn Creek and pick a flower or two, you know just a doin' those women things that they used to do. And gossip, them two would get to talkin' and Lord have mercy, they'd go on for hours of sunshine.

"Well, one day they were down there jawin' away like you'd never believe when old Sam Floyd's bull came upon 'em. Now this was not just one of them every day mean bulls, this old boy was ungodly mean and everybody in the county knew it. Big old bull that one, with a bag of nads nearly draggin' the ground. Why most folks was scared plum to death of that bull.

"That big bull went to snortin' and pawin' up the ground and lowered that big old head of his'n's gettin' set for pure bull meanness.

"Now Ada and Alma know'd right away they was in what-for trouble. All they could think of to do was jump in that creek. They know'd that old bull had no fancy to get into no creek no matter how ungodly mean he was.

"Now them two women had no never mind to get their dresses wet so they just dropped 'em there on the bank afore they jumped in.

"About the time them two thought it was safe enough to get out of that creek, along came old Sam Floyd himself.

"Now there them two women stood in little more than their birthday suits. No one ever accused old Sam of being too bright and sure enough he just stood there a gawking at 'em.

"Now Ada Harper weren't never one to be gawked at, she said, 'What's a matter Sam, ain't you never seen no lady escape from a bull afore?'

"'Well mam, no I ain't, but had I thunk of it I'd put that bull down here by the creek a long time ago.'"

# Mushrooms

"Mushrooms, why they just don't pop up as big as they used to be," Igod said. "They used to be a danger you had to watch out for. In the spring you didn't want to be parking anywhere near them Glenburn woods. Why a mushroom could pop up and flatten a feller's tire. Be sitting in the wrong place, could most likely upset a car.

"Jake Potter was one of the best mushroom hunters the country ever seen. The man would go off and hunt with a dump truck. He'd fill the dang thing up before noon and eat mushrooms all throughout the year.

"They tell me when Jake went after the really big ones, he'd carry a chainsaw."

# Sweet Corn

"Sweet corn, why they just don't grow sweet corn like they use to," Igod said. They used to measure sweet corn by the bushel to the ear, like one half-bushel ear or three-quarter bushel ear. Those cornfields were something to see, Igod tell you. Why to hand pick an ear of corn most likely, as not, you'd need a stepladder, big ole stepladder to boot.

"The biggest picking I ever heard of was a three-bushel ear. Old Mose Ellis grew it. Now if'n you don't believe me you can go over to his farm and see for yourself. Why he made a fence post out of that cob, corner post I think it was."

# Big Catfish

"Big catfish yuh say?" Igod said, "they ain't no big catfish left like there used to be. I remember when Frank Potter caught a big old flathead catfish that was so big that he could not find a scale in the whole county that was big enough to weight it. Couldn't find one of them Brownie box cameras big enough to take no picture neither. With his bad back and all, he couldn't drag it to town to show it off. So, all he could do, to prove that he had caught it, was to tell folks about it. But I can tell you one thing, the pond, where he caught that catfish, fell nearly three inches when he pulled it out. It stayed that way, too, 'till the next rain leastwise."

# The Preacher

"My daddy was always one to watch out for the welfare of the community," Igod said. "I remember one time Daddy caught the preacher a foolin' around over at the red light places in Clarksville. Now Daddy was not going to let that go unnoticed so he figured he'd have some fun with it, and set things right.

"Sunday next, Daddy was a sittin' there in church a listenin' to that preacher go on like they will with that hell and damnation preachin'. Then, right there in church, Daddy stood up and confronted the good preacher, "'Tell me preacher, what would the good book say about a feller what would be a goin' over to them red light places there in Clarksville?'"

"'Why, I'd say that if the fellow would repent the good book would say that he was to be forgiven.'"

"'I see,' Daddy said, "'now what would the good book say about what was to happen to them red light women?'"

"'Why I'd say that if they was to get down on their knees and pray for forgiveness and promise to mend their ways they too would be forgiven.'"

"'Now, what would the good book say if'n one of them red light women had a social disease?'"

"'My God,'" the preacher said, "'which one, the redhead or the blond?'"

#  Entertainment

"We found our entertainment where we could find it," Igod said. "In a small country town there is very little excitement because not much happens on purpose; most thing happen by accident.

"I remember one time the widow Harper done got her hair caught in one of them new May Tag washing machine wringers. God Almighty that women had hair clean down her back to her knees. Pure white it was and as thick as a horse's mane.

"A'fore you know'd it, there was no less than twenty odd people over there a tellin' each other what they should be or should not be doin' to get the old ladies hair out of that fix. Now for sure that weren't very entertaining to old lady Harper but there weren't no harm done other that a loss of a considerable amount of hair and her feelings being hurt and all. Besides, it gave the lot something to talk about for a month or two.

"To hear 'em tell it every dang one of 'em was the one what got her hair out of that wringer. If'n the truth was told it weren't a one of 'em what finally got her free, on purpose anywise.

"What happened was her near-sighted brother, Harold, accidentally engaged the wringer and the darn machine pulled half her hair out and she was free. Seems to me she could have done that her ownself."

# Missin'

"Most folks went to see old doc Barns for their doctoring because that's all we had," Igod said.

"Doc Barns was an old man when I was a young-un, but he was still doctoring when I reached thirty. It weren't so much that folks got down on him because of his age as it was for his hearing. It got so a body had to shout at the top of his lungs to get old doc to understand what it was that you wanted to say. I'd allow the old man never heard a heartbeat for the past twenty years.

"There at the last, most folks paid a good day to old doc but most stopped givin' any serious thought of takin' a sick problem to him.

"One day, Clem Baker had him a problem with one of his tom cats. You know, Clem was one of them Bakers what used to live over there up and down the Salt River. Clem had himself a pretty good sized dairy herd and he keep them cats out to his barn to keep after them mice and rats that would go to gettin' into a feller's feed supplies.

"Well, it seems that this here old tom cat done got himself constipated. When Clem told me the story, he said 'concentrated,' but I know'd what he meant.

"Being that the nearest vet was over to Clarksville, a good piece to go in them days, Clem thought on it and surmised that old doc Barns should be able to help him with a cat's concentrated problem. So, he rang up old doc and asked him.

"It took a lot of screaming into the 'phone on Clem's part, but in time he was able to make old doc understand what he was a trying to tell him, at least he thought he had. Doc said that veterinarian was a bit out of his line but he would guess if'n Clem was to give that animal a quart of mineral oil it should more than likely take care of the situation. Doc told Clem he would stop by the next day to seen how Clem had made out.

"The next day, doc went out to Clem's place and asked Clem where the sick calf was. 'Calf?' Clem screamed, so doc could hear, 'it weren't no calf, it was a cat what was concentrated.'

"'My heavens!' Doc said, 'you didn't give that cat a quart of mineral oil, did y'all?'

"'Sure did,' Clem said.

"'What on earth happened to the cat?' Doc asked.

"'Don't rightly know,' Clem said, 'I ain't seen hide nor hair of him this morning, but I can tell you one thing, yesterday he set records.'

"'Set records you say,' Doc said.

"'Yes siree, I funneled that oil down his throat and within a minute he dug himself a hole, big old hole it was. Must have been five feet across.'

"Old Doc was confused, 'Well, what kind of records did he set?'

"'For distant and missin', after he dug that hole he turned to do his business and missed it by fifty feet.'"

# Weather

"Winters don't come as quick as they use to nor stay as long neither," Igod said. "I remember one winter, winter of '32 I think it was, around the first week of September a snowstorm hit us out of no where, hit us with no warning a'tall.

"Well I'll tell you, it snowed some eight to ten feet in one night, didn't let up none for a day or two. People went around stubbin' their toes on telephone poles. Why, it came down so fast that it snowed over Miller's pound before that pond even had a chance to freeze. All winter long, you could get out there, poke a hole through the snow, and fetch a bucket of water just as pretty as you please. That pond never did freeze over. It was like that until the next June."

# Holidays

"Holidays," Igod said, "holidays was for them what had little to do. Farmers' women folk worked harder on holidays, than most other days, fixin' them big meals and all. The men had to do them chores just like most other days. 'Course, kin would come a-callin' on most holidays, bein' that they know'd a farmer could not go off and leave livestock to fend for themselves for a whole day. 'Bout the onlyest difference between a holiday and most other days was that a feller would have kin folk under foot while he was a trying to get his work done. I liked Christmas pretty much. Folks were happier and freer with their giving. 'Course when you had a cold Christmas was just another pissy day."

# Hogs

"The overall most stinking animal whatever lived is the hog," Igod said. "There are your three basic types of hog smell. You have the awful, the unbearable, and the awful unbearable. "Old Hubert Wolf used to raise hog over to Glenburn Creek. Had a bunch of 'em for sure. Someone said he had a thousand at one time.

"I swear, and God strike me dead If'n I'm a lyin' to you, on most days you could smell that farm thirty miles off. Why it got so awful unbearable that Hubert used to keep skunks in the barn to make the whole place smell better."

# Boys

"A boy ain't worth his salt if'n he don't get into trouble every now and then," Igod said. "My old man use to keep a bundle of switches by the door. He expected us boys to get into trouble and we didn't let him down. We'd get two lickin' if'n we didn't watch it. If you did something wrong and lied about it, the second lickin' was for lying. One time two bigger boys came on the farm and I watched them paint the rumps of our hogs with the reddest barn paint you ever did see. Them, they got that paint all over me.

"Daddy came home and saw them hogs, he came stormin' in the house yelling, 'Get me a switch, got a butt to whip.'

"I yelled right back, I guess I'd better get two of 'em, you ain't gonna believe a word I say."

# Dead and Gone

"Now, you take that old lady Johnson," Igod said, "why the women's jaws moved so much she'd go to the doctor once a week just to have 'em oiled. Stretch the truth, will I reckon, if a locomotive was the truth, she'd stretch it so far you could put it through the eye of a needle. Why it got so bad, like the time she was ease dropping on the party line and heard a story about someone's uncle so and so was a runnin' around and drinkin and all while the man's poor wife was bedridden at home all alone. Old lady Johnson spread the story all over town that she had seen it with her own eyes. Come to find out, the poor man had been dead for three years."

# School Dropout

"High school," Igod said, "shoot fire, we didn't have no time for such in my day. Now, it's even the law what you've got to go for twelve years of school housing for you can go lookin' for a job. There you have it, in my day a feller didn't need to go lookin' for no job, all's he had to do was to get out of bed and work would find him soon enough."

# Chivalry, Crimes, and Other Illegal Things

"Heck yes we had the chiv-er-ree," Igod said. "We'd chiv-er-ree a neighbor's town in most cases just for whatever reason, but mostly because they'd done some no good to us. But you'd can bet they'd come back on us sooner or later. Kinda would upset us if'n they didn't 'cause that would mean it was all over. Nobody in them days would pull off two chiv-er-rees in a row less'in they was chiv-er-reed back first. Might say we had our pride about some things.

"I remember the time that old Luke Short done got his Motel T painted with some words only a drunken preacher was capable of sayin', without lookin' 'em up. Boy, that didn't set with Luke, not a'tall it didn't. So, Luke got a bunch of boys together, liquored 'em all up he did. They all piled into that old wrecker that Luke used in his gas station business and they headed over to Newtown. No one know'd for sure that it was them Newtown boys what done it to Luke's car, but most felt that it was them, most likely it was. But that didn't make no never mind, if'n they hadn't done it they'd know who did so that made 'em just as guilty. You'd never know cause in them days no one would have fessed up to it even if'n you was to catch them red-handed.

"Getting over to Newtown in them years weren't no easy thing to be doing bein' that it was dead winter. Them roads weren't worth a red cent in the summer let alone in the dead winter. But, somehow they made it long about ten or eleven at night.

"They sneaked down the alley behind the courthouse. If'n you could call it sneaking with the lights off on that big old noisy wrecker of Luke's. Well, sir, they found Sheriff Frank Potter's police car parked right there where they know'd he always left it.

"Now Luke jumped out with a bucket of thick red barn paint. He attacked that car a writing insults to Frank's kin, Frank's family, and of course to Frank himself. You know, the next day a feller couldn't read a word of it. Luke never was one for writin' much. If'n he had wrote a few more lines, the car would have more than likely been completely painted. It was so bad, no one know'd that he had tried to write a thing on it.

"Anyway, them boys piled back into that wrecker and made their getaway. Luke had gotten himself so tanked up that he was in no shape for no drivin', so Billy Bob Dean found himself behind the big wheel of that wrecker truck. He'd been okay if'n he'd just drove but folks say he went to foolin' with them wrecker controls. If'n a feller don't know what he's a doin', he ain't got no business a foolin' with no wrecker controls.

"That big old hook done swung around and as them boys hit that main street that headed south outta town. That hook done caught ahold to the courthouse privy. Hooked 'er good, too.

"Come morning next, late morning at that, Luke found himself asleep on his kitchen floor. Never had no idea how he come to get there neither. Well, sir, comes noon, after he got a fire built in the house and all, Luke figured he best get on over and get the station opened up. Folks get right mad when he didn't open on time. In dead winter, Luke had his share of batteries to jump and charge and all. Half the town needed a jump-start now and then.

"Well, when Luke went out on his front porch, there was that old wrecker parked on his front yard under a good three inches of new snow. There behind the wrecker was an outline of the privy, just as pretty as you please, a lying face down it was.

"Now, Luke and them woulda more than likely got off scot-free had it not been for two things. When that wrecker hooked that courthouse privy, Judge Howard was in it a doin' his nightly business afore bed, and he only had on his long johns. That's the first thing, and it would have most likely been enough by itself to get them boys in a world of hurt. The second thing, Judge Howard was still in the privy."

# Manure

"There was the time that Leroy Farmer's boy, Calvin, done went and filled that Miller's Junction one room school house full of chicken manure," Igod said. "Now the boy went and done it on a Friday night. That stuff lay in there for a long time and that smell got dirty nose deep.

"I can tell you them local farmers was upset when that mess was found come Monday morning. Old Betty Fay was the one what found it and they say she liked to swallowed her teeth in the panic. She was the schoolteacher what took over when Miss James done went and got herself married. Betty was always on the finicky side, and that smell set her back a step or two.

"There was only eight young-uns a going to that school at the time so it weren't no problem to know'd who had done it. Five or six of them men went over there to see Leroy. They was big bull mean, but they knew Leroy was no one to be getting riled up. The man could go bear huntin' with a switch any day of the year; they all knew that too.

"They stood on Leroy's porch and tapped on the door. Then, Leroy came to the door; in his bare feet and overalls dropped down to his waist. It was easy to see that they had caught him at naptime.

'Leroy," they said, 'we've come to tell you that your boy, Calvin, over the weekend, done dumped a load of chicken manure in the Miller's Junction school house.'

'You don't say,' Leroy said, 'chicken manure you say?'

'Yes siree,' they said, 'must of been a load or two of it. You gonna do somethin' about it Leroy?'

'Why you bet I am,' Leroy said. 'It's got so I can't control that boy. Boy's dumber than a mule shoe. I just don't know where it was I failed with that boy, musta got that dumb from his mother's side you know?'

'Yeah,' they said, 'That was a fool thing what he done.'

'It sure was,' Leroy said, 'I told him to clean out the dang hog pen, not the chicken coop.'"

# Part Three  
Clean Dirty Jokes

The following are examples of the type of jokes told in the Midwest during the mid Twentieth Century.

# Elephant

There was an old woman who had never traveled beyond her small Louisiana Parish. She didn't read and had no television set. Not being worldly, when she looked out her window and saw a large elephant in her cabbage patch, she had no idea what it was. A traveling circus had set up in her town and an elephant had escaped. She at once called the sheriff.

"Sheriff, there is a very large animal in my cabbage patch," she said.

"An animal you say," the sheriff replied, what does it look like?"

"Oh, it huge, dirty gray, and has a ten foot tail."

"A ten foot tail y'all say?"

"God's truth, sheriff."

"What might he be doing in your cabbage patch."

"Well," she said, "looks like he picking my cabbages with his tail."

"With his tail?" the sheriff replied.

"That's what he be doing," she said.

"What's he doing with them cabbages?" the sheriff asked.

"Sheriff, you wouldn't believe it if'n I told y'all."

# Humdinger

Judy May was a little bit short in the brain development, the whole town would agree on that. So, when the town doctor heard Judy May was going to be married to the former high school football all-state guard, the good doctor realized Judy May might need some advice in the sexual department. He got her off to the side and informed her if she had any question of such nature he would be most happy to advise her, free of course.

Sure enough, three days after the honeymoon Judy May showed up in the doctors waiting room. The doctor took her to his office and asked, "How can I help you, Judy May?"

"Well," she said, "I understand most of it but one thing I don't know, about twelve inches behind the head of my husband's tool is these to shiny round things, what might they be?"

The doctor said, "I don't rightly know about your husband, Judy May, but on me it's the cheeks of my ass."

# Pig in a Wheelbarrow

Clem Potter's brother, Ben, wanted to start a pig farm. The boy didn't have much upstairs so was only natural he'd ask his brother how to do it. His brother was impressed Ben was taking interest to better himself. He told him the first thing he had to do was get a sow.

Ben found out a farmer had a sow for sale so he got out his wheelbarrow and went to the farmer, loaded up a sow and put her in his barn. The next morning Ben rushed to the barn, there the sow sit, no pigs.

Ben complained to his brother. Clem said," You silly damn fool you got to get the sow bred before she'll have pigs".

"How I do that?" Ben asked.

"Well," Clem said, "down the road a mile is a farmer what does that, charges a dollar, two miles, guy charges two dollars, and three miles guy what charges three dollars."

Ben loaded up the sow, took her down the road a mile, and picked her up that night. Put the sow in the barn. Next morning ran out to the barn, there the sow sit, no pigs. "Darn it, should have got a better job I reckon."

Ben loaded up the sow in the wheelbarrow, down the road two miles. Next morning he rushed to the barn, there the sow sit, no pigs. "Pee, should have got the best job in the first place."

He put the sow in the wheelbarrow and down the road three miles. Same thing, took her home put her in the barn.

Next morning Ben ran to the barn, no pigs and the sow was gone. Leaving the barn scratching his head he looked up and there the sow sit in the wheelbarrow.

# Public Officials  
(From Thibodaux's Trial)

The prosecutor, Neal Hardputter, came from a long line of wealthy French Parish Hardputters. They had made vast fortunes in shipping and under the table fraud, mostly involving Government cotton contracts, stealing merchandise from warehouses, and union payoffs. Slave trading before the Civil War began the Hardputter's wealth.

Neal's brother, Jimmy Hardputter, made his money in a different manner. For twenty-five years Jimmy Hardputter's title, French Parish Coroner. Oddly, when he retired, he opened the Hardputter Used Jewelry Shop. Wasn't long before several citizens complained they'd seen their family heirlooms for sale in Jimmy's shop. It took Sheriff Boudreaux all of three minutes to figure out how Jimmy Hardputter acquired the jewelry.

Sheriff Boudreaux related these complaints to Judge Mattie Hattie. Mattie suggested to the Hardputter family, "Anyone stealing jewelry from dead bodies surely must be insane, stick his ass in the booby hatch."

Protecting the Hardputter family name, in a hush-hush operation, most of the jewelry was returned to the rightful heirs and Jimmy Hardputter was shuffled off to the state's mental institution. No one can recall what happen to the unidentified jewelry. Some said Judge Mattie Hattie's earrings looked familiar. Didn't say that to her face though.

Jimmy Hardputter was never one to complain much. They say he fit right in at the mental facilities. However, once in a while a piece of jewelry would come up missing, from patients as well as staff. Never found any of the items on Jimmy or in his belongings. Three years later Jimmy died in the institution just as sane as the day they took him there. Was one minor exception, the undertaker found three watches and five rings shoved up Jimmy's ass. The undertaker later said, "Probably would have found more if'n I'd was a mind to look up any farther."

# Deep South Family Tree  
(From Thibodaux's Trial)

The two town sots, known as Fat Larry Singleton and Larry Larry Singleton, only jobs in their lives had been jury duty. A good case could be made the two were half-witted half-brothers. Both had the same mommy, Fat Larry's oldest sister. The family tree is a little complicated. Larry Larry's brother was Fat Larry's daddy, and Larry Larry's daddy was Fat Larry's half-brother. The rest of the family tree relationships need considerable thought to quote. There was an aunt in the family that believed her brother's grandson was her nephew one step removed. The belief came after she visited the courthouse files and drew up a family tree. Those that saw the tree said she stopped when she got to her branch. Found out her daddy's niece was her half-sister. She tried to erase that branch, but didn't get it done to her satisfaction so she set the files afire. That got her in serious trouble with Sheriff Boudreaux. Normally he wouldn't have cared one way or the other except she set the files ablaze inside the courthouse filing cabinet.

The Singletons gave up on having family reunions. When they talked it over amongst themselves, they figured out what their kin had been up to. So, at the next family reunion they put a big bowl of condoms and birth control pills at the front door. Some took it personal and feelings had been trampled. At the time, Fanny May Singleton was carrying her cousin's child, a no account whose momma had been Fanny May's stepsister. After a fistfight or two, and a shooting, it kinda put the clamps on future family reunions. Only thing good came out of it, considerable reduced the size of the Singleton's Christmas list.

# Other Books by William S. Butler

Scraper Jones Treasure Hunter

Baba Thibodaux I-40 Terror

Thibodaux's Trial

Don't Panic, Plan Your Next Accident

Coming soon

Juici Juici

Igod Emo

About the author

William S. Butler was born and grew up on a small family farm near Danville Illinois, in 1962 moved to San Diego California. He is the published author of Scraper Jones Treasure Hunter, Ba Ba Thibodaux I-40 Terror and Thibodaux's Trial, a sequel of the first Thibodaux book.

William has roamed the Desert Southwest as a rock hound, prospector, and treasure hunter. He earned his living as an Electrical Startup Engineer and technical writer, both writing and instructing others on how to write. Mr. Butler has lived and worked an adventurous life in forty-five different states and twenty-seven foreign countries. He is a licensed private pilot, storm chaser, and racecar driver. He served aboard a submarine during the Cuban missile crisis, and was a decorated counter insurgent during the Vietnam War.

Mr. Butler and his wife, Reggie, have called Las Vegas, Nevada home for the past twenty-nine years.

Connect with me online

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#  Disclaimer

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any real person resembling a character in this book is most likely deep in the swamps of Louisiana, in a mental hospitals or a federal prison.
