Girl Watchin'

When Twister went boot shoppin’, it could turn in to an hours-long ordeal. It was Saturday afternoon at the western wear store next to the mall, and cowboy pard’s Clint and Tom had come along with Twister for an afternoon in town. The three bachelor buckaroos could normally be found fightin’ brush and punchin’ cows (or is it the other way around?) up along Washer Creek on the Bar W. But finding themselves all caught up this morning . . . and Twister refusin’ ta duct-tape-repair his boots again, had brought the cowboys to town.
At thirty years old, Twister was what you would call . . . THE KING OF COWBOY STYLE. You know, he’s the guy at the ranch rodeo who stands out—a cowboy among cowboys, if you will. He was just liable to try on every boot in that danged store . . . then go drink a beer . . . then come back and try on a select few for a second time . . . then go eat supper . . . and then, more‘un likely, drive on over to Centerville and order a pair of high-dollar handmade boots. To say Twister was particular doesn’t do the word “particular” justice!
In his mid-fifties and having cowboyed with Twister for a decade now, Tom knew all of this—but new-hand-twenty-something Clint was about to find it out. They entered the store, and Tom and Clint followed Twister through the boot section for a while, then Tom nudged Clint and they wandered off to explore. Shirts, jeans, tack, vet medicine, toys, ladies fashion garments, and more. That little tour was soon enough over, and Tom noticed that Twister had yet to try on a pair of boots. He also noticed that Clint was getting antsy—so he formed a preventative plan of action.
None too soon—just then Clint started off across the store to hem up Twister and tell him to whip and spur it up! Tom knew a great part of his value at the Bar W was storm prevention, so he trotted after Clint and detoured him right out the front door. Twister, of course, would have ripped the youngster’s head off!
Tom bought some beer and directed Clint to the feed wagon (flat bed pickup truck, fer you flatlanders), where they parked their saddle-seat-shiners and worked hard at mellowin’ out. After two beers Clint’s storm clouds had parted, so Tom pointed out all’a th’ pretty women traipsin’ outta’ that mall.
Clint came to life. “Oh my gosh, THAT ONE’S PLAYBOY MATERIAL!”
Yeah, she was pretty all right . . . durned petite . . . but way too big’a udder fer that tiny and skinny, Tom thought. They were either store bought or she’s a freak of nature, he judged.
“And that one” Clint continued, “had better go to eatin’ salads and join a gym.”
She could get heavy, Tom agreed to himself.
“And, OH MY GOSH, the one behind her—heavy duty housework and light duty love-making!” Clint laughed out loud.
Well, she ain’t THAT bad, Tom thought. Good shape—just corn fed. Real pretty face. Tom had always thought that the older you got, the less particular you became. I mean, he realized he was no stud duck anymore, either!
“Now Clint” Tom decided to impart some wisdom on his young charge, “a person can’t help how they look—they’re BORN thatta’ way!”
“Yeah, well—thank goodness I wasn’t born LOOKIN’ LIKE THAT!” Clint was pointing to a not-so-attractive middle-aged lady who was waddling by.
“SHHHH—keep your voice down!” Tom whispered and they both giggled as she passed.
“Ok Tom . . . we’re at the bar tonight—and WE ARE going to the bar tonight—yes or no—would you try to pick up the next woman who comes out of that mall?”
Well, the next woman was a beautiful young girl. Couldn’t have been older than 15, Tom reckoned. “Oh . . . I ain’t no cradle robber—‘sides—she’s too young to even GET INTO the bar!”
“TOM!” Clint was scolding, “she’s twenty-five if she’s a day . . . now, yes or no—would you go home with her or not?”
“Hell no!” Tom barked.
“Well I would!” Clint exclaimed excitedly, head hung out the window like a border collie in the Pet Smart parking lot. Then said in retrospect, “Why wouldn’t you?”
Tom answered thoughtfully, “Why . . . she’s a sight all right . . . but, that’s just some daddy’s little girl—and her daddy is YOUNGER THAN ME!” Then Tom just started mumbling, “’Sides, I couldn‘t stand the dirty-old-man looks. ‘Get outta’ th’ nursery, Grandpa’ . . . “ and he trailed off like he was reliving some old memory.
“How ‘bout that one?” Clint was pointing to the next one, a forty-something cougar who was dolled up and unlocking her Mercedes, struggling with too many packages.
“Naw . . . “ Tom almost grumbled, “. . . oh, she’s hotter’n a heifer on a July sand dune all right—but got waay too much baggage.”
“Well, she wouldn’t bring her packages to the bar, Tom!” Clint was getting’ into this!
“No—not THAT kind’o baggage, rookie” Tom seemed to be reflecting on past experience again, “Oh, we’d dance all night and have us a big ‘ol time. She’d have fun, but wonder how old I was—then struggle with our age difference. We’d romp in the hay and start seeing each other ever Sunday . . . and then her kids would find out I’m a cowboy and be disappointed . . . and she’d be torn between havin’ fun with me and meetin’ th’ expectations o’her inheritors—and I’d git muh heart broke . . . again.“ Tom was definitely trottin’ down memory lane now—but he suddenly snapped out of it, “So, no, not her!”
And then a grey-hair trailin’ two little kids come out and went straight to a dually pickup truck.
“C’mon Tom” Clint was lovin’ this, “She’s the one, right? She’s yer age and got a bigger truck than we do!”
“Hmmm” Tom thought, “those’r probly’ her grandkids . . . kind’a shapely and petite . . . looks to be sixty, though . . . wearin’ cowboy boots . . . probly’ talks about her aches and pains and operations, and swallers a handful of pills ever mornin’ . . . fills out them jeans nice, tho . . . if she owns a horse, it’s probly’ an Arabian—er worse yet—an Appaloosa!”
“Naw” Tom finally said out loud.
“WHY NOT?” Clint was faking outrage. “FER GOSH SAKES—I’D EVEN BED HER DOWN . . . if I was real drunk” he giggled in a whisper.
“Oh, she’s cute alright—and we’d probly’ cut a mean rug” now Tom was galloping full blast down memory lane, “and I’d work all night to convince her to take me home with her . . . and then I’d have to schoomze her fer another hour er so ta git her in th’ sack . . . and then, with my luck, we’d be a-doin’ th’ wild thing like a coupla’ horny rabbits in th’ wake of a forest fire—and she’d up and have a heart attack. BOOM! You know . . . orgasim—OH TOM YOU STUD YOU!—then go-limp-an-dead’er’an-a-door-nail. The paramedics and cops would come, and I hafta’ explain why I’m goin’ through her mail to find out her last name . . . or her address, ‘cuz I don’t know where I’m at and I’ve been drinkin’ . . . “ ‘Ol Tom trailed off right there, shaking his head.
That led to a long silence. Clint sat there in disbelief, feeling sorry for the old cowboy . He had unknowingly festered some old wounds and decided he must fix it. Clint grabbed a coupla’ beers, popped the tops, and handed one to Tom.
“You realize you’ve just rejected ever woman who’s come outta’ that mall?”
Tom just stared into space and said, “Reckon I’ve lived too long fer new love.”
So Clint clasped a sympathetic hand on Tom’s shoulder and declared, “Now don’t you worry, Pard . . . I’LL dance with you at the bar tonight—and when you take ME home—there won’t be no hanky-panky!”
Tom snorted back to the here-n-now, “Well you’ll be lucky to GIT to the bar tonight, young-un” his thumb gesturing toward the parking lot, “Here comes Twister—and he ain’t wearin’ new boots! We’re goin’ to Centerville.”
“Well, they’ve got bar in Centerville—right?” Clint was always hopeful.


. . . and now, an e-mail from one of our valued readers . . .

Dear Hickey,
Could you tell me EXACTLY how a coupla’ horny rabbits do the wild thing in the wake of a forest fire?
Jack needs clarification in Declare, Iowa

Dear Don’t Know Jack In I Declare,
Sure. Well . . . let’s see . . . first off it all happens in one rabbit’s hole . . . then fur flies . . . things get hotter . . . there’s a lot of humpin’ n bumpin’ n thumpin’ . . . a piece of cotton tail starts smokin’ . . . and she becomes his old flame. There. Clear enough? Good. Oh yeah . . . I forgot the scream, “OH JACK (as in—Jack Rabbit?)—YOU STUD YOU—WHAT A CARROT YOU’VE GOT!” just before the fire goes out. And, yer welcome. Hickey

. . . and now, some QUESTIONS FOR THE UNIVERSE TO PONDER . . .

***Can you record quacks on duck tape?

***Why don’t women call them cowgirl boots?

***If it’s a ‘date’ with a young lady, would it be a ‘prune’ with an old one?

***Does lite beer have a bulb?

***How hard is it to spot an Appaloosa?

MEN ARE PIGS

I just glanced over my wife’s shoulder and read a caption in a magazine next to a picture of 19 year old country music phenom Taylor Swift. It was referring to her recent boyfriend breakup, and it contained a quote that said, “Taylor’s a hopeless romantic”.
“No duh” I’m thinkin’, “what girl isn’t?”
I mean . . . remember the book that proposed the cute idea that “men are from Mars and women are from Venus”? Well, I think there’s something to it. You see, I’ve always thought that women spend their entire lives looking for that knight in shining armor, while men on the other hand, seem to spend their entire lives looking for something shiny to be amorous with tonight!


IT’S ALL IN THE NAME

The doorbell rang. It was a Girl Scout.
“Would you like to buy some cookies?” came the angelic voice.
“Oh . . . probably not today, thank you.”
“Oh please,sir—I’m trying to win the high-salesgirl award in my troop!”
“Oh . . . well . . . ok . . . put me down for one box.”
“Only ONE? Everyone else on your block has bought at least 5 boxes!”
“Sorry honey . . . I’m a little short this month . . . just one box.”
“But mister—you’re not as short as ME!”
“Ha-ha, very funny, one box please . . . mints.”
“Ok” sweet sigh, “I need your last name, sir.”
“Broke.”
“Like something that doesn’t work?”
“Oh—I work alright . . . Broke, B-R-O-K-E . . . Broke.”
“And you’re first name?”
“Initials I.M.”, pause while she writes it down, “but my friends call me Very.”
“Ok, Mr. I.M. ‘Very’ Broke, I’ll deliver those in about two wee . . .” she stops to giggle, “Oh—I get it—now I see why you only want one box! Don’t worry mister-whoever-you-are, I’ll deliver YOUR cookies—I could NEVER forget YOU!”
And she giggled all the way to the next house.


DOUBLE ASSET
Jackie and Ben had been working at the same place for 10 years, and every morning they shared the same greeting.
“G’mornin’ Jackie . . . how’r you?”
“Oh, pretty good, Ben, how’r you this mornin’?”
“Oh . . . pretty good.”
And that was it. This same exchange between the two friends every work day for ten years. And then Freddy hired on. Right away he noticed Jackie and Ben’s morning ritual—and also that it never changed. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, the same . . . and then came his first Friday morning.
“G’mornin’ Jackie . . . how’r you?”
“Oh, pretty good, Ben, how’r you this mornin’?”
“Oh . . . pretty good.”
Freddy had listened to this for a week now, and he had a comment.
“Jackie . . . Ben . . . you two must be the luckiest guys I know.”
Not surprisingly, the friends answered in unison, “We are?”
“Well sure,” Freddie set ‘em up, “not only are you both GOOD . . . but you’re also both PRETTY!”
Freddy laughed. Jackie and Ben didn’t.

. . . and now let’s respond to a reader’s e-mail . . .

Dear Dewhickey,
I agree, men are WAAAY different than women . . . and it ain’t just their plumbing! Like for instance, women want to do the wash when the hamper’s full, but men don’t do the wash ‘til they’ve worn everthin on th’ floor two or three times and it all STINKS! Now who do you think is right—the men, or the women? And remember . . . men save over $200 dollars a year on laundry detergent alone!
Needin’ Validation, Stinky in Odoriferous, Oregon

Dear Odoriferous Valstink,
Don’t tell my mother, but I tend to agree with you. Like for instance, my third wife seemed to think that we ought to wash the dishes in the dishwasher EVERY DAY! Contrare, Pierre! Obvious grounds for deeevorce. In my new digs, not only do I not turn on the dishwasher until it’s FULL, but I also have NO CABINETS! That’s right . . . why “put up” the clean dishes? I ain’t usin’ the dishwasher again ‘til it’s full of dirty dishes . . . so now it doubles as my CLEAN DISH cabinet also! Ha-ha! What SMART woman wouldn’t want ME? Oh . . . my dating sight is www.LonelySlob.never.
Dewhickey

. . . and now, some QUESTIONS FOR THE UNIVERSE TO PONDER . . .

***If a Brownie becomes a Girl Scout . . . what does a chocolate chip cookie become?

***If men are from Mars and they’ve recently discovered very minuscule amounts of water there . . . doesn’t that explain our conservative cleaning habits?

***If men suddenly started hanging up their clothes and washing dirty dishes—wouldn’t they be suspected of having an affair?

***Isn’t a guy in a rowboat madly paddling ahead of a storm towards shore—a “romantic”?

***If your husband’s a slob, couldn’t he buy you some detergent to Cheer you up?

GATHERIN’ BRICKS

The boss’ new house had been finished for two weeks. It was a sprawling red brick ranch style, and his wife was all smiles as a result. The yard wouldn’t be put in ‘til spring, and mucho construction debris—mostly bricks and brick fragments, littered the outside. The boss told Todd and Ben to bring the pickup and clean up around the house when they got back from feeding the heifers. So they did.
“Hey—how come you’re driving the pickup while I’m picking up bricks, Tom?” Ben was younger and hadn’t worked for the Slash Y as long as Tom, but he couldn’t resist starting some good-natured ribbing.
“’Cuz I’m a cowboy, and cowboys don’t pick up NOTHIN’ but strays” Tom replied with a smirk.
“Well I’m a cowboy too!” Ben fired back.
“You’re right—I meant I’m a SMART cowboy, and SMART cowboys don’t pick up bricks.” This time Tom hoo-rahed the youngster.
“Aw, Tom,” Ben sounded remorseful, “I don’t mind doing all of the picking up so an old guy like you doesn’t have to risk a heart attack. Besides . . . this kind of reminds me of my days as a basketball player.”
“You played basketball?” Tom was suddenly taking the bait, “So how’s this remind you of that?”
Ben grinned to himself as he delivered his zinger, “Well—just like in my basketball playing days . . . here I am—THROWIN’ UP BRICKS!”
Tom had to laugh, even tho he’d fallen for another one.

. . . and now, let’s answer an e-mail . . .

Dear Dewhickey,
Speakin’ of sports, I thought the NFL playoff game between the Vikings and the Saints may well have been this year’s Super Bowl! But of course . . . the Super Bowl is between those Saints and the Colts. So . . . what’s yer prediction?
Greg Gridiron, Encroachment, Nevada

Dear Groping the Gridiron,
Good question. But first off, I agree with you! It will be very hard for the Super Bowl to be any more exciting that the Vikings-Saints playoff game. A barn-burner, as they say. And they say that because . . . the stadium caught fire? But I digress. Who will win the Super Bowl between the Indianapolis Colts and the New Orleans Saints? Well . . . the team with the most points, I assure you! Ha! Actually, the Colts have the quarterback of the millennium, while the Saints have the team of destiny . . . so . . . I have no idea. I’ll just have to watch the game! But I do know the Saints beat the crap out of both Curt Warner and Brett Favre . . . so Peyton Manning better be glad he isn’t old!
Yer Welcome, Dewhickey

. . . and now, QUESTIONS FOR THE UNIVERSE TO PONDER . . . ***Are you a bad person if you beat a Saint? ***Will the Humane Society get you for beating a Colt?***On Super Sunday will Florida sailboat owners be Manning a Brees?

Home Invasion

HEY HICKEY AND DEWHICKEY FANS! Sorry for the inconvenience caused to your psyche this past week by not posting any new hi-larious stories . . . but the boys caught a computer virus. Boo! Don’t worry tho—they’re feeling better now! And thanks for all of your cards and letters expressing concern . . . so . . .

***Do you catch computer virus’ by logging in and out without wearing protection?

***Are computer virus’ spread by sick people?

***Can a computer virus give you a Hickey?

***Can a computer virus make your Dewhickey fall off? OUCH!!!

MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN

Rory was kind of a homebody. Even tho a late teen, he mainly liked to hang out around the house. Doing things . . . you know . . . like making stuff, repairing stuff, and riding his dirt bike or 4-wheeler.
But Rory also desperately wanted a girl friend. However, he was learning that homebodies have a hard time meeting members of the opposite sex who are homebodies also. As a result, he had been forced to try some “normal” girls. The girls that he met at the mall turned out to be shoppers. Rory didn’t particularly like to shop. The girls that he met at the drive-in hamburger stand turned out to be eaters. Rory wasn’t really into big girls with big appetites. The girls that he met at the book store turned out to be readers, and Rory liked to DO THINGS . . . so he really wasn’t into reading too much. But while there, he DID find a self-help book about FINDING THE RIGHT GIRL, so he bought it. And he took it home and read it, and studied it, and took to heart what it said.
And what it said was that Rory would find the “right” girl, the girl of his dreams, the girl with the same interests as him—if he simply hung out at the places where he liked to hang out . . . and the girls would come to him. Allll right. With a new determination and the weight of the world suddenly lifted from his shoulders, a rejuvenated Rory once again began to just hang out with himself and wait for THE GIRL OF HIS DREAMS to come along!
And he made stuff in his garage. It was fun—but no girls ever showed up. So Rory repaired some stuff in his back yard, and did a good job too! He repaired stuff so it was as good as new. But once again, no girls ever showed up. So Rory went for a ride out on the dunes on his dirt bike—had a BLAST—and there were LOTS of other people riding out there around him. But they ALL were wearing helmets, and Rory couldn’t tell if any were girls. So he got on the 4-wheeler and went way back up into the woods. Covered some ground, he did. Saw some sights, he did. And had a great time doing it, too! But, alas, he not only saw no girls, HE DIDN’T SEE ANOTHER SOUL all day!
And this got Rory to thinking. Hmmm, what could he do to meet girls like him? You know . . . girls who liked to stay home and do stuff by themselves . . . you know, a good old homebody girl! And then it came to Rory—like a flash . . . er, a bolt of lightning across his brain . . . to meet the homebody girl of his dreams—HE WOULD START CONDUCTING HOME INVASIONS!
Rory is now inmate #1758623, Cell Block C, State Prison. And there are no girls there, either. He did, however, meet a cute little District Attorney along the way. But Rory decided he didn’t like her much. She just seemed WAY to smug when she put him away!


. . . and now, how about answering an e-mail from one of our valued readers . . .

Dear Hickey,
Wow! What a coincidence! I too have trouble meeting girls! Do you have any advice for me?
Loser in Louisiana Needs Help

Dear Loser Louhep,
Yeah, I might have an idea for you. A. You could get offa’ yer computer, get out in the sunshine, and walk around among REAL PEOPLE . . . or, B. You could go ahead and ORDER ANOTHER PIZZA, and hope they have recently hired a GIRL delivery guy to bring it to yer basement!
Good luck, Moron.
Hickey


. . . and now, how about some QUESTIONS FOR THE UNIVERSE TO PONDER . . .

***Do call girls do it with a telephone?

***Can you get a lady of the evening during the day?

***Can an unattractive girl be pretty good?

***Is it good to have a bad girl?

***If a girl dog is a “bitch”, then is a bitchy girl a “dog”?

Shorts

Grandpa was a retired sailor who had been on active duty during the Korean and Viet Nam conflicts. We felt so fortunate that he could spend this Christmas with us, and give our children, his great-grandchildren, a chance to get to know him. The kids were so excited about his visit that they went shopping and picked out some clothes for his Christmas presents.
On Christmas morning, the presents were passed out and the opening began. As Grandpa’s first package came open—a shirt from the great-grandkids—Grandpa held it up and gave a nod of approval. The kids were thrilled!
Grandpa looked at the kids and said, “Thank you sooo much for this beautiful shirt . . . but . . . I never knew they now had a store just for me!”
The kids looked at each other somewhat confused, but I understood—the tag on the shirt simply stated, “OLD NAVY”!


I never wore glasses until I was fifty. Oh, I could still see fine . . . just don’t ask me to read anything close up. Or far away! So I started wearing “ante ojos”.
My son came to visit one weekend and he had recently taken up golf. He invited my wife and I to come along and play 9 holes with him. We said “Why not!” Three hours and mucho golf balls later, I had sworn off golf.
You see, I found that when going to play golf, you’d better take along either a gun or a sense of humor—because you’re gonna’ wanna’ use one of ‘em before you’re through! It’s a very frustrating game for the mortal human.
I’d whack that ball off the tee . . . and I couldn’t see where it went—not only did it go CROOKED, but I couldn’t SEE that far! So my wife and son would play their next shots, then come over and help me look for my ball. Multiply that scenario by 5 or 6 strokes per hole, times 9 holes . . . and you get 3 plus hours of frustrating play!
The good news is, that when you hit your ball into the places that we finally found mine (or at least searched in vain for mine), you can find two or three OTHER golf balls that duffers who came before you had never found. My ball bag was swelling by the 9th hole, and I was playing my 5th different ball!
Coming out of the rough for the last time, I proclaimed, ”Next time, I need to play with some bright orange balls.”
My wife came back with, “Next time, you need to play with some bright orange balls THAT BEEP LOUDLY!”
My son just muttered, “Next time, you need to play with someone besides me.”

. . . and now, let’s answer an e-mail from a valued reader . . .

Dear Hickey,
My Grandpa was in the Navy, and WE HAVE NEVER bought him ANYTHING from an Old Navy store! C’mon—get with it! You need to write more believable stories, dude!
Signed, I.M. Doubtful, in Fib, Iowa

Dear I.M. Fibber,
Oh yeah—Old Navy has stuff Veterans would wear. Don’t fool yourself—dude. However . . . you DO bring up a good point . . . kind of . . . about store names, that is. Like . . . have you ever noticed—there’s nothing for just a cent at JC Penney? And Wal*Mart—they’re ALWAYS in a BUILDING! So . . . where’s the wall? Auto Zone? Not an auto in the entire place! It ought to be called the No Auto Zone if you ask me! Outback Steak House—nothing out back except dumpsters! The steak is all inside! I once walked around Macy’s . . . and no woman working there had the name Macy on her nametag! So I checked the men’s—none there either! Ok . . . I’ll quit . . . but what about Burger King? We ELECT our leaders, so this place must’ve started in England or Spain or someplace—right? WRONG! American. So why isn’t the name Burger PRESIDENT? Whew. I get worn out just thinking about it! And yer welcome.
Hickey

. . . and finally, how ‘bout some QUESTIONS FOR THE UNIVERSE TO PONDER . . .

***Why can’t you buy either land OR cattle at Texas Land And Cattle steakhouse?

***Shouldn’t they sell guns and ammo at a place called Target?

***Shouldn’t people named “Kathy” or “Kevin” get a discount when they shop at K-Mart?

***Why can’t you buy a varmint pelt at Furr’s?

***Shouldn’t you be able to get a brake job or new tires at a Safeway?

***Why don’t they sell hunting supplies at John Deere?

***Shouldn’t E-Harmony only put singers together for dates?

***Couldn’t the nation’s law enforcement win the war on drugs if they just arrested the employees of Coke?

***Why don’t we sue Dr. Pepper for medical malpractice?

***How come FOX tv network doesn’t just air wild animal shows?

***How come LIFE magazine didn’t just show newborn babies?

Rock Star Romance

Ray was sparkin’ Juliet, but she was a college student who couldn’t come home very often and he was a ranch cowboy who only had Sunday afternoons off—if even then! They hadn’t seen each other since the County Fair dance, so a month ago Ray had set up a date for THIS Sunday, riding the ranch. Juliet, of course, had said “yes”.
And then Ray had found out about the Sheriff’s Posse Team Roping Finals. It was scheduled for this Sunday too—and Ray was in the lead for the saddle! But he calmly reasoned, “I’ve got my whole life to win a saddle—but I’ve only got Sunday to romance Juliet!” He’d miss the team roping, ‘cuz he knew she was “the one”.
So Sunday morning, his boss and the rest of the ranch cowboys loaded up and headed to town to rope. With sadness tugging at his heartstrings, Ray saddled up while repeating to himself, “I can ALWAYS win another saddle, I can ALWAYS win another saddle . . .” And then Juliet arrived. She was sooooo beautiful! Every time he saw her, she took his breath away! He passionately kissed her, and she kissed him back! It was then that Ray knew he’d made the right decision.
On an absolutely perfect day, Ray and Juliet rode the Homestead pasture, up through tree lined breaks, across tall-grass meadows dissected by bubbling creeks, and stopping at the homestead to eat Juliet’s picnic lunch. While there, Juliet noted the red sandstone cliffs to the north. Ray told her there was an old Indian cliff dwelling up there.
“Can we go?” Juliet asked sweetly.
“Why not!” Ray wouldn’t turn down any request from Juliet at this point.
At the base of the trail up the cliff, they dismounted and proceeded on foot. The way was steep and rocky, and Ray’s knee-high Olathe cowboy boots with under slung riding heels and Mexican rowled spurs were not exactly rock climbing gear. But Juliet was excited, so he took her hand and upward they struggled. Just before reaching the cave dwelling ledge, Ray’s boot slipped and he felt himself in an uncontrollable slide.
“Let go of my hand!” he yelled as he passed Juliet. She did, and then screamed as he disappeared over a ledge!
“Ray—RAY!” Juliet screamed in a shrill voice. “Are you alright?”
From somewhere down below came, “Yeah, I-I’m alright.”
“Where are you?” Juliet queried.
“On a ledge down here . . . my foot’s stuck!” Ray sounded perturbed.
“I’ll come down and help you!” Juliet exclaimed.
“NO!” Ray barked immediately. “Juliet—whatever you do—DON’T COME DOWN HERE!”
“But Ray, I can help you get your foot free—you’re not HURT are you?” she felt panic coming on.
“Juliet—just stay up there. My foot’s stuck, alright . . . but . . . “
“But what, Ray?”
“But my pants are torn too. Worse than real bad, like torn . . . off.” Ray’s answer tapered off to a whisper.
“Oh” Juliet’s voice turned into a giggle, “well—maybe I NEED to look!”
“JULIET—please—don’t look.” Then, almost whispering again Ray said, “I’m not wearin’ any underwear.”
“WHAT!” Juliet exclaimed and immediately peered over the ledge.
A trickle of stones fell on Ray’s cowboy hat, and he knew Juliet was looking down at him. He looked up and she was checking out his—his—equipment!
“JULIET” Ray screamed in astonishment, “I TOLD YOU NOT TO LOOK!”
“It’s ok, Ray . . . I’m not disappointed!” she giggled.
If not for the circumstance, Ray might have found that reply exciting. But right now . . .
“Juliet, if you could just stop laughing for a minute . . .”
Juliet clamped her hand over her mouth and tried to keep a straight face . . . but she just couldn’t stop looking at his . . . his . . . well, they called them “gonads” in Biology class!
“I’m gonna’ need some help to free my foot—do you think you could go get someone?” She was afraid she’d start laughing again, so she just nodded . . . and down the hill she disappeared.
While Juliet was gone, Ray tried to no avail to reconstruct his torn-off Wranglers, and cussed himself for not having any clean underwear on such an important day. But he still thought his decision “to wear no drawers instead of wearing stinky ones” was the right one. After all, who could have predicted this would happen?
“I’m baack” it was Juliet’s sweet voice, “and I brought HELP!”
Ray peered over the ledge and was horrified when he saw his boss and the ranch cowboys, along with Juliet’s dad and the entire Sheriff’s Possee team ropin’ crew a-settin’ horseback below. “JULIET!” he screeched, “Couldn’t you have brought JUST ONE GUY?”
“Well, daddy was at the team roping, and when the guys heard what had happened—they ALL wanted to help!” Juliet was quite proud of herself. Ray plopped down, pulled his hat over his face, and groaned.
Not to worry . . . everybody came out of this caper happy. Well, except maybe the EMT that cut Ray’s boot off, and, of course . . . Ray.
Juliet’s dad was ecstatic, because he had won the saddle that day. Juliet was happy because she married Ray the following summer. And the Sheriff’s Posse team ropin’ gang was happy because they all had a story to tell their grandchildren . . . and a new name for Ray.
You see, from that day on, Ray was forever called “Gonad the Barbarian” by the boys. And that EMT that cut off and ruined Ray’s boot? Why, they all called her “Buffy’s Cowboy Boot Slayer” from then on.
And of course, Ray and Juliet ended up living right there, happily ever after!

. . . and now a reader’s e-mail . . .

Dear Dewhicky,
If you get good enough at rock climbing, will you become a “Rock Star”?
Stoney, from Peak, Washington


Dear Stoned Peak,
Naw. Good rock climbers will never become “Rock Stars”, any more than Chess champions will become “Most Valuable Players”, or a portrait painter will become country music’s “Male Artist of the Year”! While the titles sound related, they’re really not. NASCAR’s “Driver of the Year” is NOT the fastest guy at pounding in T posts, the PRCA’s “All-Around Cowboy” is NOT the waddie with the biggest waist size, any more than “The Leader of the Free World” is the guy who hands out them Thrifty Nickle’s–you know, the free newspapers with all’a them want ads in ‘em? Get it? Got it? Good!
C-Ya, Dewhicky

. . . and now, some QUESTIONS FOR THE UNIVERSE TO PONDER . . .

***Can true love ever get a false start?

***Did MacIntosh meet IBM on a computer dating site?

***If you break up with your girlfriend just before Valentine’s Day, should you still send her a broken heart?

***Is a lady in a rowboat with a man, always enjoying row-man . . . ce?

***Does a muley (horn-less) cow ever feel horney?

And speaking of romance . . .

***If you watched David Letterman 5 nights in a row . . . would he become David Wordman?

***With the downfall of Tiger Wood’s spotless reputation due to the discovery of multiple affairs with women . . . shouldn’t he change his first name to “Cheetah”?

And how about just some random . . .

***Can the Dallas Cowboys really feel good about beating a bunch of SAINTS?

***Do ALL horses step on frogs?

***Why don’t basketball players ever THROW a free-throw?

And finally . . .

***Do you think aliens believe in Roswell?

AN AFTERNOON AT THE MATCHED RACES

The NFL matchups were less than compelling, and I was too lazy to initiate any projects around my place. So I ended up at my friend Joe Jim’s place. That’s his name—he’s Native American . . . first name Joe, last name Jim. Don’t make fun dude, he’s cool.
Joe works for Parks and Recreation, but his real passion is his herd of domestic Elk. Oh, well, that and . . . his trained buffalo. That’s right, Joe has a buffalo that he has gentled down and trained to ride. Now he’s the star of 4th of July celebrations, grade school demonstrations, and women’s club visits. He’s become quite the showman!
As I pull into the yard, Joe is loading this buffalo into his stock trailer. “Hey” I said.
“Hey.”
“Whatchadoin’?”
“Goin’ to th’ match races.”
“Hmmmm . . . match races, huh?”
“Come on . . . go with me.” You know I did!
The match races were down by the river on a bladed dirt road that straightened for about a mile before meandering back along the river. On certain Sunday afternoons (I have no idea who decided when), anybody with a backyard horse that they thought could run would show up with cash, and match whoever for however much money. And the crowd would wager too. And alcohol might be consumed. It was a fun time I always enjoyed!
“They called and asked me if I’d bring my buffalo down there and just ride him around. Free beer. I said ok.”
There must have been twenty horse trailers there, and at least twice that many other vehicles. It was a carnival atmosphere!
Joe unloaded the buffalo, saddled him up, and rode him around. I drank Joe’s free beer, plopped on a tailgate, and enjoyed the afternoon. Races broke out about every half-hour, and there was whoopin’, hollerin’, losers throwin’ hats in th’ dirt and grinnin’ winners with fist-fulls of cash.
Joe come ridin’ up and I thought he was ready to leave, so I was surprised when he said, “Find me a quirt.”
“A what?” I thought Joe had just asked for a quirt.
“You know—a QUIRT—jus’ something I can spank this buffalo with a little bit.”
“Wull . . . what’d he do wrong?” I was sincere.
“NUTHIN’”! I’m racin’ him! Now find me a stick or somethin’!”
So I did, and carried it to Joe down at the start line. “He must be crazy” I thought, because also at that line was a thoroughbred ridden by a Mexican fella’, a stud some rich Texan had brought a jockey for, and this wilder-than-an-outhouse-rat barrel racer who smoked cigars and dipped snuff! She was currently throwin’ a beer can down at Joe’s feet while cussin’ him fer havin’ the gall to think his buffalo could outrun this collection of hot-bloods! Bets among the crowd favored any one of the three horses in the race, which was to be the final one of the day. I handed Joe the stick, and he handed me a wad of cash.
“Bet all of that on ME” he commanded.
“Are you CRAZY?” I admonished, “those guys are on RACEHORSES!”
“Yeah, I know, but this race is down and BACK . . . just fifty yards. I can win this sucker!” Joe had a wild look in his eye that I was certain no white man had seen since perhaps Custer, so I bet all of his money. Over eight hundred dollars! I was certain I’D be buyin’ supper on the way home.
I’d no sooner bet Joe’s last hundred when they were off and running! The Mexican’s horse drew the position right next to the buffalo, and that thoroughbred was out of his mind with fear. As they broke from the line, that poor horse faded hard left, going behind each of the other two horses. He made the Texan’s horse stumble, and the oilman was throwing a fit! In the mean time, that barrel racer was day-lighting the field. Poor ‘ol Joe was bringing up the rear. Fifty yards ain’t far on a running horse, and someone had made a white line across the track (er, road) to mark that distance.
The Texan’s horse had recovered nicely, and was passing the barrel racer as they crossed the line. Meanwhile, the Mexican’s horse was still runnin’ scared, fading completely across the track and into the crowd! Running full-bore with his head cocked looking wild-eyed at Jim and that buffalo, he split the crowd and with mouth gapped wide, fell head-long across a Volkswagon beetle he’d never seen. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw both horse and rider stumble to their feet just as Joe and his buffalo thundered past!
The Texan’s jockey stood up when he crossed that white line and began pulling back on the reins. Unfazed, the professional race horse leaned into that bridle and sped straight down that track until both jockey and rider disappeared into the brush and trees down where the road made its bend. The barrel racer was having similar problems, but that feisty little hussy was a quick thinker—I’ll giv’er that!
Riding an obvious runaway and needing to turn around and cover the same 50 yards she’d just come across, she spied a trash can and reined her steed toward it. Swoosh! Barrel race training kicked in and they skimmed around that barrel lickety-split and headed back!
Meanwhile, Joe skid his buffalo to a stop (a trick the grade-schoolers always liked), dragging tracks right across that white line. He then executed the perfect rollback (a trick the rodeo cowboys always LOVED), and Joe applied my stick to that buffalo’s butt and sped off back down the track!
The trash can that barrel racer had turned was thirty yards down the track past the white line, and I found myself wide-eyed, cheering for Joe and his buffalo at the top of my lungs! “WHIP AND SPUR INDIAN (remember, I was a little tipsy at this point)—SHE’S COMMIN’ UP BEHIND YOU!” I screeched like I’d just stepped barefooted on a glacier. “GO INJUN GO!” I hollered as dirt clods from the buffalo’s hooves rained down on me. I brushed ‘em off just as that barrel racer thundered by and rained down more!
Now I was giggling uncontrollably, running toward the finish line, giddy with excitement. Joe was beating the barrel racer! What happened next is match-racing legend around these parts.
The guys I collected Joe’s bets from said it happened this way. Joe and the buffalo were ten yards from the finish line when that barrel horse pulled up next to him. With five strides left, Joe looked at the line, then back at the horse, then back at the line—then jerked off his Stetson cowboy hat and SLAPPED THAT BARREL HORSE RIGHT IN THE FACE!
The horse jerked so violently the girl almost fell off! She screamed “bloody murder” as Joe and the buffalo bounded across the finish line—just a nose . . . a beard . . . a horn tip—ahead of her. Joe Wins! Joe WINS!! JOE WINS!!!
That barrel racer let loose a cussin’ tirade that would’a made a sailor blush! Those poor Mexicans tried to cry foul too, and that Texan was last seen scourin’ the brush for tracks of his horse and jockey. But all in all, the race was deemed fair and official, and everyone paid up. Joe had quadrupled his money! He was so grateful to me for getting it bet right, that he bought ME a steak dinner on the way home.
And I hear . . . the buffalo got race horse oats and timothy hay for supper!

. . . and now an e-mail from a valuable reader . . .

Dear Hicky,
I would someday like to become an animal trainer. How hard do you think a buffalo would be to train?
Wild Bill, in Buffalo, New York

Dear Buffalo Bill,
Hard. REAL HARD! You see, buffalo, unlike cows and horses, are WILD animals. Which means that, even if you DID get them tamed down (highly unlikely—you’d just have to luck onto the right animal), they would always be just one unfortunate incident from relapsing back to wild instinct . . . where they would horn, maul, stomp, and run over you. Of course, the upside to training a buffalo that suddenly goes awry is . . . you can always claim (when you’re released from the hospital, that is), “I thought I had him trained—I guess he had me BUFFALOED!”
Might I suggest you start with a Chihuahua? And medical insurance. You’re welcome.
Hickey.

. . . and now some QUESTIONS FOR THE UNIVERSE TO PONDER . . .

***Is the leading underwear brand among those who ride racehorses . . . Jockey?

***Do women who carry quirts also keep handcuffs on their bedposts?

***Is it still politically incorrect to call your Native American friend “Injun”, even if his nickname is “V8”?

***How much does free beer cost if you get a DUI?

***If you raise domestic elk . . . do you run a trophy shop?