At 73 years of age, Frank was tired. His muscles and joints ached daily, a testament to his 30 years of running a maintainer (road grader, for you non-equipment types) for the county . . . and an additional twenty working for the city.
He’d had enough. December 31st marked the completion of his twentieth year with the city, and he decided he’d retire. Again. So this morning found him not smoothing a rutted wasteland in some residential alley, but instead, shuffling into the business office down at City Hall.
“Morning” he greeted the business manager, “I wanna’ retire, so I need to start muh paperwork—and find out exactly what my monthly check will be.”
“Just a minute!” the terse lady barked at Frank, never looking up from her computer screen.
“Must’ve got coal in her stocking for Christmas.” Frank thought, ever the comedian. He stood there patiently, afraid to sit down without permission.
“I’d bring you a cup of coffee, maam, if you’d direct me to the coffee machine” Frank offered hopefully.
“I DON’T DRINK COFFEE” the terse lady replied through clenched teeth, this time averting her gaze from her computer screen, over her glasses, to burn proverbial holes right through Frank.
Frank looked down, wanting to avoid that stare, and quietly muttered under his breath as he rolled his eyes, “No . . . of course you don’t.”
“Well . . . why are you still standing there?” she questioned sarcastically. “Was that an invitation to sit down?” Frank was wondering to himself when she barked, “SIT DOWN! Now, tell me your name and I’ll punch up your information.”
Frank told her his name and thought, “Not only is she emotionally harassing ME, now she wants to PUNCH my information—HA!”
The terse lady would look at the computer screen, scribble something on paper, punch something on the keyboard, stare at the screen, and scribble some more. Frank was getting board.
“Didja’ have a nice holiday?” he asked politely.
“I worked Christmas day until six o’clock.” She stated matter-of-factly.
“Well,” Frank thought to himself, “everyone else in your family must’ve had a Merry Christmas then!” Frank tried not to giggle to himself—that-there was FUNNY.
“I don’t have any family.” terse lady stated flatly.
“Can she read my mind?” Frank thought with horror!
“Here” terse lady was now shoving a paper at Frank, “this figure at the bottom will be your monthly amount after deductions.”
“THAT’S ALL?” Frank was genuinely shocked.
“Well, sir,” terse lady began her lecture, “the longer you work, the higher that amount will be. Might I suggest that you don’t consider retirement until you absolutely cannot work anymore?” she said with obvious pain-inflicting-superior-attitude-delight.
“That’s what I’m doin’, lady” Frank dished back a little perturbed-ness himself!
“Oh.” For the first time, terse lady seemed taken aback.
Frank decided he had her right where he wanted her, so he rose to leave. “Well, you can take that ‘Oh’ and put it at the end of my monthly dollar amount. And start my paperwork, lady, ‘cuz I’m retiring!”
With that, Frank shuffled out to his pickup, and wore that silly grin the entire rest of the day!
Dear Dewhicky,
Why do they put “re” in the term “retired”? Aren’t retirees just “tired”? I’m a little confused.
Sadie, in Shuffleboard, Florida
Dear Re-Shuffled Sadie,
That’s a good question that I’ve often pondered myself, so I think I can help you. You see, in the case of retirement, I think you must first work at a job (or jobs, plural, in my case!) day in and day out, for years and years and years, until you become REALLY “tired”. Yer tired of hearing that alarm go off in the morning, tired of getting’ dressed up for work, tired of commuting to and from in bumper-to-bumper traffic, tired of being nice to people that you wouldn’t normally give the time of day to on your day off, tired of acting interested in what sport the boss’s kids are supposedly excelling at, tired of buying the secretary’s kid’s latest money-raising project crap, tired of Christmas parties and 4th of July picnic’s where you socialize with people from work who you really just need an extended vacation from, tired of . . . well, you get the picture. And when you get to this point of “tired”, you wake up one morning and see an old, wrinkled, fat, white-haired person looking back at you in the mirror and say . . . I’m gonna’ retire! I can’t take it any more, it’s time to let my investments support me. Congratulations, you’re now “retired” my friend. You’re RE-tired, because after a few months of this new, leisurely, do-nothing life, you’re tired of not having anything to get up for in the morning except to organize your pills, tired of seeing your significant other 24/7 (why did I marry THAT, can anyone remind me?), tired of reading magazines older than you in your 4th doctor’s office this week, tired of waiting for the cable man while hiding from the Jehovah’s Witnesses (again!), tired of taking the spouse’s dog for a walk an hour earlier than you used to get up to go to work, tired of attending friend’s funerals, tired of cleaning out the motor home for your next excursion that you can’t afford to who-cares-where, tired of visiting old relatives with pot-bellied spouses who seem proud to display their wrinkled chests and varicosed, boney, black-socked legs, tired of going through a dozen golf balls in 9 holes, and tired of the price of everything going up EXCEPT your fixed income. You know, you’re now RE-tired! Get it? You’re welcome. Have a relaxing day!
Dewhicky
And let’s wrap this up with some . . .
. . . QUESTIONS FOR THE UNIVERSE TO PONDER. . .
***Do only teenaged boys and menopaused women have hot flashes?
***Does Viagra heighten old men’s expectations?
***Which old age malady hits first, boobs at the belt or pooped peckers?
***Did turkey neck invent the turtle neck?
***Why do old women get tired of cookin’, but old men never get tired of lookin’?
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
National Finals '09
WATCHIN’ THE NATIONAL FINALS WITH UNCLE ELBERT
Oh yeah, I tried to watch the WNFR alright. TiVo? I don’t have one. So I only caught bits and snippets of it ‘cuz it came on so late, and I was really looking forward to seeing the 10th and final round in its entirety. But that didn’t happen. At least not like I’d planned it. You see, they had a Sunday afternoon recast that I planned to pop the popcorn for, so I spent the morning at the nursing home, aka The Old Corral, visiting my great uncle Elbert Joe. The man’s 93 years old, so I figure I visit him Sunday morning, he soon conks out in a drooley snore, and I’m home for the telecast in the afternoon! Well . . . not so fast, wrap-and-a-hooey-breath.
The old man’s a trooper, I’ll give him that. “Never underestimate lonely”, that’s what I’ll say from now on. We visit for THREE HOURS, and Elbertsarus is still going strong! I’m checking my watch on the sly, but he catches me.
“Ya got summwheres ta go?” he almost whispers in a disappointed tone.
“N-Naw” I stammer, “it’s just that the NFR’s commin’ on.”
“The National Finals Rodeo? On TV? Why heck, I’ll watch that with ya . . . find the clicker and turn it on!” Oh great. It’s a two-and-a-half-hour telecast and I’m already about to pass out from the odoriferous surroundings. By the time it’s over, they may have to call 911 and bring some oxygen to get me outta’ here! Surely he won’t stay awake much longer . . .
So I say, “Sure Unc.” Click.
It’s on, and the commentators are recapping the week, setting up the World Championship races! But I don’t hear any of that, because Unc starts talking.
“I used to rodeo, ya know?” Why is he whisperin’?
“Yeah . . . Mom told me.” I smiled. What mom really said about Uncle Elbert Joe’s rodeo career was—let’s see if I can remember this verbatim—“he was a legend in his own mind” . . . yeah, that was it.
Well, the recap is over and the Bareback riding is on.
“I used to ride Bareback” Unc was still talkin’ soooo softly!
“What’s that?” I have to mute the sound.
“I used to ride bareback on occasion. I’d pay $100 and the girl would time me. They’d always claim I never made a full 8 seconds, but it always satisfied me! I don’t recall horses being involved tho, hee hee.”
“What?” I thought to myself, was Uncle EJ just being nasty? NASTY! Somehow, the visual of this 93 year old bag of bones doing THAT made me shudder.
Oh look—the steer wrestling is on!
“I only steer wrestled one time” Unc was almost whispering. Again. I hit mute. Again. “I was picking up at a rodeo in Eu Claire, Wisconsin, in 1968. It was the beginning of the Hippie movement, don’t you know? I nodded . . . I guess . . . I wasn’t born yet! “The bareback riding had just ended, and me and my partner hear the crowd a-hollerin’. Out in the arena is a long-haired hippie boy STREAKING—that’s runnin’ buck naked, don’t cha-know—down the arena. My partner gets his pocket knife out and sneers, ‘If you wrestle him down, I’ll make a steer outta’ him!’ So I set spur and dive onto that hippie! I grab his left ear and hook muh elbow under his right, and twist that long-hair flat of his side. The crowd went WILD! I look up, and muh partner’s just standing over there at the chutes, laughing. So I let the hippie get up—and he was skinny and white and pasty and give me the creeps! He looks at me all wild eyed and screams, ‘Man—YOU’RE CRAZY, MAN!’, then he runs and jumps over the fence. That was my only steer wrestling run . . . and come to think of it—I guess I really wrestled a bull!”
“Yeah . . . bull”, I thought. But look—the Team Roping was on!
Ut-oh . . . was Unc whisperin’ again?
“Used to head ‘em AND heel ‘em, I did.”
“What’s that, Unc?” I hit mute again, now I’m gettin’ pissed.
“Was a feller down in th’ Territory—that’s Oklahoma, don-cha-know—that owed me an’ two other waddies wages, but refused to pay. So we found where he run his yearlings, and went out there one midnight. We didn’t consider it rustlin’, ‘cuz we only took what he owed us.”
“You STOLE his cattle?” I must’ve sounded appalled.
“We got what was OURS” he growled as he stared point-blank into my eyes. ‘Ol Elbert Joe was kind’a scary! “It was a dark night, so we slipped up on ‘em where they were bedded, and I’d neck ‘em a’fore they jumped up and ‘ol Tom would scoop the feet when they did. Then Juan would bring up the truck and trailer real quiet-like, and we’d load ‘em. On the next one, Tom and I’d switch ends. We loaded 20 steers that night. I roped 10 in a row by two feet!”
“Gosh, Unc . . .” I was disturbed that he stole cattle, “I don’t know about that . . .”
“Well it’s the gosh-darn truth!” he screamed at me, “You can call them boys and ask ‘em” then his voice went back to a whisper, “‘cept . . . they’re dead. Shame to go like that in prison.”
“You were in prison?” I screeched!
But Uncle Elbert Joe was pointing at the TV—they were riding Saddle Bronc’s. He ignored my query and said, “Look—its Billy Et . . . you know, the only saddle bronc’s I ever rode was up in Montana.” Mute . . . aw shoot, I just turned the volume off. “The Army was buying mature mustangs off’a them ranchers up there. I was a Pfc, and volunteered for remount duty. They’d load them hosses in a chute, we’d throw on our kak, and they’d turn us into the big pen. We’d cover ‘em fer as long as we could, and if we stayed on for more’n a minute, they considered ‘em broke. Then we’d get on a nuther ‘un. We done this ever day fer a month, and we finally went through all’a them mustangs. The last night, they give us a furlough. We drove those hosses to the pens at the train yard, then high-tailed it to the saloon! There was a cute little stripper there—Dolly, pretty little red-head—and we got friendly. When I finally got her drunk, she said she’d do the wild thing with me—if we’d do it on a horse!”
“Aw now Unc, I don’t wanna’ hear this . . .”
“Yes-siree-bob!” his eyes lit up like the Christmas lights in the room. “I skeedaddled out to them pens, roped a gentle little paint mare I’d broke, then high-tailed it back to the saloon and rode that little hussy right there in the bar. A horseback! Then I give her th’ paint! I gotta’ tell ya . . . she’s one of muh favorite ex-wives.”
Wait a minute—WHO got rode in the middle of the bar? ‘Cuz I’m thinkin’ he meant Dolly! But before I can ask, Unc was pointin’ at the TV again. . . the Tie-Down Roping was on.
“Now THIS was my event,” Unc started in. “Only we used to call it calf ropin’, and we roped more like yearlings, and we never got off’a th’ right, ‘cuz we usta’ bail off the left, run down the rope, and leg th’ sons-a-bucks! Then we’d sit right on top of ‘em scissor-like whilest we tied ‘em. Why, the things they rope now ain’t nuthin’ but babies! And score? We used to score them runnin’ bramers way on out there, then whip-n-spur and go gather ‘em a-waaaay down the arena! Why . . . these hosses here don’t run thirty feet a-fore throwin’ on the brakes. Our hosses had to run three hundred yards, lotso’ times! And back in them days, we roped with a grass rope. It was a whole event just keepin’ them things ta where you could rope with one! I finally had to quit calf ropin’ ‘cuz I got too many concussions.”
“Concussions?” I thought. Was he confusing this with the bull riding?
“Yes sir,” he continued, his eyes aglow, “I drew the one to have in the first round at Sweetwater one year, got out good, stuck it on him, and as I dismounted—KAPOW!! That ‘ol grass rope broke! It come straight back and popped my horse right square ‘tween th’ eyes. I just happened to be dismounting at the time, and that ‘ol hoss shook his head and hit me in the face as I flew by! It was the final concussion of my career. Next thing I knew, I was at a rodeo in Flagstaff and a doctor was tellin’ me ‘No more, EJ, yer threw! So I retired. Funny thing was . . . I didn’t know how I’d got there or even where muh rig was! I ended up livin’ in Flagstaff for two more years before I remembered I was from Corsicana.”
“Now Unc . . . you don’t expect me to believe . . .”
“What—that I used to train barrel horses?” he interrupted. I looked at the TV, and sure enough, the barrel race was on. “I surely did! Got good at it too, by cracky. But there weren’t no place fer men to run barrels in them days, so I put on a wig and stuck some cantaloupes down muh shirt and entered up—‘an beat their butts, I did! Might-a won th’ world, too, ‘cept that committeeman up in Fountain, Colloraddy, tried ta kiss me at the dance and when I jerked away—muh cantaloupes slipped! And THAT’S when they banned me from the RCA.”
“Oh Bull” I retorted with a snort. Of all the windy stories I’d ever heard . . .
“Yeah, I raised quite a few.” Uncle Elbert Joe was startin’ ta give me a headache. His stories were like that energizer bunny . . . they kept coming and coming and coming. Thank goodness the bull riding was on—it’s the last event!
“Quiet a few what, Unc?” I hated to ask, ‘cuz if he was talking, he’d NEVER fall asleep!
“Buckin’ bulls” he exclaimed, pointing at the television set. “When they banned me from competition, I went into stock contractin’. I come on some mean ‘ol high-horned bramer cross cows down at Fort Stockton, so I bought th’ whole lot. Th’ rancher was scared of ‘em and I got ‘em fer a song, I did. I turned ‘em out in a swamp in Louisiana where some rogue bulls roamed, then set back and gathered whatever calves come into muh traps. Let me tell you son, those bull calves were WILD! I finally put ‘em on wheat out in New Mexico, and drove ‘em to th’ Clovis rodeo as 3 year olds. Well them boys didn’t ride nary a one of ‘em. A feller come up and offered me a thousand dollars a head, so you betcha’ I took it! I had to skip town fast when he found out you couldn’t load them crazy critters on a truck. And can you believe it—HE WANTED HIS MONEY BACK! But I already had my eye set on buyin’ that bar up in Deadwood, and that, my boy, is how rodeo made me RICH. So . . . who won everything tonight?”
Suddenly I was madder than a wet hen! “Are you kidding me” I thought, “you’ve been yappin’ the entire rodeo—I have no idea who won what! So I took a deep breath, turned to him and said, “I’m really not sure who won . . . “, but Uncle Elbert Joe was already asleep, drool runnin’ down his chin.
I got up and tippy-toed out real quiet-like. I didn’t even turn off the TV!
. . . and now, another e-mail from a reader . . .
Dear Hickey,
I wanna’ be a rodeo cowboy, but I don’t ride or rope and all I can afford is a hat. But I have a burning desire, so what do you suggest?
Pierre in Paris, France
Dear Burning PP,
Steer Wrestling. Yeah, that’s right, buy your hat and start steer wrestling! I mean, it fits your bill, bucko. Now let’s analyze this. You don’t rope, so roping’s out. You don’t ride, so Bareback, Saddle Bronc, and Bull riding are out. You’re not a girl (you did say cowBOY), so barrel racing is not an option. So what’s left? STEER WRESTLING! Hop a plane and get over here bucko, ‘cuz steer wrestlers BORROW horses all of the time! And they won’t know you can’t ride, because they—ON PURPOSE—fall off’a their horse onto the back of a steer as quick as they can (plunging onto cowhide to break yer fall, easy, right?)! Why shoot, you’ve even got two big ‘ol horns to grab onto to steady yourself, a steer to brace against, and when you and the big bovine roll up in a dusty ‘ol ball—they’ll FLAG you! Go pick up yer check, Frenchy . . . and welcome to America, baby—Yahoo! You’re now a rodeo cowboy, wee?
Hickey
How about we wrap this up with some . . .
. . . QUESTIONS FOR THE UNIVERSE TO PONDER. . . about rodeo!
***Should Bareback Riders wear a shirt?
***Can Steer Wrestlers father children?
***When Headers rip a curl, are they getting a haircut?
***When Heelers get a headache, do they change partners?
***Can Saddle Bronc Riders honk their horn?
***Shouldn’t Tie-Down Ropers have to be married?
***Barrel Racing . . . I mean really—where’s the sport in outrunning a barrel?
***Shouldn’t Bull Riders be called Bull Attempters?
Oh yeah, I tried to watch the WNFR alright. TiVo? I don’t have one. So I only caught bits and snippets of it ‘cuz it came on so late, and I was really looking forward to seeing the 10th and final round in its entirety. But that didn’t happen. At least not like I’d planned it. You see, they had a Sunday afternoon recast that I planned to pop the popcorn for, so I spent the morning at the nursing home, aka The Old Corral, visiting my great uncle Elbert Joe. The man’s 93 years old, so I figure I visit him Sunday morning, he soon conks out in a drooley snore, and I’m home for the telecast in the afternoon! Well . . . not so fast, wrap-and-a-hooey-breath.
The old man’s a trooper, I’ll give him that. “Never underestimate lonely”, that’s what I’ll say from now on. We visit for THREE HOURS, and Elbertsarus is still going strong! I’m checking my watch on the sly, but he catches me.
“Ya got summwheres ta go?” he almost whispers in a disappointed tone.
“N-Naw” I stammer, “it’s just that the NFR’s commin’ on.”
“The National Finals Rodeo? On TV? Why heck, I’ll watch that with ya . . . find the clicker and turn it on!” Oh great. It’s a two-and-a-half-hour telecast and I’m already about to pass out from the odoriferous surroundings. By the time it’s over, they may have to call 911 and bring some oxygen to get me outta’ here! Surely he won’t stay awake much longer . . .
So I say, “Sure Unc.” Click.
It’s on, and the commentators are recapping the week, setting up the World Championship races! But I don’t hear any of that, because Unc starts talking.
“I used to rodeo, ya know?” Why is he whisperin’?
“Yeah . . . Mom told me.” I smiled. What mom really said about Uncle Elbert Joe’s rodeo career was—let’s see if I can remember this verbatim—“he was a legend in his own mind” . . . yeah, that was it.
Well, the recap is over and the Bareback riding is on.
“I used to ride Bareback” Unc was still talkin’ soooo softly!
“What’s that?” I have to mute the sound.
“I used to ride bareback on occasion. I’d pay $100 and the girl would time me. They’d always claim I never made a full 8 seconds, but it always satisfied me! I don’t recall horses being involved tho, hee hee.”
“What?” I thought to myself, was Uncle EJ just being nasty? NASTY! Somehow, the visual of this 93 year old bag of bones doing THAT made me shudder.
Oh look—the steer wrestling is on!
“I only steer wrestled one time” Unc was almost whispering. Again. I hit mute. Again. “I was picking up at a rodeo in Eu Claire, Wisconsin, in 1968. It was the beginning of the Hippie movement, don’t you know? I nodded . . . I guess . . . I wasn’t born yet! “The bareback riding had just ended, and me and my partner hear the crowd a-hollerin’. Out in the arena is a long-haired hippie boy STREAKING—that’s runnin’ buck naked, don’t cha-know—down the arena. My partner gets his pocket knife out and sneers, ‘If you wrestle him down, I’ll make a steer outta’ him!’ So I set spur and dive onto that hippie! I grab his left ear and hook muh elbow under his right, and twist that long-hair flat of his side. The crowd went WILD! I look up, and muh partner’s just standing over there at the chutes, laughing. So I let the hippie get up—and he was skinny and white and pasty and give me the creeps! He looks at me all wild eyed and screams, ‘Man—YOU’RE CRAZY, MAN!’, then he runs and jumps over the fence. That was my only steer wrestling run . . . and come to think of it—I guess I really wrestled a bull!”
“Yeah . . . bull”, I thought. But look—the Team Roping was on!
Ut-oh . . . was Unc whisperin’ again?
“Used to head ‘em AND heel ‘em, I did.”
“What’s that, Unc?” I hit mute again, now I’m gettin’ pissed.
“Was a feller down in th’ Territory—that’s Oklahoma, don-cha-know—that owed me an’ two other waddies wages, but refused to pay. So we found where he run his yearlings, and went out there one midnight. We didn’t consider it rustlin’, ‘cuz we only took what he owed us.”
“You STOLE his cattle?” I must’ve sounded appalled.
“We got what was OURS” he growled as he stared point-blank into my eyes. ‘Ol Elbert Joe was kind’a scary! “It was a dark night, so we slipped up on ‘em where they were bedded, and I’d neck ‘em a’fore they jumped up and ‘ol Tom would scoop the feet when they did. Then Juan would bring up the truck and trailer real quiet-like, and we’d load ‘em. On the next one, Tom and I’d switch ends. We loaded 20 steers that night. I roped 10 in a row by two feet!”
“Gosh, Unc . . .” I was disturbed that he stole cattle, “I don’t know about that . . .”
“Well it’s the gosh-darn truth!” he screamed at me, “You can call them boys and ask ‘em” then his voice went back to a whisper, “‘cept . . . they’re dead. Shame to go like that in prison.”
“You were in prison?” I screeched!
But Uncle Elbert Joe was pointing at the TV—they were riding Saddle Bronc’s. He ignored my query and said, “Look—its Billy Et . . . you know, the only saddle bronc’s I ever rode was up in Montana.” Mute . . . aw shoot, I just turned the volume off. “The Army was buying mature mustangs off’a them ranchers up there. I was a Pfc, and volunteered for remount duty. They’d load them hosses in a chute, we’d throw on our kak, and they’d turn us into the big pen. We’d cover ‘em fer as long as we could, and if we stayed on for more’n a minute, they considered ‘em broke. Then we’d get on a nuther ‘un. We done this ever day fer a month, and we finally went through all’a them mustangs. The last night, they give us a furlough. We drove those hosses to the pens at the train yard, then high-tailed it to the saloon! There was a cute little stripper there—Dolly, pretty little red-head—and we got friendly. When I finally got her drunk, she said she’d do the wild thing with me—if we’d do it on a horse!”
“Aw now Unc, I don’t wanna’ hear this . . .”
“Yes-siree-bob!” his eyes lit up like the Christmas lights in the room. “I skeedaddled out to them pens, roped a gentle little paint mare I’d broke, then high-tailed it back to the saloon and rode that little hussy right there in the bar. A horseback! Then I give her th’ paint! I gotta’ tell ya . . . she’s one of muh favorite ex-wives.”
Wait a minute—WHO got rode in the middle of the bar? ‘Cuz I’m thinkin’ he meant Dolly! But before I can ask, Unc was pointin’ at the TV again. . . the Tie-Down Roping was on.
“Now THIS was my event,” Unc started in. “Only we used to call it calf ropin’, and we roped more like yearlings, and we never got off’a th’ right, ‘cuz we usta’ bail off the left, run down the rope, and leg th’ sons-a-bucks! Then we’d sit right on top of ‘em scissor-like whilest we tied ‘em. Why, the things they rope now ain’t nuthin’ but babies! And score? We used to score them runnin’ bramers way on out there, then whip-n-spur and go gather ‘em a-waaaay down the arena! Why . . . these hosses here don’t run thirty feet a-fore throwin’ on the brakes. Our hosses had to run three hundred yards, lotso’ times! And back in them days, we roped with a grass rope. It was a whole event just keepin’ them things ta where you could rope with one! I finally had to quit calf ropin’ ‘cuz I got too many concussions.”
“Concussions?” I thought. Was he confusing this with the bull riding?
“Yes sir,” he continued, his eyes aglow, “I drew the one to have in the first round at Sweetwater one year, got out good, stuck it on him, and as I dismounted—KAPOW!! That ‘ol grass rope broke! It come straight back and popped my horse right square ‘tween th’ eyes. I just happened to be dismounting at the time, and that ‘ol hoss shook his head and hit me in the face as I flew by! It was the final concussion of my career. Next thing I knew, I was at a rodeo in Flagstaff and a doctor was tellin’ me ‘No more, EJ, yer threw! So I retired. Funny thing was . . . I didn’t know how I’d got there or even where muh rig was! I ended up livin’ in Flagstaff for two more years before I remembered I was from Corsicana.”
“Now Unc . . . you don’t expect me to believe . . .”
“What—that I used to train barrel horses?” he interrupted. I looked at the TV, and sure enough, the barrel race was on. “I surely did! Got good at it too, by cracky. But there weren’t no place fer men to run barrels in them days, so I put on a wig and stuck some cantaloupes down muh shirt and entered up—‘an beat their butts, I did! Might-a won th’ world, too, ‘cept that committeeman up in Fountain, Colloraddy, tried ta kiss me at the dance and when I jerked away—muh cantaloupes slipped! And THAT’S when they banned me from the RCA.”
“Oh Bull” I retorted with a snort. Of all the windy stories I’d ever heard . . .
“Yeah, I raised quite a few.” Uncle Elbert Joe was startin’ ta give me a headache. His stories were like that energizer bunny . . . they kept coming and coming and coming. Thank goodness the bull riding was on—it’s the last event!
“Quiet a few what, Unc?” I hated to ask, ‘cuz if he was talking, he’d NEVER fall asleep!
“Buckin’ bulls” he exclaimed, pointing at the television set. “When they banned me from competition, I went into stock contractin’. I come on some mean ‘ol high-horned bramer cross cows down at Fort Stockton, so I bought th’ whole lot. Th’ rancher was scared of ‘em and I got ‘em fer a song, I did. I turned ‘em out in a swamp in Louisiana where some rogue bulls roamed, then set back and gathered whatever calves come into muh traps. Let me tell you son, those bull calves were WILD! I finally put ‘em on wheat out in New Mexico, and drove ‘em to th’ Clovis rodeo as 3 year olds. Well them boys didn’t ride nary a one of ‘em. A feller come up and offered me a thousand dollars a head, so you betcha’ I took it! I had to skip town fast when he found out you couldn’t load them crazy critters on a truck. And can you believe it—HE WANTED HIS MONEY BACK! But I already had my eye set on buyin’ that bar up in Deadwood, and that, my boy, is how rodeo made me RICH. So . . . who won everything tonight?”
Suddenly I was madder than a wet hen! “Are you kidding me” I thought, “you’ve been yappin’ the entire rodeo—I have no idea who won what! So I took a deep breath, turned to him and said, “I’m really not sure who won . . . “, but Uncle Elbert Joe was already asleep, drool runnin’ down his chin.
I got up and tippy-toed out real quiet-like. I didn’t even turn off the TV!
. . . and now, another e-mail from a reader . . .
Dear Hickey,
I wanna’ be a rodeo cowboy, but I don’t ride or rope and all I can afford is a hat. But I have a burning desire, so what do you suggest?
Pierre in Paris, France
Dear Burning PP,
Steer Wrestling. Yeah, that’s right, buy your hat and start steer wrestling! I mean, it fits your bill, bucko. Now let’s analyze this. You don’t rope, so roping’s out. You don’t ride, so Bareback, Saddle Bronc, and Bull riding are out. You’re not a girl (you did say cowBOY), so barrel racing is not an option. So what’s left? STEER WRESTLING! Hop a plane and get over here bucko, ‘cuz steer wrestlers BORROW horses all of the time! And they won’t know you can’t ride, because they—ON PURPOSE—fall off’a their horse onto the back of a steer as quick as they can (plunging onto cowhide to break yer fall, easy, right?)! Why shoot, you’ve even got two big ‘ol horns to grab onto to steady yourself, a steer to brace against, and when you and the big bovine roll up in a dusty ‘ol ball—they’ll FLAG you! Go pick up yer check, Frenchy . . . and welcome to America, baby—Yahoo! You’re now a rodeo cowboy, wee?
Hickey
How about we wrap this up with some . . .
. . . QUESTIONS FOR THE UNIVERSE TO PONDER. . . about rodeo!
***Should Bareback Riders wear a shirt?
***Can Steer Wrestlers father children?
***When Headers rip a curl, are they getting a haircut?
***When Heelers get a headache, do they change partners?
***Can Saddle Bronc Riders honk their horn?
***Shouldn’t Tie-Down Ropers have to be married?
***Barrel Racing . . . I mean really—where’s the sport in outrunning a barrel?
***Shouldn’t Bull Riders be called Bull Attempters?
Monday, December 21, 2009
Victoria's Secret
Jim Bob wandered around the Mall in a confused stupor. What in the world would he get his wife for Christmas? All of these shops had all of this stuff, and it was all soooooo expensive! He opted for the food court and a piece of pizza to help clear his mind.
Monty! That was it, he would call Monty! Monty had run that feedlot for 35 years and been married to Betty Lou for forty-five—if anyone could council him about this dilemma, it would be the smartest man he knew . . . his boss Monty!
Riiiing, riiing, riin “Lo”
“Monty, this is Jim Bob”
Where th’ hell you at kid, ain’t we gonna’ rope at three?”
“Yeah Monty, I’m plannin’ on it—but I gotta’ problem”
“Shoot bucko”
“Well . . . I’m down here at the Mall, and I don’t know what to get Peggy Sue for Christmas.”
“That’s day after TOMORROW, kid.”
“I KNOW Monty. Can you give me any ideas?”
“How th’ hell would I know—I do my Christmas shoppin’ at th’ feed store!”
“Well . . . I kinda’ wanted to get her sumpthin’ special, since it’s our first Christmas and all.”
“Sumpthin’ special, huh—say . . . were you gonna’ head or heel today?”
“Head Monty, I always HEAD! Now—do you have any gift ideas for me?”
“Victoria Secret kid . . . git her sumpthin frilly from Victoria Secret. And hurry yer ass up and git back here so’s we can rope!” Click.
Well, Jim Bob had never really thought of Peggy Sue in a Victoria’s Secret kind of way . . . so he guessed it would really be a surprise for her if he got something there. Besides—he kind’a wanted to hurry up an’ git back to rope, too!
Jim Bob turned the first steer as pretty as a picture, and Monty threw it in the dirt, as usual. Down at the strippin’ chute, Jim Bob thanked Monty for his advice about going to Victoria’s Secret to buy his wife a Christmas present.
“So yew gotter’ sumpthin’?
“Sure did. Real frilly . . . edible . . . and NASTY!”
“Well . . . that’s th’ point, kid.”
“I also learned what Victoria’s Secret is.”
“Well I’ll be danged kid . . . do tell.”
“She ain’t built NOTHIN’ like Peggy Sue . . . that’s her dad-gummed secret!”
Monty chuckled as he loaded the next steer.
“I’ll tell ya what ain’t no secret, kid—it looked good on Victoria in the picture, and it’ll look good offa’ Peggy Sue—which’ll be YER dad-gummed secret!”
“Yeah . . . and I LOVE strawberry to boot!”
. . . and now, another e-mail from one of our readers . . .
Dear Dewhicky,
Would you please settle an argument for me and my husband? Do you know that Christmas song that has the line, “Chestnuts roasting over an open fire . . . “? Ain’t that referrin’ to Europeans cookin’ up some horse?
Carole in French Lick, Indiana
Dear Carole in French Lick,
Well . . . huh . . . now that I think about it—you could be right! Please tell your husband that I’m sorry, and my regards to all sorrel horses.
Merry Christmas, Ya’ll!
Monty! That was it, he would call Monty! Monty had run that feedlot for 35 years and been married to Betty Lou for forty-five—if anyone could council him about this dilemma, it would be the smartest man he knew . . . his boss Monty!
Riiiing, riiing, riin “Lo”
“Monty, this is Jim Bob”
Where th’ hell you at kid, ain’t we gonna’ rope at three?”
“Yeah Monty, I’m plannin’ on it—but I gotta’ problem”
“Shoot bucko”
“Well . . . I’m down here at the Mall, and I don’t know what to get Peggy Sue for Christmas.”
“That’s day after TOMORROW, kid.”
“I KNOW Monty. Can you give me any ideas?”
“How th’ hell would I know—I do my Christmas shoppin’ at th’ feed store!”
“Well . . . I kinda’ wanted to get her sumpthin’ special, since it’s our first Christmas and all.”
“Sumpthin’ special, huh—say . . . were you gonna’ head or heel today?”
“Head Monty, I always HEAD! Now—do you have any gift ideas for me?”
“Victoria Secret kid . . . git her sumpthin frilly from Victoria Secret. And hurry yer ass up and git back here so’s we can rope!” Click.
Well, Jim Bob had never really thought of Peggy Sue in a Victoria’s Secret kind of way . . . so he guessed it would really be a surprise for her if he got something there. Besides—he kind’a wanted to hurry up an’ git back to rope, too!
Jim Bob turned the first steer as pretty as a picture, and Monty threw it in the dirt, as usual. Down at the strippin’ chute, Jim Bob thanked Monty for his advice about going to Victoria’s Secret to buy his wife a Christmas present.
“So yew gotter’ sumpthin’?
“Sure did. Real frilly . . . edible . . . and NASTY!”
“Well . . . that’s th’ point, kid.”
“I also learned what Victoria’s Secret is.”
“Well I’ll be danged kid . . . do tell.”
“She ain’t built NOTHIN’ like Peggy Sue . . . that’s her dad-gummed secret!”
Monty chuckled as he loaded the next steer.
“I’ll tell ya what ain’t no secret, kid—it looked good on Victoria in the picture, and it’ll look good offa’ Peggy Sue—which’ll be YER dad-gummed secret!”
“Yeah . . . and I LOVE strawberry to boot!”
. . . and now, another e-mail from one of our readers . . .
Dear Dewhicky,
Would you please settle an argument for me and my husband? Do you know that Christmas song that has the line, “Chestnuts roasting over an open fire . . . “? Ain’t that referrin’ to Europeans cookin’ up some horse?
Carole in French Lick, Indiana
Dear Carole in French Lick,
Well . . . huh . . . now that I think about it—you could be right! Please tell your husband that I’m sorry, and my regards to all sorrel horses.
Merry Christmas, Ya’ll!
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Dead Battery
THE WEST CAMP COWBOYS
Louis and Ron were camp cowboys separated by 30 years of age, but had equal reputations as insatiable hunters. Word was, they’d shoot anything from dove to quail to ducks to rabbits to coyotes to hogs to deer to bear to turkey—even sucker fish in the river in a snow storm with a bow and arrow! Everyone knew those boys loved to hunt.
Every winter the boss would send the two bachelor waddies up to the West Camp to keep an eye on the cows on the mountain. Louis (sixty if he was a day) did most of the cookin’ and cleanin’, and so made Ron (mid twenties we’ll guess) deal with all of the machinery that Louis so detested . . . chainsaws, pump jacks, and oh yeah . . . the feed wagon (that’s a flatbed pick-up truck with a big cake feeder mounted on it, for those who were wondering).
One frosty morning, Ron stumbled out into the predawn to fire up the ‘ol feed wagon. It was a diesel, and although plugged in religiously during the winter cold, it was ALWAYS stubborn to start. As Louis finished cookin’ the eggs and ham, he heard the distinct crankin’ of the cantankerous engine.
Uhuhhuhhhumph. Tick-tick-tick. Uhuhhhuhuhhhuhumph. Tick-tick-tick.
“It’ll kick this time” Louis thought to himself as he pulled the biscuits out of the oven.
Uhuhhhuhuhhhuuu…a . . . a . . . ticketyticketytick . . . then silence.
“Dead battery” Louis mused to himself. “Grub’s ready!” he hollered.
Ron stomped into the cabin, madder than a border collie at a sheep convention on a short leash. “Is the battery charger in the shed?” he demanded of Louis. But Louis paid him no mind. Instead, he just kept methodically chewing his breakfast while he slowly nodded, staring straight ahead. “Two mad’s don’t make a happy” Louis thought to himself.
Once breakfast was cleaned up, Louis brought the last cup of coffee out to the front step to catch the first sun. Ron, fiddling in frustration under the feed wagon’s hood, didn’t notice the approaching pickup truck.
It was Pork Chop, the ranch cook. Pork Chop made a weekly run from headquarters out to all of the camps in the winter to deliver groceries and mail . . . if anyone was lucky enough to have any. As he pulled up into the yard, he killed the motor and coasted to a stop next to the feed wagon. Pork had noticed the battery charger and was preparing some smart-aleck remark. But before he could get it out, Louis spoke up.
“Mornin’ Pork. Did you know ‘ol Ron there has already been huntin’ this morning?” Ron almost hit his head, jerkin’ out from under that hood, surprised someone else was there.
“Ya don’t say” Pork Chop replied in his deep, gravely voice, a sly smirk appearing on his face as he knew something was up.
“Yup” Louis timed his delivery carefully, “he got up early this morning and killed hisself a BATTERY!”
Ron threw a screwdriver in Louis’ direction.
“Reckon what the bag limit is on them?” Pork said with a laugh, and another screwdriver flew his direction.
“Wouldn’t know” Louis finished, eyes wide, “but I knew that battery was a goner, on account of I could see its TERMINAL!”
. . . and on occasion, we’ll answer some e-mail from our readers . . .
Dear Hickey,
I’m a barrel racer who married a team roper. Do you think I should turn my barrel horse into a head horse?
Just Wonderin’,
Jen, from Oil Drum, Texas
Dear Wonderin’ Jen from Oil Drum,
No, I don’t believe I’d do that, and here’s the reason why. Barrel horses are generally much faster than head horses, so you should have no problem outrunning the head horse before you turn in, thus avoiding a collision. Should you turn in to a head horse while on your barrel horse, you may actually be knocked to the ground, as head horses are known for their stoutness and ability to take a jerk (and in your husband’s case, I hope his head horse ain’t carrying one!). The resulting collision could hurt you, Jen, and we don’t want that, now do we? From here on out, why don’t you just outrun all of those old head horses, and then you won’t have to worry about turning into any! Then, you can just concentrate on turning into BARRELS . . . which will keep the future of rodeo in tact. Thanks a lot for your letter, and good luck! Turn-and-burn baby, turn and burn . . . and . . . your welcome.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Backhoe
The County finally caved into Equal Opportunity pressures and hired a young woman—for the heavy equipment crew! The foreman, a grizzled, uneducated, twenty year veteran, may have grumbled somewhat under his breath—but he knew a woman on his crew was probably inevitable . . . so he gave it a deep sigh. With resolve, he decided to meet this task head-on and give it his all, just like he did when all of the other surprises this job seemed to dish out on a regular basis were plopped into his lap. He would put his head down, put one foot in front of the other, and give it 110%!
On her first day on the job, the crew was just completing a dig to repair a leaking water line. The foreman took this opportunity to instruct his comely young charge on the safe and proper use of the backhoe—a piece of equipment so named because it was a tractor with a large bucket on the front for scooping dirt, and a clawed, smaller bucket (the “hoe”) on the back end, mounted on jointed hydraulic arms, for digging precise trenches in the soil.
They were through using the backhoe, but had yet to load it onto the trailer used to haul it back to the County yard. The foreman instructed the wide-eyed young miss, who could barely be seen peeking out from under what seemed to be an enormously large hard hat, to “come with me” over behind the bushes to where the backhoe was parked.
The veteran’s intent was strictly professional, and although he figured this girl would quit the rough environment of the equipment crew’s daily routine before week’s end, he diligently resolved to instruct her on the safe operation of this particular piece of digging equipment, just like he would with any new male recruit.
Unnoticed by the foreman, who was intent on a job he deep-down felt was fruitless, the girl was becoming more reluctant and uneasy the further they got away from the group of workers. The foreman motioned the girl around, not only behind the bushes to where the backhoe was parked, but also to the backside of the backhoe, where he hoped the noise and drone of the work crew would at least be muffled enough that his young charge could hear what he had to say. It wasn’t registering with the grizzled foreman, who was preoccupied with the organization of his impending instructions, that in this situation his new female employee was as anxious as a cat on a hot tin roof!
The foreman turned to face her, then took a step closer to be better heard, and in his matter-of-fact-un-educated-rural-drawl, he looked the now-scared-out-of-her-mind girl right in the eye and began his instruction in earnest.
“Now, on yer back hoe . . . “ he began.
The girl screamed and whirled around, throwing her arms into the air as she raced from the job site! Before noon, the befuddled and now shocked old foreman was notified that he was being sued for sexual harassment.
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