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?