Here's your entry for the next Q & A game:
Q. "who judges the quality of the goods sold at 'The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas?'"
A. "A lay committee."
Here's one the Technical Virgin brought
back from church meeting: Barbara Walters was interviewing Edith Head right after Edith's husband, Charles, passed away. Barbara asked, "Did you and Charles ever have any children?"
Edith: "No, we didn't."
Barbara: "Why? Didn't Charlie ever ask you to give him a little Head?"
Edith: "Constantly. That's the reason we never had any children."
But to get down to serious business, for the past five weeks everyone around here has been down with the flu. Everyone downtown, that is. Out here at the ranch we never worry about any of those 2¢ ailments that the flesh of common folk is heir to because we've got the raisinjack. A jar or two per day of the stuff old Casey, the retired ape who sleeps in my basement, makes down there and you're entirely safe from marauding insects and the lesser fauna.
Old Lady Skaggs, who comes on Tuesday to bring the eggs, claims to have once heard an encounter between a molecule of raisin-jack and a flu virus that was cavorting about in her bloodstream. "Halt, you! Stand and deliver!" the raisin-jack said.
"I surrender! I surrender !" the virus whined.
"Surrender hell," the raisin-jack snapped, 'Whaddya think this is, games night at the nursing home?" Said the gurgling screetch that followed made her blood run cold.
Well, her blood ain't any too hot at the best of times. She's sort of like a Jewish Princess who got shunted onto a country siding on the way to her proper destiny. What we've got here is a basic Jewish Princess born into a pocket of rednecked preachers and raised as a Pentacostal Virgin, and when you've got that you've got a contradictory character on your hands. Old Lady Skaggs can be sweet as mountain honey just talking along or saying her prayers to a bush, but get her riled up and her tongue can raise blisters on a pithelm stump. Take the other day, for instance, when Shorty Johnson lost his pie.
Old Lady Skaggs just happened to be walking down Main Street when Deputy Sheriff Shorty Johnson came back to his prowl car after delivering a birthday cake from the mayor to the president of the bank and found that the rhubarb pie he'd left on the seat was missing. Dai Bread the Baker had baked that pie special for Shorty. Shorty looked around for the perpetrator and there was only Old Lady Skaggs prancing down the sidewalk in her black granny-dress with a basket of eggs on her arm.
Hollering "Strip Search! Strip Search!" Shorty dashed over and pushed her up against the wall like he'd seen 'em do on the TV and told her to take all her clothes off.
She told Shorty to go take a flying ____ at a galloping wombat. She further told him that he resembled a psychotic chipmunk in heat, that he was undoubtedly conceived by two striped ____ apes chained to a ____ wagon, that his mother apparently wasn't paying attention when her psychiatrist counseled her to have an abortion, or perhaps she was listening and he was it. That was when Shorty grabbed her, and she mashed the basket of eggs over his head.
Luckily Police Chief Ed Guvers heard the commotion and came up out of the Towner House Basement Bar to see what it was all about. He strolled over to where Shorty Johnson was howling and running in little circles as he tried to get his egg-slippery pistol out of its holster so he could shoot somebody. "Jesus, Shorty," Ed said, "If Ida knowed you wanted to make a biiiig omelet I coulda loaned you my wok."
Shorty never did find his pie. The upshot of the whole thing was that somebody caught Shorty and wrapped him in plastic sheeting to protect the upholstery and took him home to change clothes. Old Lady Skaggs went on down to McGuffy's General, where she was headed in the first place, to buy a chest freezer. God knows why she'd want to freeze her chest unless it has something to do with her falling in love with that Emmet Pismire, whose life story you seem intent on publishing in this formerly trustworthy magazine.
Which reminds me of a story old Chief Rotten Dog of the Kickumas Indian Nation told us the other day when we were down in the basement having a trial run at Casey's latest batch, chief says when he was a lad (about 1900) the tribe had a vegetable stand out along the highway. Says he was on duty there one day when this fatass tourist lady stopped by. She sneered at everything he was trying to push. She said his Indian corn was scraggly and his carrots were lumpy, which about called the turn. She said, "Do you have any melons?"
"No lady, no melons."
"Well, I don't see anything here that I'd want ...do you have any dates?"
"No lady, no dates."
"You don't have much of anything, do you? Do you have any nuts?"
"No lady, if I had any nuts I'd have some dates."
The same to you,
Warren Fogard, a professional old coot, lurks in Mburg, a forgotten village of Northern California, where he drinks raisin-jack with his pet ape and spies on his neighbors with a stethoscope.
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