Lost In Wagga Wagga….
History shows that when I make mistakes, they’re on the big side and quickly realised….
In 1974, I made a beauty, setting off a chain of events which saw me fleeing Wagga Wagga with my self esteem lower than the annual rainfall of Hay and Jerilderie combined, my maturity index dramatically downgraded – life prospects dumped on the desolate Newell Highway somewhere between Wagga Wagga and Leeton.Â
Wagga Wagga IF You’re Happy. (cr: Kercam21: flickr)
It’s early March 35 years ago……
Hec’s manoeuvring the Kingswood Wagga Waggawards. Just the two of us. In keeping with the tradition that Gwennie handles ALL the day-to-day domestic joys and challenges but when it comes to the crucial stuff, Hec is called on to marshall life-long skills acquired as an RAAF navigator in The Pacific.
‘So, where EXACTLY are we headed, KJ?’
‘To the Riverina College of Advanced Education where I’ll be be doing Social Science. I’m going to be a Geography teacher…..!’
‘Good-o. Just remember we’re only up the road. It’s good you got the scholarship but still, don’t go around with the arse out of ya pants. Ring up if ya run into trouble….’
One hour later – the paperwork completed - Hec gives his trademark ‘I’m secretly choked up’ quick nod, nod, nod – with simultaneous mouth twitches - and is gone.
Accommodation is a room with twin beds. Nothing wrong with that. Dick and Laura Van Dyke had a similar arrangement and I spent hundreds of waking hours in my formative years dreaming of their groovy boudoir…..
So, the twin beds present no immediate problem but the smell does: a potent potpourri of fried lamb chops, scalded milk and (to be brutally honest) that lingering scent left in the wake of intimate activity.
Suddenly, room mate Trish appears. She’s been queen of this small realm of the senses for two years and is dead keen to impress.
Skipping over to the outer reaches of her kingdom, Trish shows me what I’ll need to prosper:  a trans fat capable electric grill, toaster, jug, a roll of greasy greaseproof paper, two dozen cans of sweet corn (goes with everything), six catering packs of powdered milk (they nick the fresh stuff out of the communal fridge), a three quarters empty bottle of Barcardi, six large bottles of coke and enough dried spaghetti to feed Griffith for a week.
Trish tells me that in-room cooking with appliances fuelled by accelerants has recently been banned…..something which the vocal bunsen burner set will NEVER come to terms with.
Trish’s bright disposition goes up a peg when she switches to things personal. Stuffing  my ‘I Love Leeton’ T-shirts and cottontails into my plywood bedside drawers and carefully arranging toothpaste, cotton buds and sanitary products on top, I discover she’s ‘nearly engaged’.
He’s in the RAAF at Forest Hill. He coulda been a fighter pilot but his true passion is working in supplies.
‘He’s just great. By the way, A TIP. The army guys at Kapooka will try to buy ya more drinks et cetera. Hold out for airforce, know what I mean…?’
As the hours progress, I sit on my bed while free orientation (accelerant) propelled barbecues light up the night sky. In my head, MISTAKE is on an escalating loop. At 2pm:  ’Could this be a MISTAKE?’. Four PM:  ’ I think I MAY have made a little MISTAKE.’ At 6pm: This is a MISTAKE and if I’m not MISTAKEN, it’s major.’  8pm: ‘This is a MISTAKE and God and Hec and Gwennie will hate me for it and so they should…..’
My tortuous thoughts are  interrupted when Trish appears with her dashing airman. Soon, they’re pashing like Sergeant Storeman will surely be shot down in a dogfight, tomorrow. When the noise level approaches that of an F1-11 on take off, I go outside and avail myself to a free sausage sandwich and an impromptu rendition of ‘Country Road’ by the pony-tailed president of the campus Folk Club.
Next morning, ‘Catastrophic Mistake’Â is replaced by ‘Â Let’s keep calm and see what Social Science actually IS….’
In a stinking hot room, the lecturer presents himself in shorts, long socks and sandals. His astounding facial hair precludes any eye contact. He’s as animated as Leeton Council outdoor staff on a 42-degree Monday. Mr Academia is doing statistical formulations with his squeaking chalk. And I have an epiphany:
I am getting out of here……
Three weeks later – after the paperwork is completed – Hec and me are silent in the Kingswood pointed Leetonwards. The Wagga Wagga balls up has been harrowing for everyone. I have not so much dropped as SPUN out.
At the pinprick on the map that is Galore, Hec speaks……
‘No doubt about it KJ you’ve buggered it up. No point sittin’ there feeling sorry for yaself. Not everyone gets the chance you did, ya know. If it helps, Gwennie’s missed you. Things’ll come good KJ, things’ll come good…..’
And I swear – for the very first time in my life- I saw tears in Hecs’ eyes.
*So, I still feel sad when I think about events at Galore. But, Hec was right and things did eventually work out better on the tertiary education front. The spotlight on my capacity for BIG mistakes/quickly realised (you’ll be pleased to know) didn’t diminish in other critical life arenas and I’ll fill you in on some of these doozies at a later date.
As usual, please report in – tales of dropping out, spinning out or even sickening reports of spectacular success are all welcome. Anything else is valid? You bet ya bippy!  Admittedly it’s your life but believe you me, I’ll continue to do everything in my power to get a piece of it!
All posters take a deep breath…..and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo – just ignore it.
February 8th, 2010 at 2:20 pm
There’s always a Dame…..
Am I right or am I right?
This dame was on the brink of Weepland.
I get so lonesome I could kind of burst inside.
There are charities to help people like you, I replied.
It’s got worse of late….
Well, at least the dame didn’t say say ‘worser and worser…’ Thank heavens for small mercies.
How so, kiddo?
My mouse has gone missing.
And?
This Iranian exchange student…
Don’t tell me, toots…you met him on the Internet and he came to stay?
You’re readin my mind like ‘The Leeton Irrigator’, Mister Barlowe.
That’s what I do to keep eating and drinking, kiddo. It’s what a shamus does….
Now, about this Persian – did he arrive on a carpet or did you rub on a lamp you bought at the Leeton flea market?
He came by Gulf Air, Mister Barlowe. You know them?
Sure, sugar – so what did this Aladdin do?
He came in and we had tea…and afterwards…..
After what, kiddo?
After TEA, Mister Barlowe…He took a shower. I took him a towel and he was all covered with wires and stuff…..
February 8th, 2010 at 5:06 pm
Dear KJ
Very moved by Lost in Wagga…..
If only you’d been born later and could have taken advantage of Julia’s Education Revolution.
And can I just say….I have identified during Life’s Journey a number of different sorts of mistakes – in what you Radio National people probably call the Mistake Genre:
1. The Mistake you know is a mistake instantly (aka the Bart Simpson DOW!),
like me dropping catches during my brave, but rather sad cricket career.
2. The Mistake you only realise later – like me going for drinkies with that News Limited Editor in New York…or Tony Six Pack parading himself in nothing but Budgie Smugglers.
3. The Mistake you think is a Mistake but turns out later not to be a mistake at all (which of course is a mistake, but not in the way you think). For example, in my student days when I worked as a cleaner at Laurie Oakes’ Canberra pad. At the time, I thought really – cleaning out Laurie’s dunny – is this part of God’s Rich Plan?
But NOW I realise that He was preparing me in ways I didn’t then even realise.
NOW I thank God and Laurie – not necessarily in that order!
(Only joking Laurie!!)
4. The Mistake you Never Realise is a Mistake – I don’t think I’ve ever made any of these (well, how would I know?) – but I’m pretty sure Malcolm falls into this genre.
*Incidentally I’m tipping a big week for Mal.
God Bless Oz.
The Rev Kev.
Dear The Rev Kev,
What a dissertation! At Radio National, we’d declare it ’simply compelling’.
* Did your old show biz mate Mr Joe Hockeystick make a mistake (or was it a stroke of genius) when he exploded onto the nation’s televison screens in that pink tutu?
On the matter of dunny cleaning, I once read a ‘Lifestyle’ piece in which a leading designer railed against dunny brushes, declaring them the most repulsive household accessory ever created. She ‘would NOT have one in her house..’
I still wonder how her cleaner got around the embargo.
KJ.
February 8th, 2010 at 5:38 pm
Good on you for bailing out so early, Kezza…..
I wasted some years studying (in a desultory fashion) to become a teacher, before I finally admitted out loud that being a teacher was actually the last thing that I wanted to do.
Becoming a teacher seems to be the default school leaving position for many working-class country kids, or at least it was back in those days.
I guess this is because smartish young folk feel like they should do at least something with their decent HSC mark, and teachers are pretty much the only professionally qualified people that they encounter on a daily basis.
Dear Roma Street,
Thank you for your restrospective ‘good on ya’.
I think your thesis holds water though to be totally honest, I fear I would have been a troublesome client of tertiary education (the first time round) EVEN if I’d been parachuted into the hallowed halls of Sydney Uni to investigate the history of illuminated texts.
I was allowed, encouraged to ‘do whatever I liked…’ *In 1975, the truth is I liked nothing better than sitting on my bum RE-reading ‘Rebecca’ while guzzling Paddle Pops.
* More than once over the last couple of years I’ve gone online to find out the fastest route to qualify as a secondary school English teacher. I figure that if I ever go back to country life, I’ll need to make a bob.
I’m probably dreamin’ but if I ended up in a classroom I make this promise to the nation: I will turn up!
KJ.
February 8th, 2010 at 7:39 pm
The Chief Monk is wearing a Who Dat? T-shirt with a fleur-de-lis.
He is very much Super Bowl obsessed.
He was a-spinnin for the Saints.
And hasn’t stopped……
February 9th, 2010 at 7:37 am
KJ,
All life is a process of dropping out – then you drop OFF….
Dear The Dude,
Let’s all hum a few bars together………
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,
My, oh, my, what a wonderful day.
Plenty of sunshine headin’ my way,
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay!
KJ.
February 9th, 2010 at 9:03 am
Dear KJ,
Re ‘Lost In Wagga Wagga’ – I feel for that, I feel for that……
Dear Chadwick,
Thank you.
When I’m home in Leeton and we go over to Wagga for our ‘no holes barred’ shopping sprees, there’s NEVER been any mention of THE crime scene. KJ.
February 9th, 2010 at 9:12 am
What is it with the French, kiddo?
Overnight Art’s Bar & Grill in Leeton, Australia, became Le Bistro d’Arturo. Pine Avenue became Bourbon Street and the Irrigation Area, the French Quarter.
Black dudes were suddenly Carpentier, Duvalier and Michel complete with striped blue jerseys and berets.
Art’s Chicken became coq au vin.
Jazz swirled out into Pine Avenue, sorry Bourbon Street.
The bar was covered with fleurs de lis. Everybody was talking about Nooorleans and their illustrious victory.
The cyclone up north, of course, became Katrina II. Quelle damage !
The Chief Monk has become impossible, twirling around chanting: Whodatwhodatwhodatwhodatwhodatwhodat.
If I hear ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’ again I’ll go mad, toots.
And everybody wanted to convict The Who of being aged.
Aged? Who, who, who, who – who are you?
‘Mr De Mille, I’m ready for my close-ups.’
February 9th, 2010 at 1:32 pm
Did anyone see last night’s episode of Ross Noble’s Motorbike-Around-Australia tour?
His stops included Griffith (he made fun of that plane-on-a-stick war memorial) and Narrandera (he made fun of the giant guitar) but NO LEETON!
Clearly the whole art deco/swampy bird life/rice thing isn’t cutting it. We need some large, risible attractions if we are going to get us some of that sought-after international tourist exposure.
The Big Mozzie?
The Big Phantom?
The Big Carp?
*The Big Allan Wallett?
Dear Roma Street,
I didn’t see the show you refer to but I reckon Leeton’s already got its ‘Big’ drawcard – and classier than all the rest of the Australian ‘Biggies’ combined.
And that is…..the BIG Walter Burley Griffin-designed Water Towers dotted throughout the town.
Disagree at your peril!
*Allan Wallett: local commerical radio announcer/sports commentator.
KJ.
February 9th, 2010 at 2:18 pm
*** Thanks Wiki.
Back in WWII, US fighter squadron pilots would often fly under radio silence.
But things get lonely up there in the cockpit, so after a while there’d be a crackle of static as someone keyed his mike.
Then a disembodied voice would reply, ‘Who dat?’ An answer would come, ‘Who dat say who dat?’ And another, ‘Who dat say who dat say who dat?’
After a few rounds of this, the squadron commander would grab his microphone and yell, ‘Cut it out, you guys!’ A few moments of silence. Then…’Who dat?’
February 9th, 2010 at 2:40 pm
Who dat singing here? Aaaron. True dat.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WfEjZunhEvY
February 9th, 2010 at 8:37 pm
Sorry I haven’t posted for a while but my foot’s been sore.
Today though, something to get excited about about – another invite.
And be blowed, it’s the poo screening mob again telling me that this time its test has been reliably assessed by the Therapeutic Goods Administration.
Imagine…..
Could this be the only invite I’ll receive all year and if so would I be mad to say no? (The Dude? I seem to remember some good advice from you on this one…)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MEPGN02350Q
Dear Greek & loving it,
Lovely to hear from you…..
So far this year my only invitation has been from my boss: a gilt-edged email inviting me to a meeting ‘to talk about things’. My immediate thoughts: ‘I really would prefer to stay in my office, I’m not dressed for this, I hate crowds…’ Anyway – as so often is the case – I did turn up……AND – as so often is the case – I found myself having a ball! So much so – as so often is the case – it was a real downer when the bouncer arrived. KJ.
February 10th, 2010 at 5:18 am
Came downstairs as An Act Of Courage.
Things looked very bad in Wagga Wagga.
Then looked in the mirror mirror on the wall and discovered I have a whole body cosmetic deficit.
http://www.brisbanetimes.com.au/lifestyle/people/megan-foxs-cosmetic-deficit-20100209-no1n.html
Back to the man-eatin’ doona.
Dear The Knuckle,
There’s only one thing you need to know….to everyone in here, you’re beautiful, YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL…..KJ.
February 10th, 2010 at 6:30 am
Dear Roma Street,
I have never been to Leeton but reading the posts here I do have a suggestion for a ‘biggie’ attraction for the town.
Big Heaven On A Big Stick.
Dear The Dude,
What are we talkin’ – The Big Limbo? KJ.
February 10th, 2010 at 8:47 am
Dear Greek and loving it,
No specific advice this time – just an observation.
At least you weren’t invited to take Dr Smellie’s menopausal pills.
http://timesonline.typepad.com/timesarchive/2010/02/dr-smellies-female-pills-menopause-treatment-from-a-mass-murderer.html
February 10th, 2010 at 1:20 pm
Dear KJ,
Perhaps I should have told you more about my strong emotions re Wagga Wagga…..
I once fell for girl who went to the forerunner of the Riverina College Of Advanced Education – Wagga Teachers’ College.
She dumped me.
I am a forgiving man after all these years, and when I find her covered with sores with twelve starving children I’ll say: ‘Remember me, I forgive you.’
Chadwick!
Until now, you have presented as a poster with all faculties intact. Now, we discover that underneath Chadwick’s rational, calm exterior lurks a man whose seething passions can override all claims to sanity. Fantastic! KJ.
February 10th, 2010 at 4:08 pm
Last year’s subject outline in my inbox needing amendments….
A student at my door wanting advice on online enrolments, class availability and whether she can go skiing for the first three lectures. She says it’s only reasonable.
A man from building services wants to check under my desk and I have to employ seven casual tutors for a new subject, ‘Gendered Histories’.
BUT.
Even serious demands like these must go on hold because I have been instructed to move to the office on a lower level and – next to the corridor that leads to the student lounge!
How dare you complain about your tertiary experience…..
The Lonely Scholar,
I think I can safely say that the caring souls in this site AND for that matter, throughout Australia are outraged at the indignities raining down on you.
Can I pop in a late enrolment form for ‘Gendered Histories’. Does it have a therapeutic component? Lately – on awakening – the SAME thought: ‘How could it have come to this?’
* When that young thrill-seeker pleaded for three weeks off lectures to go skiing…..did you ask questions? She may very well be a member of the Australian team for the Winter Olympics (she’s certainly not going ‘local’).
KJ.
February 10th, 2010 at 5:37 pm
Look KJ we all make mistakes. Only a few months ago I believed in Mad Mal Turnbull’s ETS.
One day – I was ironing my budgie smugglers at the time – it hit me – a whole lot of nonsense is being talked about climate change. What the good folk of Australia really want is MEN OF ACTION (like me and Barnie).
People are fed up with the Talk Talk Talkers. They wanna see us Walk The Walk. Or Run The Run. Or Fight The Fire. Or Iron The Undies.
Look KJ sometimes we all feel a bit lost.
If it happens to you again – I say: Try ironing. It’s very therapeutic.
Tony Six Pack.
Tony Six Pack,
It probably comes as no surprise, but I do NOT possess an iron. I point blank refuse to waste precious hours directing steam at cloth.
That’s the way it is – with no ‘adjustments’ foreshadowed.
*Gwennie is a world-class ironer. When I go home, she immediately goes to work on Daughter Crumple’s gear. I must admit the results do make a difference to both my spirits – and public demeanour. KJ.
February 11th, 2010 at 8:40 am
I’m so lonely, Mr Barlowe, I’m bustin’ inside…
Sure, kiddo, a man who has been a month in Mexico without a bathe feels like that.
I ain’t got a man!
So?
Everybody needs a man!
Like boot polish or toothpaste?
You don’t understand, Mr Barlowe, I’m so lonely, I’m bustin’ inside….
This kid was in trouble with a capital T.
February 11th, 2010 at 2:19 pm
That Dame in Wagga Wagga 35 years ago was right on the button when she talked about being so lonesome she was kind of busting inside…
A PI has to guard against such notions, kiddo.
This can include a bottle of JB and a vinyl of good old Gus.
Gus was a swell guy.
He was a Kraut with a Capital K.
Am I right or am I right…..?
Mahler knew about busting inside. And he knew about Dames. His song cycle Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen (Songs of a Wayfarer) came from a love affair with a soprano that went tits up. Love Potion Number Nine Opus?
His youngest brother Otto – also a composer -took the high jump, and committed suicide in 1895. Age 21.
Mahler knew how to look Death right in the kisser and not flinch.
He sure was swell, real swell……
This dude was the second of fourteen children, seven of whom died as bubs.
Bad karma, kiddo. Bad karma. Bad karma and no penicillin. It was Hell’s Kitchen all around.
Like I say, pilgrim, he was a helluva guy.
He married a Dame twenty years younger.
There’s always a Dame, like I say….
Excuse me, I’ll just ask Art to play him on the juke.
What was I saying, kiddo?
Yes, that Mahler was a tough ‘un.
He went off for a Permanent Sleep Over in 1911 after getting a blood infection in New York. Fifty years on the planet.
His Symphony Number 10 is unfinished.
Play it again, Art. Play it……
Of all the rundown, broken and twisted bar and grill joints in Leeton, you had to walk in here, kiddo…
Here’s looking at you..
February 11th, 2010 at 3:13 pm
She made me a sausage sandwich.
I felt the impact of reality here……
February 11th, 2010 at 5:18 pm
Dear KJ,
No iron!
You must be the only woman in Australia that has a 100% seersucker wardrobe.
Dear The Dude,
True. And believe me, more than one man has mistaken me for a tablelcoth. KJ.
February 11th, 2010 at 6:18 pm
It was high noon in Pine Avenue, Leeton, as I rode in from the prairie……
It was a long, long trail a-winding from Al Gundagai and my quart of water was almost gone.
It was lonely on the trail. I get to be such a Lonesome Cowboy at times I feel like I’m a-bustin’ insides. Glad I have my faithful Pinto fer company.
Yessir.
Leeton slept in a midsummer, midday haze, the town in the heart of the Badlands.
Law had deserted the Irrigation Area Without Water.
Yessir.
A whirly whirly drew up the dust like a ghost’s finger.
As I rode through the mesquite and cactus I thought of the call that had come in the dusk as the sun went to bed and shadows lengthened like a pall….
You gotta come, Marshal G.I.N. German. You gotta come!
The sun glinted on my badge. It was hotter than chilli tomales.
Yessir.
I checked my six-shooters, eased them in their holsters. A man who cross draws has to be prepared. There are no second prizes.
Only one comes away smelling like roses, pardners.
In the Badlands the shooters are a man’s only friends.
I squinted against the blazing light and gritted my teeth.
High Noon in Leeton.
Yessir.
The shop windows were bullet-holed.
The Himalayan Kebab Parlour and Special Occasions Knickers Laundry…Art’s Bar and Grill… Radio Irrigator…The Burley Griffin Water Towers Souvenir Giftshop…the Trocadero Ballet Slippers Boutique….
The town was all shot up.
The villains had high tailed it out of town.
But I knowed they’d be a-coming back.
And Marshal G.I.N. German will be a-waiting.
Yessir.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7BRraVMZzc
To be continued.
February 12th, 2010 at 7:44 am
The mayor and the townsfolk were a-hiding in the Roxy Theatre…
It was High Noon, and time that Leeton took a Last Stand.
So far the cards and dice had fallen on the side of the bad men in black hats.
Time fer a change in the Badlands, pardners.
To be continued.
February 12th, 2010 at 12:58 pm
Hi KJ,
You’ll have noticed under my ACTION MAN- BATTLELINES LEADERSHIP – I’m taking the Libs to the Left – campaigning on WORKERS RIGHTS, HEALTH AND SAFETY, EXPLOITATION OF INSULATORS IN ROOF SPACES – I know through your blog you’re close to the street….so, if you hear any examples of injustice to workers, let me know IMMEDIATELY!
The Rev Kev, aka The Bosses’ friend, has to be stopped.
Next Monday, I’m calling a National Strike.
IT’LL BE AN INDEFINITE!
THE WORKERS UNITED WILL NEVER BE DEFEATED.
Tony Six Pack.
Amazing Tony Six Pack,
If there’s two words that sure get this gal going they’re ‘Indefinite Strike’ – just behind ‘Prawn Cutlet’ (Excuse me a moment while I turn my desk fan on….)
* The word around here is that Barnaby Google is about to announce a nationwide ban on doing sums. I’d go knocking on his door if I were you. KJ.
February 12th, 2010 at 1:31 pm
I tell ya, I ain’t scared a meeny.
I got so many notches on my guns the handles are almost plum whittled aways.
To be continued….
February 12th, 2010 at 6:18 pm
This town is all shot up, I told the bartender of the Last Chance Tavern.
Yesireebob. Barnaby Boyce Gang and Six Pack Tex (who I note is marauding through this site) done themselves real proud.
What’ll it be, stranger?
Your best pantry juice ain’t none too good fer Marshal G.I.N German, all the ways from G-Ranch, El Gundagai. I’ll have a shot of your best mesquite juice.
Sure. We got it growing everywhere now. They brought it from Ardlethan…
Tastes like a nutty molasses.
Yessir!
Mesquite?
Yes, pardner. It’s not just in Zane Grey. Screwtape mesquite has a long tap root that goes through the salt down to the water table. Nothin’ fazes it no how, just like a tax collector. It’s a favourite Injune food.
Injuns? No Injuns round here….
No, but you got the Boyce Brothers. And the town is all shot up……
Yessir!
To be continued…
February 12th, 2010 at 7:12 pm
He’s come to town, Marshal!
Zeke, from Art’s Bar and Grill, was kind of nervy.
Who’s come to town?
Barnaby Boyce’s Gang and Six Pack Tex – the ones who shot up the town!
Notice anything special bout him?
He was laughin’ and shootin’ all the ways down Pine Avenue. He shot up the town again.
Settle down cowboy…..
Sure, Marshal. He urinated on the Henry Lawson Memorial….
Guess I’ll have to mosey out and do somethin’ bout this.
Give me another shot of mesquite, Mister Barman. It’s a swell drop.
Sure, Marshal, sure…
To be continued….
February 13th, 2010 at 4:06 am
Barney rode the Badlands,
Cos he was a real bad man……
Fastest on the draw of all outlaws,
Livin’ on his hates,
Wanted in the Territor’ and all the big Six States.
He shot up all of Canberry,
Took off with his mates
To raid the Town of Leeton….
Left it all shot up.
His popeyes and his popgun,
What a son of a gun!
Barney had no sister, no wife, no son, no daughter,
Bringin’ terror with his gun,
To the Irrigation Area (Without Water).
February 14th, 2010 at 10:53 am
It was the Battle of the OK Chaw….
Yessirreebob.
Tobacco chawers versus the Boyce Gang.
I gotta tell you I raised a posse from Art’s Bar and Grill and The Last Chance that were mean critters with their baccy.
The authoritahs had forced both proprietahs to put up No Smokin signs and prohibit the consumption of any kinds of cheroots.
Art immedately installed a Brass Spittoon.
The locals from the Town What Got Shot Up never shifted from their seats to hit the ‘toon with their juice.
PTOOOOOOOOOOOON! Right on the mark.
One patron, Mick the Juice, could hit a blowfly at twenty paces.
The gang were no match.
Soon they were a-runnin and a-hollerin all the ways down Pine Avenue, clutching their tobacco-juice wounded eyes.
PTOOOOOOOOOOOON! There goes another outlaw.
PTOOOOOOOOOOOON! PTOOOOOOOOOOOON! PTOOOOOOOOOOOON!
Even Six Pack Tex was high-tailin it, carryin his six irons and his Ironing Table.
PTOOOOOOOOOOOON!
I’m tellin you, pardners, it was a slaughter.
Finally it was only Barney and me.
Pow! Another shot whistled overhead.
I crouched down behind a waterless Irigation Area water barrel.
Pow!
I’m a-callin you out, Marshal!
How many bullets you got left, Barney?
I don’t need Mathematics to kill yer, Marshal.
I got plenty…
I rose from behind the barrel, my eyes squintin against the sun.
Three twos make SIX, Barney. Yer plumb outta slugs.
PTOOOOOOOOOOOON!
Right on target.
Barney mounted and high-tailed it right out of Leeton, the Town What Got Shot Up.
Ask your Grandma. It really happened.
February 14th, 2010 at 10:59 am
That consarned outlaw, Six Pack Tex, has had the temeritah to write to the Sheriff demandin’ I turn in my badge as Marshal of Leeton, the Town What Got Shot Up.
He sez I should resign as Marshal cos four of my posse died from nicotine poisonin’ while expectoratin’ in defence of the town.
I tole the sheriff, no ways Jose. I ain’t quittin. Nosirreebob.
My Expectoratin’ Program works!
I am not goin’ nowheres.
I defend the defenders whether they discharge, drool, expectorate, hawk, hiss, sibilate, sizz, slobber, spatter, spew, splutter, spritz, sputter, throw out……
I am the Marshal of this here town what got shot up.
My condolences to the widders of the four men who fell in its defence.
But I make no apologies, nosirreebob.
February 14th, 2010 at 1:57 pm
There’s always a Dame, and this one’s still here…
The Lonesome Dame.
So lonesome she’s kind of bustin’ inside.
Further, that all-wired Iranian has stolen her mouse. You get a man and he steals your mouse.
Not one of those that run the computer, but one of those furry cheese-eaters.
Time for a denoument for the Dame.
A case of Tears Before Bedtime, if you get my drift, kiddo…..
February 14th, 2010 at 4:23 pm
My mouse, my mouse, the Dame cried…
Where oh where is my mouse?
By now she was into Weepland with a vengeance.
I had the answer.
Just a typical Iranian, you’d say?
I never ain’t seen one before, Mr Barlowe.
Seen one you seen em all, toots.
Well, I made him a bed in a nice little cot I have for guests.
Sure, sugar, separate tables.
He seemed kind of cute, you know?
Cute is as cute does, honey. What about Mr Mouse?
Mo was in his little pen in the room, having fun on his treadmill…
And?
When I got up in the morning Mo was gone and so was the Persian.
I took Miss Lonelyhearts to the door. The red neon over Art’s Bar and Grill was flashing like an angry woman.
I pointed to the sky.
See that moving light in the sky, just over the water tower?
Is it a plane, Mr Barlowe?
No, sister, it’s Mr Mo – and I cannot guarantee he’s coming back.
I get so lonesome I could kind of burst inside, Mr Barlowe.
You’ll just have to Let a Smile Be Your Umbrella, kiddo….