In the Jingle Jangle Morning
Okay, this is important so listen to Latigo Flint now. That sewer grate over yonder on San Fernando Boulevard routinely eats spurs. It has a great hunger for spurs. If you walk near that sewer grate with spurs on, it will grab the spurs and eat them... and painfully twist knees in the process.
I decided it was imperative that my good neighbors be made aware of this spur eating menace. Moments later an attractive young woman turned the corner.
"Pardon me Ma'am," I tipped my hat politely and stepped in front of her. "Do you ever wear spurs?"
"What?!!!"
"Spurs Ma'am, you know: cowboy steel, gut hooks, pony-git-alongs. Do you ever wear them?"
She blinked several times at me. "Pony-whats???"
"Flank-ticklers Ma'am. Buzz saws, heel nuggets, jingle jangle mornings. They come Texas Style, California Style and Vaquero Style. Inlayed or plain. With or without silver conchos, chap guards or a curved shank. I'm talkin' 'bout spurs Ma'am, and whether or not you wear them... so, do you?"
The poor gal seemed about to cry she was so confused. I would have shown her my own spurs except that wretched sewer grate had already eaten them. I gently touched her elbow with one hand and lifted her chin with the other until her bewildered eyes met mine.
"A cowboy Ma'am: Get the picture in your mind. Now he's wearing boots, of course, and attached to the heels are round twirly metal things... Spurs! Do you understand?"
She nodded.
"So, do you ever wear them?!"
She took a long moment to process everything that had just happened to her in the last thirty seconds. Then a grumpy set began to creep across her face.
"Spurs? Like cowboy boot, metal twirly things, spurs? And you stopped me to find out if I ever wear them?"
I smiled broadly. "Yes, yes, you've got it! I want to know if you ever wear spurs."
"WHY THE FUCK WOULD I EVER WEAR SPURS?!!!"
The girl had lungs. My serape practically blew straight back behind me. I looked like Linus in a gale.
The question was rhetorical so I didn't answer it. I pointed at the sewer grate. "Well if you ever do, don't walk near that particular sewer grate--it eats spurs... and twists knees in the process."
While I was looking over my shoulder, pointing at the sewer grate, she was filling each fist with a can of mace. When I turned back around, she emptied both into every topside orifice I had and left me to slobber and writhe in the gutter like a strych-laced dog.
Never one to disappoint, that's exactly what I did. At some point the sewer grate started laughing at me so I head-butted it to death.
Then some more stuff probably happened, I'm not really sure though. The sun went down and up, down and up a few times. My senses had been stripped. My hands couldn't feel to grip.
Then I think a hobo peed on me.
posted by Latigo Flint @ 10:42 PM
15 comments
15 Comments:
Latigo, up North here we don't have many of these hungering grates, yet I think we can offer up some advice.
Are you familiar with the tales of Robert W. Service? Indeed they have served me well.
And it is your continuous recounting of unrequited love, disastrous misinterpretations and unfortunate catastrophes that compels me to share with you Mr. Service's work The Shooting of Dan McGrew.
Be careful whose nip' you clasp.
The miserable tinhorn done maced you in the back! The very least she could have done is challenged you at high noon.
I'm saving the synonyms and colloquialisms of spurs on my desktop cause, God help me, I can see me speaking of them in a dark grim future.
On the bright side -- and I speak from experience on this one -- you eventually build up an immunity to mace. At that point it becomes nothing more than a gentle mist blowing in a summer breeze.
When the young lady in question asked why she would ever wear spurs, I suppose you could have replied, "If you were smarter and more attractive, maybe I could give you some reasons. As it is, you'll have to find out for yourself." Plagued by curiosity, she would have bought some spurs and inevitably been knee-twisted by the spur-munching grate.
Serves her right, the trigger-happy Mace chick.
spur eating knee twister. to be strictly avoided ... next time.
My friend Greg has decided that being nice to women is his downfall. His life used to be almost one constant laying, but since he started being a gentleman he hasn't been laid in about 8 years.
I don't know that he isn't onto something that is seeded deep inside a woman's psyche. Try being a dick to the barista... I'll bet she'll be perched upon your "cinnamon stick" faster than you can say "Double Grande Colombia Nariño Supremo Latte with Lowfat Whipping Cream and Sprinkles."
and then suddenly you were spammed . . . do you think this is the work of the mace chic? she could've found your blog and jumped at the chance for more revenge. although what you did to her, i'll never know. you were only trying to help!
Oh man! That's a tough break. Sounds like the mace got into your boots, too, if your toes were too numb to step!
You tend to get maced a lot and left for dead.
Have you considered duct taping your vict... your new friends before talking with them?
If that young lady has never worn spurs before, you're better off without her.
"Then some more stuff probably happened..."
I have now recovered enough to tell you that I will be all right, soon's I clean the spew off my monitor.
Are you sure there weren't any byrds flying around at the end there?
And was it a hobo peed on you... or was it a tambourine man?
If a chick doesn't know about "pony-git-alongs", she's just not worth it.
Peeing hobos will learn their lesson if you rig your drover's coat (or similar gunsliger over coat attire) with a mild electric current. For the hobo it will be as fun as the subway, without the joy of the third rail.
Amandarama,
I am sad to inform you that this is not possible.
The hobo would have to be very near to our companion Latigo Flint. For you see, the stream of urine exiting from the hobo's... urine shooter (whatever that may be) is only a solid stream for a few inches. Thereafter it forms into a march of droplets, separated sufficiently so as to prevent, for example, a mild electrical current from traveling up the stream.
That being said -- we should also assume that Latigo isn't one to allow hobos to urinate on him whilst conscious, an assumption that was already made in your suggestion. The problem this presents is that our friend Latigo would be grounded -- quite literally. The quickest route for the electrical current to the earth would not be the urine stream - but the contact with the ground or grate.
But lets assume that Latigo isn't grounded. To overcome the separation in the urine stream the charge provided by his overcoat would have to be large enough to make multiple jumps between objects. That being said, the distance between urine droplets is likely greater than the edge of the overcoat to the roughened skin of his neck or wrists. It would be more likely that it jump to him.
Unfortunately an electrical suite of armor to guard against hobo peeing is likely impossible to design.
I'm sorry to take the wind out of your sails with such force, however, this is a topic which I have done much research on. It is not just unpleasant to be peed on by a hobo up North, it is deadly.
It provides just enough warmth to lull you further into unconciousness -- and then freezes you to the quick.
In this case (as many others) prevention is worth far more than cure.
Cale, I am aware of this Canadian wordsmith. For some years there, a while back, I would awake screaming:
"There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;"
But I was not familiar with "McGrew". I thank you for the point in its direction.
This is wise I think, Fallenranger, most wise. Humanity shall either continue to explore, as is our nature, the Moon, Mars and beyond--or really start shooting and obliterating each other's cities on a wide scale.
Either way, you're going to need to know plenty of colorful terms to describe spurs.
This sets my mind at ease Joe... kinda. Are we talking single digit exposures, dozens, scores? I'm not entirely certain my lymph nodes can take much more.
Yes Slarrow, well hindsight being all corrective lensed and whatnot... then the mace started flowing. It all happened pretty fast.
Thank you Ho. (That has the right number of syllables to be a Quinzaine but the grouping is off.)
I have heard this theory Dave... several times. I don't subscribe to it. (Though perhaps at the expense of potential sexual interaction.) So be it however. Line One of the Squinty-Eyed Gunslinger Manifesto loosely translates to: "Don't be a dick, especially to gals."
That's exactly right Tabitha Jane, I was only trying to help. And so too I think, are my anonymous friends. If I'm ever in Namur, Belgium and find myself needing the services of a local videographer, I'm going to be mighty glad they stopped by and provided me with the website link.
They were waiting MJ... waiting only for my boot heels to be wanderin'. (nice catch)
It's true LBB... I just have that sort of face I guess.
That's what I told myself Trevor... right before my nightly D.M.C.*
Send me the bill Old Hoss. I'd consider it an honor.
The byrds had Bobbed tails Ari... Bobbed.
I reckon so Amandarama, I reckon so.
As for your second part, I'm going to defer to my trusty electrical engineer, Cale. I'm reasonably informed and not afraid of engaging in a bit of research every now and again, but something tells me I could study for years and still not craft such a detailed and informed analysis of hobo pee repellant attire as the one he has just.
*drink, masturbate, cry.
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