The Cardiff Giant
In 1869, workers digging a well behind William C. Newell's barn in Cardiff, New York, unearthed a 10-foot-tall stone man. It instantly became the subject of great interest and debate, with many believing it to be the petrified remains of a primitive giant, and others claiming it was an ancient statue.
After further inspection, some in the first camp recanted and admitted it probably was an ancient statue--BUT obviously an ancient statue built by a primitive race of giants--most likely to honor some sort of outstanding individual achievement in baby eating or sheep decapitation or something.
In the end it turned out to be a hoax, one of the more famous in America's young history.
Last night for no discernable reason, I confessed to perpetrating the hoax of the Cardiff Giant to an off duty exotic dancer. I think I wanted her to feel that we had formed some sort of trust-bond so she'd sleep with me. Or it simply could have the first thing that popped into my head. Or I actually do believe I perpetrated it. One of those--or none--I don't really remember, I'd had quite a bit to drink.
Needless to say, she didn't believe me. Oh she believed it was a hoax all right, just not mine. She pointed out that would make me roughly a hundred and sixty years old. This was the main flaw the off-duty exotic dancer found in my claim that I had masterminded the hoax of The Cardiff Giant.
I squinted into my beer and mumbled something about time machines. She turned and walked away.
Later that evening I accepted full responsibility for the enactment of South Africa's apartheid laws to a stack of empty beer glasses. They didn't believe me either, so with impassive hands and a disdainful stare I put all the glasses with ridges around their base on one side of the table and all the smooth glasses on the other.
The beer glasses said that didn't prove a thing and brought up the time discrepancy again. So I smashed them all with my forehead and stumbled off to pick a fight with the jukebox.
posted by Latigo Flint @ 12:12 AM
13 comments
13 Comments:
I feel your pain Latigo. You see, I once slaughtered the last remaining Tasmanian Tiger and fashioned its hide into an attractive bolero jacket. But none of my pals believed me. Narelle reckoned she saw the same thing in Esprit for $49.95.
You totally should have copped to Piltdown Man instead. Stippers always go crazy for Piltdown Man hoaxers.
This seems to be a rather well informed exotic dancer with an interest in odd bits of American history...good catch! Or, rather good attempt.
Was she by any chance working her way through college? Many dancers I've had the opportunity to meet have told me they were doing so.
exotic dancers are never off duty.
several men i know up here in portland, squint into their beer and mumble things when others find flaws in their arguments.
perhaps they are your long lost gang of other gunslingers!?
you could all get together on a street corner and reinact scenes from tombstone together . . .
The bigger hoax is my hoax within a hoax. See, there wasn't really a stone statue. There was only A DRAWING of a stone statue, which I personally drew.
Seein's believin', so if you come to my house I'll show you the pencil I used.
I'd be a bit wary of viewing Hoss' pencil if I were you (or even if I were me.)
Trying to segregate the beer mugs, Latigo? I'm sad for you.
Had you wrapped your story inside a double sawbuck and tucked it in the crack of her behind, the dancing girl may have believed you.
Letting Hoss show you his "pencil" is much like letting William Shatner show you what he called "the captain's log."
Handmade bolero jackets are dead-sexy Greta. Narelle just comes off as petty and jealous.
Human skulls and monkey jawbones--lurch, lurch goes the Piltdown Man. (That's how I'm planning to start the conversation Lance. I love your idea!)
We didn't get that far Monkeypotpie. She didn't look like a college student though. She looked like a greasy angel. I loved her, probably still do.
And in this way Ho, they're much like nuns.
That would be mighty fine Tabitha Jane, might fine indeed. Have you their cell phone numbers by any chance? I'd like to cast you as the innocent yet saucy School-marm, if you're willing.
Hoaxes within hoaxes are beautiful things Old Hoss. My hat is off to you.
I'm not afraid of Hoss' pencil Peter. (Try to say that five times fast.) It's his fountain pen that worries me.
I know Cindy-Lou--these are wretched, lonely days.
Helpful tips for next time. Thank you very much Dave.
i could do innocent yet saucey.
Say, I believe you. But let's not make any efforts to meet one another.
Well done. Saucy beer glasses are not to be tolerated at any time.
(I know, because I speak to inanimate objects after a certain blood alcohol percentage as well.)
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