Tuesday, March 28, 2006

In the Jingle Jangle Morning

Hey, Latigo Flint doesn’t like reruns any more than you do. But since this one deals with a shadowy menace that has yet to be rectified, it’s really more of a public service and not the product of a lazy mind.

From the archives -- 8/29/05:


In the Jingle Jangle Morning

Okay, this is important: That sewer grate over yonder on Glenoaks Boulevard routinely eats spurs. It has a great hunger for spurs. If you walk near that sewer grate with spurs on, it will grab your spurs and eat them... and painfully twist knees in the process.

It was imperative that my good neighbors be made aware of this shadowy menace.

An attractive young woman turned the corner.

"Pardon me Ma'am," I touched the brim of my hat and stepped in front of her. "Do you ever wear spurs?"


"Spurs Ma'am, you know: cowboy steel, gut hooks, pony-git-alongs."


"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 cleared it right up by showing her my own, except that wretched sewer grate had recently eaten them. I lifted her chin 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 happened to her in the last thirty seconds. Then a grumpy set crept 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, now you've got it."


The girl had lungs. My serape practically blew straight back behind me. I looked like Linus in a hurricane.

Her question was rhetorical. I didn't answer it.
"Well if you ever do Ma'am, be sure you don't walk near that particular grate--it eats spurs you know... and painfully 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 them both in my face 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 a few times. My senses had been stripped. My hands couldn't feel to grip.

Then I think a hobo peed on me.


At 5:13 AM, Blogger Peter said...

She's a slow learner Latigo, I seem to recall that she reacted the same way last time.

At 5:28 AM, Blogger Noir Muse said...

I like the word "serape". Though I had to look it up, Websters has a nice illustration.

At 7:07 AM, Blogger Francis Marion Tarwater said...

What a classic!

At 2:06 PM, Blogger OldHorsetailSnake said...

You are dead right, Latigo. Some more things DID happen. Didn't you notice that hole in your chest?

At 12:31 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

All I know is that you should never squat with your spurs on...........

At 9:15 AM, Blogger hen said...

You should have forgotten about today until tomorrow. Well... that day.

At 11:28 AM, Blogger Lightning Bug's Butt said...

Ah, damn Latigo. Your left-overs are like spaghetti: just as good if not better the next time.

At 11:08 PM, Blogger ThePaula said...

Latigo darling, this and the roadcone one are tied for first place in my heart of hearts

At 8:32 PM, Blogger Noir Muse said...

I love the roadcone one too! :)

At 12:25 AM, Blogger Latigo Flint said...

But this one was the last time Peter my old friend.

Thank you Noir Muse. Lord how that adds. (And that chap looks rather like me--not that I have to tell you that.)

Thanks Solace Layfield. I don't remember writing it. But that's because I'm unwell, and humble.

The singed black hole where my wasted heart used to be Old Hoss? Nope, didn't notice.

So true Anonymous. And you don't have to be ashamed--I know it too, and all too well.

Thanks for following me Hen--good to know you're there.

Why aren't you and I successful writers yet LBB? Is it for lack of trying? Or have we been born hopelessly out of time and shall only be recognized posthumously?

You have chosen these two, sweet Paula, to stand above all the rest? (Somewhere The Kid savages his face with the rusty trowel of failure as Natches Murphy weeps and begs him to stop.)

Thank you Noir Muse--The Roadcone One came from a pure place.


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