Free Beer Giveaway

by Calendar Hacksaw

Howdy, reader. Sit yerself down on that log over yonder and let's have a talk for a spell. We've got issues.

Y'know, I'm into my seventh year of bangin' out this column month-after-month (except one), and the Zanuttos still aren't willing to give me a danged vacation; well-earned or otherwise. They don't seem to realize that while they're out leisurely picking barley, I'm stuck in this sweatbox laboring over a hot computer terminal trying to earn my Fence Post Lifetime Achievement Award. So in order to essentially cheat them out of some time off, I've decided to opt for two guest columnists this month, and I hope you won't mind.

We'll lead off with the talented Zach Hudson, who at this moment is reciting wedding vows with Jenny in faraway England. This column represents the first time the lovely Jenny Hudson has had her new name appear in the American press, presuming she's taking as her own her husband's surname, rather than retaining her maiden name or opting for one of those hyphenated atrocities, either of which would cause all of us to recite in unison, "Well isn't that special? What will the modern woman think of next?"

Zach accepted the invitation to add to my epic piece of cowboy poetry, "Rusty Spike," and has come up with an epilogue truly deserving of First Prize, which consists of two free beers in Twin Oaks, one of which he might share with Jenny, or not. Offer valid through 12/31/02.

* * *

Rusty Spike…continued

Then one sad day a letter came, from the men at Union Pacific.

It was written out by some lawyer folk, and the message was horrific.

In legal-ese it told us how we all was getting sued

For all of them railroad spikes we stole, plus the interest that had accrued.


Ma then turned 'round to Rusty and said, (her old eyes filled with pain)

"If only you'd been a lawyer, son, instead of driving that stupid train.

Now 'cause of your stupid boyhood dreams we's all gonna end up poor.

And I'll have to go back to walking the street just to keep the wolf from the door."


The very next morning Rusty was gone, but the cops found him by lunchtime

At the Union Pacific office with a gun and a bottle of Thunderbird wine.

They gave him ten years. His attorney appealed, but he didn't stand a chance,

'Cause his previous charge of railroad spike theft was an aggravating circumstance.


It turns out his wife divorced poor Rusty as soon as she possibly could.

Now she's trying to put Spike through school (without sellin' no stolen goods).

There's something to be learned from this depressing situation:

American ingenuity don't mean squat to a big ol' corporation.

* * *

Not to be outdone by his only son, or compete with him head-on, Zach's father, Jere, of Ashland, Oregon has seen fit to poke fun at last month's offering, "Haddaduff Yet?," translating the entire matter into the entertaining style of journalist and folklorist Joel Chandler Harris (1848-1906), father of "Brer Rabbit," to wit:

Brer Calendar en de Duff Bucket

"Brer Calendar en wuz like some chilluns w'at I knows un," said Uncle Jere, regarding the little boy, who had come to hear another story, with an affectation of great solemnity. "He wuz allers atter wunner nudder, a prankin' en a pester'n 'roun', en runnin off to he cabin up in de woods, but Brer Calendar did had some peace kaze Sister Betty done got skittish 'bout puttin' de clamps on Brer Calendar. Now she always complain 'bout how he spen he money on that Budwizer beer and wastin time in bars.

"One day, w'en Brer Calendar, en Sister Betty en Brer Coon, en Brer B'ar, en a whole lot un um wuz clearin' up de dawg droppins frum de groun' fer ter mow de grass, de sun 'gun ter git sorter hot, en Brer Calendar he got tired; but he didn't let on, kaze he 'fer'd de Sister Betty'd call 'im lazy, en he keep on totin' off buckets full'a de dawg droppins en pilin' it up, twel fanialy he holler out dat he gotter brier in his han', en den he take'n slip off an hunt fer cool place fer ter res' an ge sumthin cool t'drank. Atter w'ile he come 'crosst a beer-bar saloon wid draft beer to sell.

"'Dat look cool," sez Brer Calendar, sezee, "En cool I speck she is. I'll des 'bout git in dar en drink-me sum," en wid dat he dump sum o de bucket full'a de dawg droppins out by de porch and he put de bucket 'buve the doorway on out o de way en he ain't no sooner order hisse'f a beer, when yer come a Hell's Angel man drive on he big motercycle-machine.

"Wasn't the Calendar scared, Uncle Jere?" asked the Little Boy.

"Honey, dey ain't bin no wusser skeer'd beas' sence de worrl begin dan dish yer same Brer Calendar. He far'ly had a ager. He know whar he cum fum, but he dunner whar he gwine. Dreckly he feel de big man put he hand on his shoulder. Brer Calendar he keep mighty still, kaze he dunner w'at minnit gwineter be de nex'. He des st on dat stool dar en shuck en shiver, twel present'y Mister Hell's Angel say, "You er stuck up, dat's w'at you is," sezee, "En I'm gwine ter whup you, dat's w'at I'm a gwine ter do," sezee.

"'I'm gwine ter larn you how ter talk ter 'spectubble folks ef hit's de las' ack,' wat I do," sez Mister Hell's Angel sezee. "Ef you don't tell me howdy and buy me a whiskey, I'm gwine ter bus' you wide open," sezee.

Mister Hell's Angel draw back wid his fis', and bout to whop Ber Calendar alongside de head.

"Yo'all guine buy me a Whisky?" say he.

"What then, Uncle Jere?" asked the little boy, as the old man paused. "Didn't the Hell's Angel never whop Brer Calendar?"

"He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho's you born."

Now, that Sister Betty allers got one eye on Brer Calendar, en w'en he slip off fum de yard', Sister Bettyy she sneak atter 'im. She know Brer Calendar wuz uppta some projick er nudder, en wen he tuck'n crope off, she seen Brer Calendar come to de bar en stop, en den see 'im go outer sight into de bar. Sister Betty wuz not 'stonished cause she 'spected it.

Sister Betty she crope up en lissen, but she don't year no fuss, en she keep on gittin' nigher, en yit she don't year nuthin'. Fimeby, she git up close and peep into de dark bar, buts she don't see nuthin' en she don't year nuthin'.

All dis time Brer Calendar mighty nigh skeer'd outen his skin, en he fear'd fer ter move. W'ile he sayin' his pra'rs over like a train er kyars runnin', ole Sister Bettyy holler out, "Heyo, Brer Calendar! Who you wizzitin' dar?" sezshee.

"'Who? Me? Oh, I'm des a havin a drink wid my new quantance, Sister Betty," sez Brer Calendar, sezee. Iwants to com home real bad, but fust I gotta have me one drink," sezee.

Well now Sister Betty den seen dat Brer Calendar was in a heap o trubble.

Sister Betty, she wink her eye slow, "Is you got your spechul drinkin glass dar, Brer Calendar?" sez Sister Betty, sezshee. "I des say ter myse'f dat I'd sorter sprize you by bringin your drinkin glass by so you could drink you whiskey" sez Sister Betty, sezshee.

W'en Brer Calendar cogitates on what she be gettin to, he orders a whisky what the barkeeper bring 'em.

When de whiskey come Brer Calendar lookd like he wuz 'astonished. Why dat little ole glass ain't fit for no man to drink outta, and he 'splaines to de big Hell's Angel that he all'ays had a speshul glass what he drank his whisky frum. En den he fotch up his bucket frum 'buve the doorway and, sassy ez a jay-bird, he sez, "I'ze guine buy y'all a REAL drink and let you use my speshal drinkin' glass."

"An' then Brer Calendar he have the barkeeper fill the bucket wid whiskey en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up a b'ilermaker. An den in 'bout half-n'our, honey, bofe un um wuz drunker den two possums hid in a still. De big man he fall over backards, and wop he haid on de groun den wid dat Brer Calendar he skip out des ez lively as a cricket in de embers."

"So Brer Calendar is safe, ceppin' dat eve'y now'n den Brer Calendar, he'd git a spell er de dry heaves."

Calendar Hacksaw leaves his droppins at, and he sincerely thanks Zach and Jere for coming to his rescue this month. In fact, he hopes they'll do it again a year from now, as he's found a dude ranch in Arizona where they'll let him ride a horse, herd cattle, cook over a campfire and sleep on the ground for only $400 a day, per person, double occupancy, and that sounds like too good a deal to pass up.

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