D  e  s  e  r  t     E  x  p  o  s  u  r  e      january 2005

Cool Guy Stuff, Alligator Dentistry, Restroom Hazing &

Other Signs of the Impending End of Western Civilization

Plus investment advice, large and small,

and lingerie lines to avoid.

 

Belly-laughing up to the bar. . . Responding to our call for bar stories, CharlesC sends along one of his favorites:

     A fellow came into a bar three sheets to the wind and requested a bottle of whiskey. The bartender replied that it looked liked he already had drunk a bottle. The fellow stated that he was sober as a judge. As the bartender already was acquainted with several judges, this ignited his devilish side. So he told the fellow that he'd give him a free bottle if he could perform three tasks.
    "No problem," was the reply.
     The bartender pointed to a surly, large man sitting in a booth and said, "I want you to throw that man out of here and keep him out." He then pointed to a door at the back of the room and instructed the man to extract a sore tooth from his pet alligator in the back room. Finally, he pointed to a lovely redhead sitting at the bar. She was a state health inspector and had become a real nuisance, so the bartender wanted the fellow to make her romantically satisfied enough to stay away from his bar.
    "No problem," was the reply.
    The fellow walked over to the booth, grabbed the big surly man by the neck, dragged him to the front door, and threw him out in the street in front of a bus. He then walked to the back door, opened it and went in the backroom. There was a lot of growling, cursing, cries of pain and then the door opened. The fellow came out looking like a disaster area, all cut up, clothes torn and obviously very tired.
    He then asked, "Now, where's the lady with the sore tooth?'"

Your own favorite bar jokes--and just plain favorite jokes, for that matter--are invited at Desert Diary, PO Box 191, Silver City, NM 88062, fax 534-4134 or email diary@desertexposure.com.

Losing the battle of the sexes. . . Wading once more into the gender wars, Writer Bill passes along this list of "Cool Things About Being A Guy." You may send your complaints and hate mail to him in care of Desert Diary, as soon as we train our cats to sniff bombs:

• Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat.
• You know stuff about tanks.
• A five-day vacation requires only one suitcase.
• Monday Night Football.
• You don't have to monitor your friends' sex lives.
• You can open all of your own jars.
• Old friends don't care whether you've lost or gained weight.
• Dry cleaners and haircutters don't rob you blind.
• When clicking through the channels, you don't have to stall at every shot of somebody crying.
• Your butt is never a factor in a job interview.
• A beer gut does not make you invisible to the opposite sex.
• Movie nudity is virtually always female.
• Guys in hockey masks don't attack you--unless you're playing hockey.
• You can leave the hotel bed unmade.
• You can kill your own food.
• The garage is all yours.
• You get extra credit for the slightest act of thoughtfulness.
• Wedding plans take care of themselves.
• If someone forgets to invite you to something, he or she can still be your friend.
• Your underwear is $10 for a three-pack.
• The National College Cheerleading Championship
• None of your coworkers has the power to make you cry.
• You don't have to shave below your neck.
• If you're 30 and single, nobody even notices.
• You can write your name in the snow.
• You can get into a nontrivial pissing contest.
• Everything on your face gets to stay its original color.
• Chocolate is just another snack.
• You can be president.
• You can quietly enjoy a car ride from the passenger's seat.
• Flowers fix everything.
• You never have to worry about other people's feelings.
• You can wear a white shirt to a water park.
• Three pairs of shoes are more than enough.
• Michael Bolton doesn't live in your universe.
• Nobody stops telling a good dirty joke when you walk into a room.
• You can whip your shirt off on a hot day.
• You don't have to clean your apartment because the meter reader's coming by.
• Car mechanics tell you the truth.
• You don't give a rat's butt if anyone notices your new haircut.
• You can quietly watch a game with your buddy for hours without ever thinking, 'He must be mad at me.'
• You never misconstrue innocuous statements to mean your lover's about to leave you.
• Hot wax never comes near your pubic area.
• One mood, all the time.
• You can admire Clint Eastwood without starving yourself to look like him.
• You never have to drive on to another gas station because 'this one's just too gross.'
• You know at least 10 ways to open a beer bottle.
• You can sit with your knees apart no matter what you're wearing.
• Same work, more pay!
• Gray hair and wrinkles only add character.
• Wedding dress: $2,000; tuxedo rental: $75.
• You don't mooch off of others' desserts.
• The remote control is yours and yours alone.
• People never glance at your chest when you're talking to them.
• You can drop by to see a friend without having to bring a little gift.
• Bachelor parties whomp ass over bridal showers.
• You needn't pretend you're 'freshening up' to go to the bathroom.
• If you don't call your buddy when you say you will, he won't tell your other friends you've changed.
• You can rationalize any behavior with the handy phrase, 'Screw it.'
• If another guy shows up at the party in the same outfit, you just might become lifelong buddies.
• If something mechanical doesn't work, you can bash it with a hammer or throw it across the room.
• New shoes don't blister, cut and mangle your feet.
• You don't have to remember everyone's birthdays and anniversaries.
• Your pals can be trusted never to trap you with: 'So--notice anything different?'
• There's always a game on somewhere.

From the other side of the gender divide comes this meditation from Aironot about the difference between men and women:

"He thinks: A husband walks into a fancy lingerie shop to purchase some sheer lingerie for his wife. He is shown several possibilities that range from $200 to $500; the more sheer, the higher the price. He opts for the most sheer item, pays the $500, and takes the lingerie home. He gives the lingerie to his wife, asks her to go upstairs, put it on and model it for him.
"Upstairs, she thinks, 'I have an idea. It is so sheer it might as well be nothing, so I just won't put it on. I'll do the modeling naked, return the lingerie tomorrow, get the $500 refund and keep it for myself.'
"She appears on the balcony and strikes a naked pose.
"'Good lord!' the husband shouts. 'You would think that for $500, they would at least iron it.'
"He never heard the shot. Funeral is pending."

School of hard knocks. . . Frequent storyteller BD returns with this recollection from the halls of lower education:

"There are some stories that I get a kick out of telling but some need a bit of re-working and polishing, if you know what I mean. So, here goes.
"Once upon a time, there was a school in West Texas called Flomot High. Now, in this school there were great wise men and women called teachers and therein resided younger people called students. The more mature of these students were referred to as 'seniors' or sometimes as 'upperclassmen.' The next rung down on the ladder were referred to as 'juniors' and then next were 'sophomores' and the lowest, next to a dead skunk, was a 'freshman.' This followed the Indian caste system with the freshmen being the unwashed, the untouchables.
"Having endured the eternity of a year as a freshman and being still alive, I felt blessed by the Good Lord, having survived the hazing and good-natured backside kicking by the upperclassmen. I'm sure they were good-natured as they all laughed and had a great time and I never remember, even once, any of them hurting their foot or breaking any of those needle-nosed boots. What great fun!
"One day, while hanging out at the boys' restroom, I was privileged to see an incident that warmed the cockles of my heart. At this time I was a sophomore and wasn't due any more hazing. A freshman was doing penance to one of the porcelain gods mounted on the wall when there entered an upperclassman. This good ol' boy thought it to be a grand idea if the freshman had a wet back, which he dashed over to do. Now, did you ever notice how it's a requirement for the floor in a boys' restroom to be wet, especially near the drain from where the upperclassman launched himself at the freshman? Those needle-nose boots didn't get much traction on slick concrete and, as my dear ol' dad used to say, he drew his picture right there in that wet floor. I'm sure that hurt, landing flat on his back that way. But to show that he had a cavalier attitude about it all, the upperclassman added more liquid to that already wet floor, looking something like one of those fountains you see in books about Rome. I was impressed and quite amused with this whole event and wondered how anyone could ever top it. Everyone there seemed to enjoy this display of acrobatics and for those not there, shoot, I really enjoyed telling each and every one of 'em."

Send your own reminiscences about school days, dear old golden rule days to Desert Diary, PO Box 191, Silver City, NM 88062, fax 534-4134 or email diary@desertexposure.com.

The joke's on us. . . Continuing a string of favorite funnies about the old farmer who married a 21-year-old bride, Bert of the Burros relates:

     "After a few weeks of marriage, the farmer visited town and ran across his doctor, who asked how the marriage was going.
     "'All right, I guess,' the farmer said, 'but I am having a little problem in the romance area.'
     "'I don't wonder,' said the doctor, 'at your age, but I can help you.' The farmer went to the doctor's office, and the doctor gave him some pills.      'These will help,' the doctor told him, 'but they are very powerful. Take only one a day, no more.'
     "A few weeks later, the farmer returned to town and met with the doctor, who asked him how things were going. 'OK, I guess,' said the farmer. 'Did the pills help?' asked the doctor. 'Don't know,' the farmer replied. 'I went to the well to get water for my pill, and accidentally dropped the whole bottle down the well.'
     "The doctor gasped. 'Don't let anyone drink from that well for a while,' he urged.
     "'Don't worry about that,' said the farmer. 'We can't get the pump handle down!'"

The good old daze. . . On a completely different note, thank goodness, JackB shares this saga of days gone by, about "The Pickle Jar":

     "The pickle jar, as far back as I can remember, sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar. As a small boy I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled. I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window.
     "When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank. Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck. Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully: 'Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back.'
      "Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly: 'These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me.' We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice-cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice-cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm: 'When we get home, we'll start filling the jar again.' He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. 'You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,' he said. 'But you'll get there. I'll see to that.'
      "The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed. A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. My dad was a man of few words, and never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done.
      "When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me. No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar. To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a way out for me. 'When you finish college, son,' he told me, his eyes glistening, 'you'll never have to eat beans again--unless you want to.'
      "The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mama and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms. 'She probably needs to be changed,' she said, carrying the baby into my parents' bedroom to diaper her.
      "When Susan came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes. She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room. 'Look,' she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could speak.
     "Sometimes we are so busy adding up our troubles that we forget to count our blessings."

Playing the market. . . Finally, putting paid to what has admittedly been an unusually below-the-belt-focused edition, Desert Diary offers this bit of investment advice for the new year, courtesy of Doctor Diane:

     "Normally I avoid discussing any advice regarding buying or selling of stock, but I felt this is important enough to share and warn you, since this explosive situation might prove to be yet another Enron.
     "Please review any holdings you might have in the following stocks:
     "* American Can
     "* Interstate Water
     "* National Gas Company
     "* Northern Tissue Company
     "I advise you to sit tight on your American Can, hold your Water and let go of your Gas. You may be interested to know that Northern Tissue touched a new bottom today and millions were wiped clean!
     "It's a tough market out there--be careful!"

Only you can get Desert Diary's mind out of the gutter, by sending your own submissions to PO Box 191, Silver City, NM 88062, fax 534-4134 or email diary@desertexposure.com. Each month we'll reward the best correspondent--such as last issue's Susan of the Southwest--with some collectible Desert Exposure gear such as the goodies shown here.