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H A R R Y O L I V E R
Keeping this paper small is a big part of its being big.
Education gives you a lot of things to worry about that are completely ignored by the ignorant.
A fool must now and then be right by chance.
Some people are just naturally intelligent and others have whiskers.
A genius is much harder to get along with than just an ordinary fool.
The precious part I play as the Editor of this paper is that even if I can't afford friends . . . . I fine that without money I can have many joyous acquaintances . . . "Thanks stranger . . . make it straight" . . .
AN EDITORIAL OF SORTS
This is a Scrap Book . . . . lots of the stories I reprint are justly credited to their writers . . . many are my very own . . . . others I just claim 'Squatters Rights' to . . . . as over the last twenty years I have used them many more times than their originators . . . . and by feeding them penicillin, stepping-up their tempo, transplanting them to the Desert and throwing out nine-tenths of the words . . . . they have thus become a part of this paper for all time.
An old Western saying,—goes this away . . . . "DON'T USE UP ALL YOU KINDLING TO GET THE FIRE STARTED" . . . . I wish to say I can cut twenty lines down . . . . to a line and a half . . . . and make the fellow that wrote the original story (in twenty lines) . . . . think my line and a half is where he got his idea.
BREVITY IS A REQUIREMENT IN THIS FIVE PAGE PAPER.
The farther you get into the Desert, and away from a lot of people the better these jokes and 'palaver' will seem . . . . (a glass of scamper juice also helps).
Ted Steele found a REALLY rich Texan. This guy has a different dentist for each tooth.
Most cowpokes will tell you that here is a truth.
You night as well learn in the days of your youth;
To be a cowpuncher you'll never learn how
Unless you are purt near as smart as the cow!
New Mexico'sÔS. Omar Barker from his "Songs of the Saddleman."
Like many tourists, Yrrah Revilo, wondered why Mexican peons always ride on burros while their wives walk along behind. Finally he stopped a peasant and asked him the reason. The Mexican, looking very surprised, replied, "But Señor, my wife doesn't own a burro" . . . .
When I take an Indian story . . . . . and turn it to Mexican I turn my name from Harry Oliver around to Yrrah Revilo.
In the past when in doubt I would credit a story to Ben Bean . . . . but I had to kill him off . . . He got so he was writing better stuff than I was . . . you can't trust a nom de plume.
A Fort Worth newspaper printed a personal ad that read, "If John Blank, who deserted his wife and baby twenty-one years ago, will return, said baby will knock hell out of him.
My psychiatrist is on a diet — black coffee and fingernails . . . who is nuts?
From Texas to California
UNUSUAL AS USUAL
This prediction was in Packet 1 of Pouch 1 . . . back in 1946, It was true 10 years ago . . . and I will bet a hundred year subscription . . . to a bottle of Tequila it will be true this year.
I have often said, It's great Texas is two states away from California . . . Then the other day I met a Texan and he was happy, saying as how, half of Texas is as far as three states away from "skinny" California.
In Texas It's Four to an Egg
But that's Texas for you. Yes the Armadillo has four young at a time, they all come from one egg — identical quadruplets.
The name "Mexico" comes from the word "Mexictli" the Aztec word for the native maguey or pulque plant.
What does the name "Texas" mean you ask?
Yes — Texas means "friends," not "COLOSSAL."
The most completely lost day is that on which you have not laughed.
Ever notice how dogs win friends and influence people without reading books about it?
The real curse of drink, says Lim, is having to pay for it.
If you see good in everybody, you may be an optimist. Then again you may be nuts.
Running this paper is as easy as falling off a log onto a needle in a haystack.
A Mexican Roadrunner just came in with this Dispatch
A traveler before boarding his train watched while a comely girl tucked a small dog inside her bosom so she would not have to check the dog in the baggage car.
Later, he noticed her squirming with discomfort in the seat ahead of him. "What's the matter," he asked, "isn't the dog housebroken?"
"That's not it," she answered. "He isn't weaned."
Jake Topper of Douglas, Arizona, says, "If you go to sleep or get sleepy while driving your car—why, for safety, just take you shoes off and you will stay awake.
It's O.K. Be a tender-foot.
Time that you enjoy wasting isn't wasted Earl Wilson 1956 Page 3
ALL'S NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS
From the Editor's book Desert Rough Cuts, A Haywire History of the Borego Desert, (Out of print twenty years) These are the yarns the old keeper of the "Busy Bee" store told.
General Goldbraido was shot in the plaza. His eleven brothers, all with less gold braid and in the Mexican Army, wanted him to have a funeral with as much glitter as his parading military career commanded. I wish you, too, had seen him on the Cinco Mayo, mounted on his calico charger six paces ahead of the shiny brass tubas of Mexico's crack band. Boy, he was born for glitter.
They wired to Frisco for an all-gold coffin. It was to be sent by plane.
Now, I must tell you about someone on the other side of the border whose eyes had grown dim lookin' for glitter — old Dry Wash Smith. Eighty-six years old, gummin' his victuals, spent fifty-four years lookin' for gold and made six fortunes. Asbestos, talc, borax, graphite molybdenum, a vein of copper — everything in fact, but never found the precious shiny metal.
Things seem to time themselves right, down her in Borego and, of course, there's a lot of logic in this pilot's decision too. He takes off at Frisco with the golden overcoat lashed to the landing gear. Down close to the border the radio man hangs out the cabin window and yells back "Hey, this things comin' loose. We got to drop her in the sand so she can be salvaged."
Speakin' about sand, we've got it here in Borego. It's just that Borego somethin' that made 'em pick the same spot to drop it in where old Smith with his dry washer had moved tons and tons of sand tryin' to get a few flakes of glitter out of it.
Bein' deaf he didn't hear the roar of the motor nor the plunk of the coffin as she bounced into his prospect hole.
Staggerin' back he finds this shiny hunk where he'd been a'diggin'. "Gold! Gold at last, and a coffin too!" All I ever wanted was the fun of findin' it and here it is—the last chapter!"
Walkin' over he lifts the lid climbs in crosses his hand over his chest and starts to die. Every wish has been gratified. As he lays there, passin' out of this world he gets to thinkin' how many times he's been fooled when he thought he had gold. So, he gets the idea of givin' her the test. Out he jumps, pours on the acid and darned if she wasn't BRASS!
That was six years ago. Dry Wash is still mighty proud of the shiny rustproof waterin' trough lhe's got for his burros. Sappho, his pet burro is so well trained that she shuts the lid down when the sand's a'blowin.
A Mexican Story From Matt Weinstock's "MY L.A."
Miguel was a grizzled old fellow of sixty-five. He was charged with drunkenness. When he pleaded guilty, the judge asked: "Have you ever been in here before"
"Si, Señor," said Miguel. "Don't you remember, it was two years ago? You asked me in what year Columbus discovered America"
"I remember," said the judge. "You were boracho then too, weren't you? You couldn't answer the question."
"No, I ould not answer then, but —" with the pride that knowledge brings — "today I know 1492!"
The sobriety test was good enough for the judge, who recommended leniency.
I have printed this little gem of Matt's three times . . . . next time I am going to file "Squatters Rights" . . . . and claim it as my own.
Your Editor gives you this happy collection of Mexican yarns that you, like he, will realize how fortunate we are to have a neighbor
with such a fine sense of humor and elegant way of life . . . to our South.
THERE IS AN OLD MEXICAN PROVERB WHICH READS AS FOLLOWS:
"TIME WAS MADE BY GOD, BUT HURRYING IS ONLY THE FUTILITY OF MAN."
This Mexican toast gives some thought to Mañana . . . . .
"SALUD Y PESETAS Y TIEMPO PLARA GASTARLOS."
Health, wealth and the time with which to enjoy them.
English Words in Southwest Spanish
I asked a professor of Spanish how many English words are now in common use n our daily Spanish. His answer was: "Three or four hundred certainly — I could not tell you exactly without knowing how many have geen invented today." . . . Then he quoted this speech: . . . "No parques su carro allí porque se escratchea." . . . "Don't park your car there because it will get scratched" . . . "Park" is not Spanish, and "carro" does not mean automobile, but wagon. And the corruption of SCRATCH is probably the most barbarous hybridization yet recorded!
I have a friend who is recognized as a philosopher and has written a number of books. In his latest effort we find the following:
"A driver on a Mexican stage was asked about the people who live in the villages on the moountainside. He said: "There is a narrow road up the mountain. Some of those people live and die without ever seeing a city. Many of them never read a newspaper.' And then after a thoughtful pause he sighed and concluded: "They are very happy.'"
Want to know how it feels to have a butterfly stomach? . . . Just swallow a Mexican Jumping Bean.
In some parts of Mexico hot springs and cold springs are found side by side. The women often boil their clothes in the hot springs and rinse them in the cold springs. A tourist, who had been watching this procedure, remarked to his Mexican friend, "I guess they think old Mother Nature is pretty generous."
"No, Señor," the other replied. "There is much grumbling because she supplies no soap."
As long as you laugh at your troubles you may be sure that you will never run out of something to laugh at.
I do not ask the public to do anything that I was not willing to do myself—I have read this paper from start to finish — and so did the proof reader. (I hope)
THE HORNY TOAD
The horny toad, ill graced but harmless,
Is thought by some to be quite charmless.
At least he helps eat garden ants up—
And does not try to crawl your pants up.
From S. Omar Barker's new book Songs of the Saddlemen. (New Mexico)
Lower California is the least known portion of the world, even in the U.S., its only land boundary. Yet is is the home of one of the largest copper mines in the world, also the pearls from the bay of La Paz (taken out in the 17th century) are among the Crown Jewels of Spain. (Wonder who is wearing them now.)
Over 3,000 different herbs and plants for therapeutic use were grown in Montezuma's Mexican botanical gardens years before the discovery of America.
One time in Mexico, Carleton Beals had fallen into the habit of buying two oranges from an orange woman near his house. One day, when he was planning to give a party, he undertook to buy her entire stock of four dozen oranges.
Severly she said, "Here are your two," and handed him his usual purchase.
"But this time I want to buy all the rest of them."
"Why," she said, outraged, "you can't. What do you think I would do with all the rest of the day with no oranges to sell!"
—By S. Omar Barker in Brewery Gulch Gazette
The fighting ability of New Mexico's Spanish-American citizens was well proven on Bataan. That they sometimes "practice" a little at Saturday night bailes is also acknowledged. Called out with an ambulance after a little fight in a hill village one night, a state policeman ventured to rebuke participants: "What you guys tryin' to do — kill somebody?"
"Oh, no señor!" protested a knife-slashed paisano gravely. "We was joost playin'!"
Next week the policeman had another knife fight call. He found one victim sitting on the dance hall door step with his throat bleeding from ear to ear.
"So," said the officer sarcastically. "I suppose you were just playin' too, eh?"
The injured man moved his head gingerly to look up at his accuser.
"Oh, no, por Dios!" he protested solemnly. "I theenk Agapito was a leetle mad weeth me!"
"GRINGO" NO LONGER
Americans no longer are "Gringos" in Mexico, not even to the Indians, Octavio Spindola, Mexican Ambassador to Chile, said.
The word "Gringo" never was specifically applied to Americans, but was a term for any foreigner.
Back in the early California Rancho days when the squeak of the Careta (Mexican two wheel cart) got too loud, a man on foot would dash up and pour tallow on the wooden axle.
This was how the gringos came to call the Mexican "Greasers."
From LEE SHIPLEY'S BOOK "It's an Old California Custom"
Hunting Cactus with Your Toes
Along the western deserty coast of Baja California is a place where cactus collectors take off their shoes to hunt for cactus. A small type looks just like the pebbles that cover the ground but sure don't feel like them to tender feet.
Ted Hutchison, Desert Plant Wizard of Greasewood Greenhouses at Lenwood near Barstow says, "You can find about three or four of them to the square foot."
Editor's Note—I knew Ted was a square sort of a fellow, but I did not know he had square feet.
In the Sunshine of the Pecos
From J. Frank Doble's CORONADO'S CHILDREN, by permission
"My grandfather live in Pecos down there to be more than a hundred years old," said José Vaca. "When I was young before he die, I hear him say many things, but I was not careful then to listen. He knew Indians that lived here in this Pecos pueblo and he bought a piece of land from one of them. After he pay for the land, and the Indian was leaving to go far away, the Indian he say: 'You have here now more wealth than is in the world elsewhere.'
"'How? ask my grandfather. 'Show me.'
"Then the Indian take him and a burro to where was some sand in sacks and bring it on the burro, and they get twenty-five dollars worth of gold out of that one load of sand.
"That night the Indian disappear, and the next day my grandfather he go with two burros and load both with the sand. He bring it up, and from it he do not get one thing. Nothing, I tell you. That old Indian is gone, but he has his eyes on the sand. Maybe he was "un brujo" (a wizard). Maybe the sand was "embrujada" (bewitched). I do not know. I know when the Indian is here the sand has gold. I know when the Indian is gone the gold is all gone too."
4 Bunk-House Edition
This page dedicated to the World's Greatest Optimist--the Desert Prospector
DESERT RAT Scrap Book
A Man Afoot Is No Man At All
. . . In New Mexico . . . three or four young punchers rode their horses into a saloon when one of those overdressed Eastern drummers happened to be at the bar partaking of his after-dinner refreshment. Being considerably jostled by one of the horses, he complained bitterly to the bar-tender.
This bar-dog, and old stove-up former cowpuncher, glared at him a minute and came back in characteristic style with, "What the hell y'u doin' in here afoot anyhow?"
The journey of ten thousand miles starts with but a single step.
Your Editor hates holidays . . . NO MAIL . . . also makes me feel very very common when I see nobody ain't working.
If you want to die in bed . . . try smoking.
YUMA WEATHER—It sure is hell when it's this way, and it's this way now.
Forget your troubles; there are more coming.
To find yourself you must lose yourself.
The burro is everywhere in Baja California, and the burro is an animal which has my unqualified admiration and respect.
My association with burros goes back some six or seven years to a time when Louie brought me a pair of very young burros by way of a present. . . .
From the start I became completely fascinated by the characters of the burros. Standing side by side, looking almost alike, except that one was blond and the other a brownish brunette, the burros gave no indication of having any character, any individuality, or any interest in their surroundings. But I was soon to learn that they were distinctive individuals, and that very little happened which escaped their notice.
Within a week they would come when I called them, and for years they had the run of the ranch, romping around like a pair of dogs, following us wherever we went, and on hot days, when we were stretched out in hammocks, they bit the edge of the hammock and started it swinging back and forth, then tried to upset us.
They had the uncanny ability of knowing what was mischief and what wasn't, and rejected everything that wasn't. They dearly loved getting into trouble and then standing with drooping ears, and expression on their faces that said, "Who? Me?" and seeming to be quite dazed by any reproaches that were directed at them.
Afterwards, when I had withdrawn, if I peeked cautiously around a corner of the house, or out of the window, I would see them turn and exchange glances.
There was perfect understanding in those glances, a quiet comprehensive chuckle. . . .
They were uncanny in their knowledge of what they could do that would put a human being at the greatest disadvantage, when they saw fit to do so.
—From "The Land of Shorter Shadows," by Erle Stanley Gardner, copyright 1948 by Erle Stanley Gardner, reprinted by permission of William Morrow and Company, Inc.
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A Texas rancher shot a man dead and telegraphed a slick lawyer in Fort Worth, three hundred miles away, offering a $5000 fee. The attorney wired back, "Leaving for your town on next train, bringing three eye-witnesses" . . .
Arizona Sunsets are beautiful even if they do set in California.
Success is a journey, not a destination.
Sign in a shop window in uranium-happy Utah: "Gone Fission."
"What makes me a Desert sage" some ask.
"Well I just got started sagen' and been sagen' ever since.
If you fold this paper again, long way, it makes it just right for killing cockroaches or vinegaroons.
I've seen too many successful men. I think I would rather be a failure.
Every man has all the common sense he wants, because if he wanted more he'd get more.
To the borrower of this paper—If, as you read these words, you are careful to remember who's paper it is, and make it a habit to read each packet, you can save yourself 50c a year.
I hope some day you may read it right after pay day.
Bennett Cerf told of a parched old desert prospector who in his search for water happened upon a dry stream bed. Desperately he stumbled on and finally came to another, only to find it dry, too. "This," he lamented, "is what I all going from one ex-stream to another."
THE MAIL POUCH
What is a typical Kentucky breakfast?
1 Qt. of Bourbon
1 Lb. Steak
1 Bull Dog
Why the bull dog? To eat the steak.
Who, the Hell wants a steak, when he has a
quart of Bourbon?
A tourist commented, as your Editor blinking and weaving a bit stepped into the bright sunlight from the Chi Chi Cafe. "Your trying too hard to be 'A man of Distinction' I had the laugh on her, I was drinking 'Old Crow.' ANd I wan't trying to fly either.
Sometimes a knock at the door spoils opportunity.
That boy Pat Chancey of Deming, New Mexico, is in a bad way — lost his girl. She was working at the second "Last Chance Saloon," (the first Last Chance Saloon burned down a year ago.)
Chancey one night made up his mind to ask his girl to marry him so he shaved, got all dressed up and went out to the second "Last Chance" to ask her. He had waited too long. The little lady was fed-up with "belated chances." She had circled the town coming in on the North Road, had up and married the keeper of the "First Chance Saloon."
CALICO GHOST TOWN
13 Miles East of Barstow
Calico in the 1880's was the largest silver mining Camp in the southwest. Almost obliterated by time, it is now being restored by Knott's Berry Farm. An ideal outing for the rockhound, and camping groups.
Police Sgt. George Follis of Texas City, Tex., found a skunk with its head caught in a tin can and kindly set it free. The skunk expressed its gratitude as only skunks can. Fellow officers presented Follis—by proxy—a special "Humane Award of the Year" This week he sleeps in the old jail.
PACK RAT ARSONISTS
By MAIDEE NELSON
Your own property is concerned when your neighbor's house is on fire. We, out in the "wide open space," should think to look around over the area in which we live, now and then, to see if our neighbor's property is free of any danger of any destructive force, just as we would like for our neighbor to do for us if we were away.
It was this week we learned of a great loss, an expensive loss to the Quarry family in Sevtion 14-T2N-R6E. Their home was concrete block and they felt near fireproof, yet it burned sometime during the last week of July, a mystery fire as they had nothing outside or in that would ignite either by sun or otherwise. The Forestry investigation could not determine the cause, but felt that lightning may have struck it.
We must not be unmindful of the fact that we have the desert "pack rats" out in the primitive areas and when we invade their domains for so many years and put up our little or big cabins they are going to move in when "all is quiet on the western (or other) front," and having to use matches for our cabins they should never be left open but closed tight in a coffee can or glass jar. They seem to hold a fascination for the pack rats and it is surprising to know the curious places to which they will carry a match: dresser drawers, packed away boxes, back of book shelves, where they have also carried other things, even to peach seeds.
One of the "wide open spaces" is to have a regiment of good cats big enough and brave enough to fight a coyote, and there arre cats of that nature for I have one of my own, twelve years old that roams anywhere over the area and is self supporting.
—Desert Journal, Joshua Tree
Just a dam Texan, rich but not a Cattle-man or an Oil-man . . . . fact he was a fence-post importer, was arrested for driving after having too many drinks—he asked the police judge:
"If five is two less than one too many, how much is enough?"
The Judge admitted that he was stumped by this bit of higher mathematics. The defendant said triumphantly:
"The answer is six." He was acquitted.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime.
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.
Longfellow (not a desert man)
In the last 38 years your editor has walked around this Desert making footprints in the sands—but with the wind we have, they don't last long enough to back-track to the shack.
The man was visiting his psychiatrist—complaining that he was unable to go to sleep, thereby ruining his health.
After much questioning, the psychiatrist advised him that it was possible for a person to "talk" himself to sleep. First prepare for and get into bed. Then, starting with the toes, say, "Toes, go to sleep" — "feet, go to sleep" — "legs, go to sleep" — "hips, go to sleep" — body, go to sleep" — "arms, go to sleep" — and finally, "eyes, go to sleep." By that time, advised the psychiatrist, you'd be completely relaxed and asleep.
That night the man did as advised; he got into bed, and starting with his toes, he said, "toes, go to sleep" — "feet, go to sleep" — "legs, go to sleep" — "hips, go to sleep" — body, go to sleep" — "arms, go to sleep" — "face, go to sleep."
Just as he got to his eyes, his wife came into the bedroom, dressed in a very sheer and revealing nightgown. Violently slapping himself all over, he shouted:
"Everybody wake up! Everybody wake up!"
I wrote this story while in Mexico City as Art Director for he Motion Picture VIVA VILL, (1933). The Editor of the Magazine TODO translated it to Spanish.
Matador José walked each morning along the terraced gardens of Tlaxcala. He would pass around the hill with his right side to the low wall and if he saw a señorita approaching he would put his right foot on the high edge of the path to give a deceptive squareness to his shoulders. When there was no one in sight, he would limp to the other edge and look down on the pulque fields.
One October morning, through a fog, he saw the ghostly shape of a white burro which he had been watching for many days. The burro's movements were slow, uncertain—yes, like his own. Who would recognize in his crippled self the wing-footed matador who hundreds of times had miraculously escaped the mad onslaught of enraged bulls and brought an admiring public to his feet? Did those cheering crowds forget that the spirit of a matador is never broken, that only his body can be destroyed? A peon would know, a peon would tell you the same can be said of a burro.
Making sure that no one saw his awkward efforts, José climbed down to the pulque fields. The fields were flanked by maguey plants whose vicious spikes threatened trespassers. But he had detected a gap in the formidable hedge and through it he approached the burro. The burro did not see him. As José had guessed, he was blind—blind and made to graze in a field edged with stilettos which reached to stab him!
José led the burro toward the opening. Those points on the Maguey were malicious spying eyes. No! They were ten thousand matadors holding at a poor blind beast.
The new doctor told José to use a cane and to walk daily, not much at first. José threw the cane through the window as soon as the doctor left. Now, walking with some of his weight on his blind friend's back, as he does each day, he feels like his old self. He thinks with pride; see how we guide each other! And he is happy. Their doctor predicts a sure sure cure for both of them.
The Mexico City eye specialists will not tell José that his burro's eyes have been well for a month. The wisdom of doctors is profound.
>He must have done more than just translate it—he made them like it in Mexico City.
Imagination without taste is a nightmare of the mind.
Trifles make perfection, and perfection is no trifle
The Mountain Men in the early days of our west, would drive a brass tack into the stock of their gun to keep count, every time they shot a Redskin.
DO YOU THINK
THIS PAPER NUTS?
If you want a bigger dose of this
effervescent Desert Medicine,
just send $3.00 to the
DESERT CRAFTS SHOP
Palm Desert, California
For the Book
AMY &nbs;and MARY
A Whimsical Desert Digest
of Refreshing Nonsense
In the forward of Bennet Cerf's new book of humor, (he says, If you know a good story, publish it from time to time.")
So I am reprinting this yarn of mine from Packet one of pouch one.—Ed.
Nogales, Ariz.—A few months ago old man West died here at Nogales. His two sons, Ted West, and newspaperman, and Bill West, a paper-hanger, each received $250 from the small estate. Bill, the paper-hanger, deposited his in the savings bank, where it stills remains. Ted, the newspaperman, had always had a great yen for tequila in fancy bottles, and expended his heritage in the purchase of a grand array of the fanciest he could find. He has just finished drinking these, and has sold the strange, fantastic, empty bottles to a tourist for $360.
One Texas claim is that it does not have a climate — just weather. The weather was here before Columbus sailed, and it has had a far more powerful affect on the lives of the inhabitants than all the Spanish expeditions, flag flyings and gubernatorial administrations recorded in history books. Also, it has done more than any other one factor to make braggarts out ot Texans. You can tell a Texan who is out of the old rock from the other kind by how and what he brags on. He does not brag on how many million barrels of brains operate in the oil business, or anything like that. He brags on the weather, and for his purposes the worst is the best. HE BRAGS IN REVERSE.
Any road leads to the end of the world.
I remember your name perfectly, but I just can't can't think of your face.
Modesty: The art of encouraging people to find out for themselves how important you are.
A truth that's told with bad intent,
Beats all the lies you can invent.
That which is not worth saying is sung.
Your Editor is the first and only Editor to inject pure Riduculum into his paper.
Your Editor an intellectual illiterate armed with 51 kegs of this stuff I call Ridiculum, also, has Chlorophyll Mine, just in case I use too much.
To be happy is one thing—but to know for sure you are happy is the all important—
(SEND YOUR 50c TODAY AND BE SURE).
Boss, here is the winner
of this quarter, from
"Down in Cochise Country"
by Georg Bideaux.
The old horned toad
Is off his feed,
He dined too long
On a centipede.
First printed in the Brewery Gulch Gazette, Bisbee, Arizona
A RE-PETE by Pete
"The tales you tell,"
His mother said,
"Humiliate and vex us.
You're getting like
Your Uncle Newt
Who used to live
T h e T o w n T o o T o u g h To Die
You can hardly write a lie but what is, or has been, the truth sometime in Tombstone. Tombstone had almost as many tourist in the old days of our west as it now has. The tourist wants lies, I wanted lies and was taken to an eight-year-old champ, to hear of the "Lost Skeleton Canyon Loot" and other lost treasures, of gold, bad men, boot hill, stage robberies and old time killings. He sat in the sun and smiled as I walked toward him. "Hello, old timer," I said. "You've done a good job of growning old, tell me how."
He told me the way to grow old is to pay no attention to it. Some men retire from business at sixty or so, build motels in L.A. and do nothing ever afterward but sit on the front porch and listen to their arteries hardening. That's a bad thing.
I agreed, but wanted some of his famed lies, so as to get him started let go a (come on) "I should think, by the look of things, that nothing ever happens here." "Oh!" he answered, "It's a pretty lively place for its size—why, it's not two weeks since we had an eclipse of the moon."
WHAT'S IN A NAME
YUUMA, Ariz. June 28—(AP)— Jack Outlaw has been appointed state cattle inspector to check brands and stolen stock.
I see only "Handsome Swindlers" on the Wanted cards covering the walls of our little Adobe Post-Office, I don't know if we should credit our new Post Mistress, the F.B.I. or the Republicans.
"Papa, what is a low-brow?"
"A low-brow, my son, is a person who likes funny papers, snappy stories, girl shows, and the like and doesn't mind saying so.
"And what is a high-brow, papa?"
"A high-brow, my son, is a low-brow who won't admit it."
Pity the poor clergyman who bought a used car, and then did not have the vocabulary to run it.
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY: Texas would be smaller than California if it weren't any bigger than Mississippi.
If Adam came back to earth, the only thing he'd recognize would be the jokes.
Trust everybody—but cut the cards.
Some of the people who call me a drunk ain't nothin' outstanding themselves. Harry Oliver
OVER OUR WAY
By GEORGE PHILLIPS
Back in the early days we Hillbillies milked range cows, we had no feed for them just milked them off the range. In the early spring the wild onions were the first green stuff to put out and the cows was just crazy for them. The milk was so horrible we could hardly drink it, nor could we use the butter.
Well, a lady had a brat she couldn't wean. There was to be a party and this lady wanted to attend but she knew she would be embarressed because she know her little brat, after playing awhile, would want to nurse. She had a lady neighbor with the same age brat (about four years old) which she had a hard time to wean, but she succeeded. She was over to this neighbor's house and told her how she managed to wean her brat—just rub her breasts with asafetida and that would break him.
So sure enough when her child got tired playing he crawled up on his mother's lap ready for his meal. His mother shamed him, "shick-shick, everybody will laugh at you." He says, "I don't give a damn, I dog-gone hungry." Well, he took a big swig, spit and says, "damn." Then he tried the other breast and it was worse. He crawled off his mother's lap and said, "pa, give me a chaw of terbaker, damn if ma hain't been eating wild onions."
—The Brewery Gulch Gazette
Says he started out as an unwanted child, but he overcame the handicap. By the time he was 19 he was wanted in 24 states, including Texas.
Gasoline and Oil
Open the Year 'Round
SOUVENIR OF MEXICO Page 5
Two pretty, earnest young school teachers went to Mexico last summer; they avoided all the tourist places, desiring only the real flavor of Mexico. They got it, too. Arriving in a highly flavored little inland city, they set out to explore. Coming to a street mellifluously named the Avenue of the Beautiful Springs and the Waterfall and the Bridge That Is Music in Stone, they turned into it, only to be pounced upon by a policeman and hauled off to the police station. There the captain explained that their offense was trespassing on the red-light district. There was a fine of 300 pesos for any girl caught without a license on the Avenue of the Beautiful Springs and The Waterfall and the Bridge That Is Music in Stone.
The girls protested that they were simply sightseeing and had no idea of muscling in, but the captain said the fine remained. Then he had an inspiration. "The fine is 300 pesos, but the license costs only 25. Why don't you apply for licenses?" he asked. The girls thought this a fine idea. For the Mexican equivalent of $5 each, they received handsomely engraved documents giving them access to the Avenue of the Beautiful Springs, etc.
This little gem has been printed . . . (without by line) in 'The New Yorker' and 'Reader's Digest' once or twice.
Your Editor don't know which he would rather than have sue him . . . . they are both pretty good papers.
Somebody (it might have been me) once said, and I quote, "This paper is the best buy you can make when you are in precisely this spot—and you are sure as hell in precisely this spot right now,"—Yes I remember it was me—with my distributors hat on.
All text was hand-entered (no OCR scans) by Dick Oakes who did the layout, markup and graphics reproduction (all of Harry's misspellings retained). The contents remain the property of Bill Lincoln and his heirs.