Laugh Tracks in the Dust 7-5-10 |

Laugh Tracks in the Dust 7-5-10

All my stories about home poultry flocks keep prompting readers to recall – and send to me – similar stories about chickens in their lives. Here’s one from “The Electric Chicken” who farms near Cedar Rapids, Neb.

“Electric” has a free-range poultry flock that was ruled by a domineering rooster who filled the air with his cocky crowing all day long.

That rooster’s vocalizations changed considerably the day he tried to duck under an electric fence and touched his comb to the energized wire. 

“Electric” says that rooster wuz frozen in place by the current and couldn’t move, but with every pulse of electricity he let out a loud “Awk!”

“Electric” finally had to kick the rooster free from the hot wire and then, rather than run off to the chickenhouse and “re-coop-erate” – the ungrateful bird attacked his owner.

“Electric” says he put an end to the attack and an end to the rooster by siccing his ever-willing blue heeler on the ungrateful bird. He disappeared from this earth in a cloud of feathers and dust.


I’ve experienced a lot of “losing a good fish” stories during my lifetime of fishing. And I’ve heard a lot of similar “fish stories” from all my buddies. But recently I heard a supposedly-true fish story that tops them all.

My good friend D’Quayle Mann has a wonderful fishing lake on his farm. And, he’s generous about letting folks wet a line in the lake.

Well, recently, some of his kinfolk were fishing the upper end of the lake when one of the guys hooked a very nice largemouth bass and fought it to the bank.

However, when he finally got it on dry land, the fish flopped around on the ground, dislodged the hook from its mouth, and promptly flopped itself into a hole the beavers had excavated on the shore.

The hole wuz deep and there wuz even water in the bottom, but there wuz no way – short of a backhoe – that the unfortunate fisherman wuz ever gonna retrieve his fish. He finally had to give up the effort and leave that big bass to fight the beavers for living rights in the den.


The recent mails brought me a couple of Ole jokes. So, with apologies aforethought to all folks of Scandinavian descent, here’s the first joke.

After Lewis and Clark returned from reaching the Pacific by following the Missouri River through what is now Montana, the government hired two recently-immigrated Norwegian lumberjacks- Ole and Sven – to explore, map out, and give names to various geological features they encountered.

One day Ole and Sven rounded a bend in the Missouri River and saw ahead of them the biggest trees that they’d ever seen on two continents.

Sven says to Ole, “Yust look at how huge deze trees are! Vat should ve name dis place?”

Ole immediately replied, “Let’s name dis area Humongous Timber to honor des old trees.”

Sven replies, “Nope, Ole, ve can’t do dat ’cause ve don’t know how to spell humongous.”

Ole settles the discussion by saying, “Yeah, ve do. It’s B-I-G. Dat’s how Norwegians spell humongous!”

And that, my friends, is the story of how Big Timber, Montana, got its name.


Here’s the second Ole story. Three spinsters hired Ole to build them a fancy new outhouse. In the old tradition, Ole drew up plans for a substantial structure located over a new excavation he’d dug convenient to their home.

Ole diligently went to work building the new outhouse. Every step he took, the three sisters were carefully watching him.

Aware that his work wuz being scrutinized closely, Ole did everything just right and finally, after two long weeks of labor, late on a Friday afternoon, he pronounced proudly that his work wuz finished. He picked up his tools and said he’d return Monday to get paid.

Well, when Ole returned on Monday, he wuz met, not with three smiling faces, but with three severe scowls and silence from the sisters. When he asked what the problem wuz, the most talkative sister said tersely “We ain’t paying, and we ain’t saying!”

So, Ole started going back over his work with a fine-toothed comb. He remeasured. He rechecked his level and plumb-bob. He checked the roof and the door hinges. He could find nothing wrong.

Finally, there wuz but one place left to look. He peered down through the seat into the pit – stuck his head way down. Still couldn’t see anything wrong. But when we pulled his head out to face the disgruntled sisters, his cheek caught on a splinter on the seat and he involuntarily said, “Ouch!”

The spokesperson for the sisters said sharply, “Smarts, doesn’t it?”


Well, I’m in a pinch for more material for this week, so I’ll quit with these words of wisdom about the bathroom from comedian Bob Hope: “I grew up with six brothers. That’s how I learned to dance – waiting for the bathroom.” 

Have a good ‘un.

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