Milo Yield: Laugh Tracks in the Dust 4-9-12
A few weeks ago ol’ Nevah and I had the wonderful privilege of traveling to Parsons, Kan., to help Jud and Ruth celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary.
It wuz held at the Elks Lodge, which wuz filled to overflow capacity by their family and friends from far and wide. After all the fun, food and frolics, Jud and Ruth renewed their wedding vows in front of the whole assemblage. It was a remarkable testimony to their ever-lasting love for one another.
Folks in the cattle industry will remember Jud as a one of the early commercial cattle feeders. He made a name for himself, beef industry wide, by taking on the federal government in the argument over the use of di-ethyl-stilbestrol (DES) as an additive to beef rations to promote cattle gains.
As I recall, the feds actually impounded in a commercial freezer thousands of pounds of hanging beef carcasses, from cattle that were fed in Jud’s feedlot, that they claimed were “adulterated” with DES. Before the episode ended, Jud and his attorney’s proved that the amount of DES in the impounded carcasses amounted to about a thimble-full in an olympic-sized swimming pool.
Jud proved his point and paved the way for others to follow in fighting for their economic well-being.
I remember Jud more for his friendliness and support to me as a budding entrepreneur. Congratulations, Jud and Ruth!
And, from an appreciative Oklahoma reader comes this story: St. Peter looked at the long line outside the Pearly Gates and sighed deeply at the work ahead of him in evaluating those worthy of entrance into Heaven.
So, he announced to the crowd that he was first going to sort them by their intelligence quotient (IQ). Pointing to the first in line, he asked for the man’s IQ number. The guy answered, “190.” St. Peter’s second question was, “What was your occupation?” The guy replied, “I was a rocket scientist.”
St. Pete pointed to the west and said, “Enter. You’ll fit in best in that area of Heaven.”
The second man in line went through the same two questions. His IQ was 120 and his profession was a university professor. St. Pete directed him to different section of Heaven.
The third man in line said his IQ was 55.
Responding to that answer, St. Pete looked up slowly from his list, peeked over the top of his spectacles, and said, “Did you get your chicken house cleaned out before you died?”
As a chicken farmer myself, I appreciated that story a lot.
A big city traveling salesman wuz forced to spend the night at a cheap motel in a little po-dunk town in western Kansas. Much to his chagrin, he discovered that the only place to eat and get a drink was a rundown bar and grill on Main Street.
The salesman entered hoping to find some way to entertain himself and kill a little time. In the dim light, he discovered there was only one other patron in the bar and it wuz a wizened, shriveled guy at the end of the bar.
Hoping to strike up a conversation, the salesman sat down beside the old guy and said, “Mind if I sit down, friend? You don’t look like you’ve got a worry in the world and I’ve found in my travels that I can usually learn a lot from worry-free folks like you.”
The old guy said, “You’ve got that right. I don’t have a worry in the world.”
“What’s the secret of your happiness?” the salesman asked.
“Well, fella’, I chain smoke about four packs of cigarettes a day, drink a couple bottles of vodka a day, eat all the fatty foods and sweets that I can find, and I never exercise,” the old guy replied.
“That’s incredible,” the salesman exclaimed. “And, if you don’t mind telling me, how old are you now?”
The guy replied, “Thirty.”
Two farmers from different communities, Bob and Bill, retired at the same time and both of them and their wives moved into independent-living dwellings in the same retirement village in the county seat.
Soon, they became friends, and every nice day they sat in the shade and spit, whittled and talked. One day Bob said to Bill, “I’ve noticed you always call your wife Angel. Is she really that sweet a lady?”
Bill looked over at Bob and replied, “Nope. I call her Angel because she’s always harping at me about something I should be doing.”
Well, the only thing I’ll harp at you about is reading this column every week. Until next week, remember these words of wisdom: “If you live through being a baby, all danger of being killed by kindness in your lifetime is over.”
Have a good ‘un.
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