Story Time

Gatorbait25

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Roughly five years ago my parents hosted a Kentucky derby party for friends and neighbors to attend. I can't recall
the exact year, but I do recall a horse named I'll have another was in the race. The name stuck with me because i had
much to drink on this derby day. It was a lovely spring afternoon. Upon arriving at my parents home I ventured out
to the back deck to grab a brew with my father. He was with several friends and neighbors, some of which played on
his tennis team. One of them is a short, pudgy balding man named Vic. The man moved surprisingly well on the tennis
court for a man at his weight. No doubt taking his opponents by surprised at the volleys he was able to win. As I mentioned
Vic is a short man, Think a Jewish version of George Costanza.


Anyway old Vic had a habit of telling Jew jokes frequently. Most of them were lame, but he's one of those guys that
laughs hysterically at his own lame jokes. After Vic has a robust laugh at what seemed like dozens of lame jew jokes,
my father interjected. ''Ya know something Vic, I've had it with your jew jokes. My grandfather died at Auschwitz and i'm
getting fed up with it'' he told Vic. ''Oh my god, I had no idea. I'm so sorry please forgive me'' Vic would
go on to say. You could tell from the look on Vic's face he felt beyond remorseful, even embarrassed. ''I had no idea you were
even Jewish'' Vic adds a moment later. ''


''I'm not Jewish'' My father replied . A serious look on his face throughout the ordeal. ''But wait a second,
You just said your grandfather died at Auschwitz'' Vic said with a somber tone. '' That's right. Ya know Vic
it's the damnedest thing. He was minding his own business and slipped. Fell right off a perfectly stable guard
tower '' My father says, keeping the straight face the entire time. The entire back deck erupts in laughter.
''You son of a....'' A clearly irritated Vic would go on to say. The rest of us laughing our asses off. I've seen
Vic a few times since at derby parties, but that moment but an end to the jew jokes from the short,pudgy
bald man.
 

Okeechobee Joe

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I heard this story once. It concerns a cousin who moved out to Ardmore, Oklahoma. The story goes that some of his family back in Tennessee traveled by car one summer out to Oklahoma to see him and see how he was doing. It was a long trip and one of the passengers in the car was bored with the scenery as they approached the outskirts of Ardmore. As they reached the outer edges of the town he began to read aloud from the billboards on the side of the highway. Now this particular man was a staunch member of the Methodist Church and you would never hear a curse word or a vulgarity come out of his mouth.

He began reading off the signs as the car passed them. "First National Bank of Ardmore For All Your Banking Needs." "Shop At Miller's Grocery Where You Are More Than Just A Customer." The next sign was a billboard put up by the Ardmore Asphalt Company. The sign reader read the sign with his distinct Tennessee accent: "Welcome To Ardmore From Your Friends At The Ardmore Assphelt Company. Come To Ardmore To Get Your Assphelt.'' He never missed a beat and went right on with his reading of the next billboard. The rest of the passengers were about to die with splitting sides and trying to hold their laughter in until they could exit the car at their final destination. Then they let loose.
 
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Gatorbait25

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Okay, I've got one. Fair warning, it is long.

First, you need to understand that I grew up as rural as rural gets. When I say I grew up in the woods, I mean that I was part of an enclave consisting of a handful of homes literally surrounded by national forest with only two dirt roads out. We never really had any kind of pest problem because snakes and birds of prey (and a barnyard cat or two, batting cleanup) typically took care of it sight unseen, with the only the occasional owl pellet in science class as a reminder that there were even rodents in Florida.

After college I got my first "real" job in Dothan, AL and found my first house a bit north of there. It was a nice little raised foundation home on a packed clay road bordered by peanut fields to the north as far as you could see. This view was only interrupted by the trees forming the windbreaks in the distance. The house itself had nice high ceilings, a porch that wrapped around the front and side and another smaller covered porch- only big enough for a couple of chairs - out the back door towards the fields. It is this smaller porch that will feature prominently in our story. South of the house there was a small grove of large mature pecan trees. There were a couple of these trees in the yard as well. The house sat on roughly 2 acres and we had a neighbor whose property adjoined ours, but other than that we had this entire area to ourselves. It was a quiet place to raise some kids. Early on the only issues were that our neighbors were Jehovah's Witnesses that occasionally burned trashed. Each of those facts is separately and tangentially related to stories for another time.

So here I am, in my first real home with a young wife, a good job, in a beautiful spot with the early days of fall ending in cool dark nights. It was a veritable paradise on Earth - and that is when I met my first mouse.

He was a shifty-looking, furry fellow with beady black eyes and small frame all of about three inches. The annunciation of his arrival was a cacophonous symphony which commenced with a primal scream and quickly crescendoed into hastily composed prayers of imprecation and the metallic pinging of hurtling flatware and concluded with headlong exodus of my bride from the kitchen into the living room. It was here that she lept up onto our newly purchased Rooms to Go ottoman and began to pump her legs with a fury that would have shamed Richard Simmons while screaming "there's a rat in the kitchen!!" repeatedly like it was some kind of incantation in a pagan exorcism ritual.

Now, as I previously mentioned I had never tangled with a mouse before, but I had dispatched more than my share of armadillos and raccoons who were intent on digging up gardens and rummaging in trash respectively. How hard could it be to get rid of a mouse? Brimming with confidence and the swagger of John Wayne I strode towards the kitchen, looking back over my shoulder, giving her a wink while letting my mind wander to the rock star reception I was sure awaited me for removing the interloping rodent.

I came face to face with my foe in the kitchen. He was brazenly gnawing on a piece of corn that had been intended for a side dish at dinner that night. We locked eyes and he twitched his whiskers, no doubt considering what my next move would be. I realized that in my haste I was unarmed and had no way to mete out the mousey justice needed, so I scanned the room and selected the no stick frying pan that had been a wedding gift. Silently as death, I slide my hand around the handle and began to roll heel toe slowly towards the rodent. He made no attempt to retreat. Once within reach I slowly raised the pan over my head and then brought it swiftly down for the killing blow.

With lightning quickness the lesser mammal darted out of the path of the killshot. The next moments were a flurry of activity. Bellowing in rage and bloodlust, I launched several enormous T-Fal haymakers in his direction – each with no effect other than successive dents on the floor and cabinets. Apparently believing I would eventually get lucky, he decided a tactical withdraw was in order and deftly passed through a barely perceivable crack under the baseboard. The wife was less than impressed.

Growing up I learned from my father that the two most important items in any home maintenance arsenal are a hammer and caulk. While on this occasion the latter seemed like the appropriate remedy I quieted my inner frustration by promising it that I would exact vengeance with the former if possible. The confidence I feigned in my repair did not inspire the same in the lady of the house. The next night proved she was correct.

My nemesis was back the second night, this time bringing a friend. Perhaps the promise was “dinner and show” or whatever the rodent equivalent might be. The irritation in Mrs Five-Star was evident. Words were used like “overrun” “diseased” “vermin” and “plague” that left little doubt the stakes in the war were rapidly escalating. At first I suggested poison. This idea was quickly shot down because she had read in a magazine that it was dangerous to expose pregnant women or women who expected to be pregnant to rat poisoning. Earth shattering research there. There was a wife veto; poison would be a no-go. So I went to see Charlie, a friend from church who owned the local hardware store.

Charlie was as Alabama as it gets. He was nearly as wide as he was tall and the alternating tan lines on his face from his nearly-ever present ball cap and Dale Earnhardt-esk sun glasses gave his rounded head an appearance that always vaguely reminded me of an ABA basketball. He was “good people” as my grandmother used to say and was only too happy to help me end the War of the Rodents. He sold me several spring traps at a fair price and recommended peanut butter as bait. It’s hard to quantify the dark satisfaction that crept over me as I bounced down the washboard clay. I set the traps and went to bed with smug certainty.

The next morning I woke up with devilish excitement of a grim Christmas. My wife got out the bedroom door first in the predawn dark and I heard a gasp right after the sound of the kitchen light switch clicking. Bingo. I strutted out of the bedroom, through the dining room and into the kitchen to perform the battle damage assessment. Only one of the traps was sprung but had done its work masterfully. The bar had come down on the invader’s head and ejected his cranial contents through his ear at high velocity onto the nearby wall. Confirmed kill.

My turn towards my wife was smart and I had nearly begun to raise my hand for a high five, when her eyes met mine and they were filled with tears. Now is a good time to note that Mrs. Five-Star’s upbringing was somewhat more refined than mine and distinctly not rural. The death of varmints was as alien to her as cucumber sandwiches were to me. There had already been an empathic explanation that a back porch was not the place to mount a board to nail catfish to for the purpose of easy cleaning. My defense of “I used a wash tub underneath” had done nothing to allay her angst about that matter; and it was now apparent that a grave miscalculation had occurred in this one as well.

Her remorse was puzzling to say the least because just a couple of days prior she had attempted assassination personally by way of high velocity butter knife. Nevertheless, I loved this woman and did the best to comfort her despite my own confusion. I removed the carcass and cleaned the wall and decided to try to achieve a new consensus on a plan of action. Her request was for something more humane. No matter how hard I tried to express that the mouse probably didn’t feel anything, she wasn’t having it. She wanted something more humane; maybe a way to catch them and let them go far out in the field. So I went back to Charlie.

Here is where the story takes its tragic turn; as I was rather imprecise in my specifications to Charlie about the fault in the methodology of elimination. I simply told him my wife didn’t like the traps and wanted to catch them rather than squash them. Charlie’s response of “all I have are glue traps” at the time sounded like response to earnest prayers. It was perfect. A sticky trap that catches the mouse which I can then spirit off according to the wishes of the Mrs and release so he can be free. I baited the glue traps with peanut butter and sat down with the Mrs to watch a movie before bed. The frantic squeaking started just as she was starting to dose off next to me.

When we went into the kitchen, there, in the dead center of the trap was a mouse stuck in the glue squealing loudly. The Mrs beemed. “Okay, now let him go,” she said. I walked over and picked up the trap and immediately realized this had gone horribly wrong. Now as those of you who have been chortling since the last paragraph know, glue traps are about as far from catch and release as it gets. What greeted me was a terrified creature hopeless stuck in glue that had instantly bonded with its fur. It got even more scared when I got close and began to struggle. I did my best to try to turn my body to shield the lady from the scene but she was peeking around my shoulder when it its struggle it pulled its own ear off. It went downhill from there. She began to sob. “Help it, help it!” she was instantly shrieking. This off course did nothing to calm the rodent’s demeanor. “Use a butter knife!” she yelled, with no further direction. (I would come to realize later that for those of the fairer sex with a refined upbringing a butter knife is the tool of choice much like a hammer is to a man from the sticks. This was why it was her go to offensive weapon in the earlier encounter. ) I tried to follow this instruction by attempting to use it as a lever to free the doomed mouse. The results were what you might expect. Realizing that the only realistic option was to end the animal’s suffering and also realizing that if I did this in front of my wife she would probably never speak to me again I told a white lie. “I’m going to go outside to help it calm down,” I said, “when it isn’t struggling I’ll be able to get it out and let it go.” I promised myself I would tell her the truth later – but right now it would be unhelpful. So I kissed her on the forehead, turned on the porch light and headed out the back door.

The night was moonless and overcast. To those of you who have never lived in a rural setting it was a night my dad would describe as “darker than a miner’s *******.” Pitch black. The brightest light for miles was the little glowing orb of light coming from my back porch and it barely head the dark back. I picked up a brick that I used to prop the door open in nice weather and resolved to walk far enough into the black where there was no chance she would see what needed to be done. The mouse’s cries had become soft whimpers and I was attempting to make good speed across the yard to put it down quickly.

I was just getting to where the porch light was barely a pinprick and I was certain she couldn’t possible see when the mouse started going nuts. WHOOSH. Something in my hair. My brain reeled. WHOOSH something huge right by my neck. Here in the dark – I was under attack by something unseen and massive. Blind panic. Deep down in my lizard brain the message for my feet to run was engaged with my brain still in neutral. “Open the door!” I yelled “Something is after me!” I barreled as across the yard – mouse screaming and the huge unseen thing grasping at me over and over. In a full panic mode I got up the steps and grasped for the door. LOCKED. Cold dread washed over me. That’s when it appeared out of the darkness, coming into the orb of light underneath the roof of the back porch. Claws. At least that is what I saw. Huge, claws. Open and pointy.

I know it is a movie trope that everything goes to slow motion, but I swear that even though it was over in seconds the rest of this at the time seemed to stretch out forever. Into the light behind those massive talons roared in an enormous hawk. To this day I’m not sure who was more surprised to see who, but the result was the same for both parties. The next few second degenerated to a knife fight in a phone booth. This bird (although my brain at the time hadn’t registered it as such) despite his best “oh ****” effort to stop hit me square in the solar plexus, sending me back hard into the door. Instinctively I began wildly flailing with both the brick hand and the mouse hand at this as yet unidentified threat. The bird for his part bounced off of me and tried to fly up and away, but in his own panic hit the ceiling with a thud and sputtering to the floor in a rain of feathers. As he did he let out a loud screech that did little to calm the situation. Likewise in the midst of my flailing the brick hand shattered the light plunging both parties into to confused and panicked darkness. I tried to back away still flailing and hit the guardrail so hard it partially gave way and sent me heels over ass off the side of the porch. I landed on the mouse (thankfully sunny side down) and had the front of my head collide with the corner of the brick I was holding. With the wind knocked out of me and my bell rung I had no choice but to lay there and allow my thoughts to final collect.

Once I had finally pieced together what had happened I noticed that there was not a small amount of blood coming out of a scalp wound. I picked myself up wincing – but fortunately other than some bruises and that cut I was no worse for wear. Gathering the shards of my dignity I walked up the back steps and calmly knocked on the door. “Honey, please let me in – I’m hurt.” No answer. “Hey, I’ve got a nasty cut and you’ve locked the door – can you open the door?” No answer. I walked around to the front porch and knocked. Still no answer. Finally I walk to the bedroom window. “Please open up, I’m cut up and tired.” Finally the blinds crack and flash light shines in my eyes. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?” she says. I just stared at her in stunned silence for a moment. The flashlight goes out and I hear the front door unlocked. I walk in and she is standing there holding the bat I kept by the bedroom door in those days. “Why did you lock me out, I was calling for help?” Fair question. “You said something was after you and I was scared so I locked the door and hid.” Love you too babe, love you too…

This is a truly fantastic story.
 

TLB

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I have quite a few about me and the wife, we have what we consider a 'special' life in what has occurred to us over the years. I'll try to drop a few here.

How we met

In college at UF, I'm in grad school and teaching CAD classes for the mechanical engineers. Ended up getting pretty friendly with a couple of the guys to where I was out getting hammered twice a week at the bars running specials. One of them asks if I can go with him to the Porpoise one night, and I'm like "sure!". It isn't until we've been there about a half hour that he tells me he is trying to meet a girl from work he is trying to hook up with, and she just walked in with a friend. I was dating someone at the time, which gives a bit more freedom for me to act as a wingman without concern of being shot down. I take my job seriously, and distract her friend the entire time. It helps that she is a big boobed blond, just my type. The evening ends, my guy gets nowhere, we move on.

Over the next two weeks, he keeps telling me the blond was into me so I continue the wingman role for a few double dates. One was at Ashley's Pub, where my friend and I (both raised Roman Catholic) are teaching the girls about the Old Testament, which is their Torah (both girls are Jewish). Seems we know more about their religion than they do. Discussing religion, and appearing smarter, are not keys to a successful double date. My guys strikes out again. However, I keep being told the blond digs me, so I take her to the beach one day. We drive to Crescent, get out on the beach, and there is hardly anyone there - I've never seen it so deserted. We hope out, take off the outer clothing to get down to bathing suits, and she's in a bikini. This big boob blond has an incredible body and no hesitation in showing it off to me. I'm really digging this...for about 40min...until the storms roll in (now you know why nobody was there, and the fact that I don't check weather reports). We hope back in the car, drive home, and I go to drop her off. I've been an exemplary gentleman the entire two weeks and having concluded what I considered the third date, I felt it was appropriate to get a kiss goodbye.

This has forever been referred to as "Muscle Lips". Never, have I ever, tried to kiss someone who's mouth was tighter than .. well, pretty tight.. Her lips were clenched tight enough to have been super glued. I was only going for a mutual peck, but damn, this was as 'NO' as you can get without saying it, I doubt she could say anything thru those lips. We went out a time or two more, made out once, but by the end of those two weeks, I knew she was the one. Muscle lips and all.

Unfortunately, I had personal matters to attend to across the country, and left at the end of the two weeks. When I returned, she had moved to Virginia for grad school. And thus started the two years stint of driving long distance, exploring the southeast, and trying to convince her to be just more than friends.
 

bradgator2

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So my extended family are a bunch of good ol country boys. Since I can remember, they have applied for and received their tags to go on an alligator hunt. Every year, I declined. After always hearing their hilarious stories, I finally agreed. This had to have been 2007 or 2008.

If I remember correctly, there are several things you have to do legally kill an alligator:
1) it has to be from dusk to dawn
2) you have to hook it with a treble hook
3) you have to spear it
4) then you can basically shoot it in the head with a bang stick

So we set off early that evening to Lake Sampson just west of Starke. My first horror was the realization that we were setting out in a little aluminum john boat barely big enough to carry 4 people. This thing had to be at weight capacity. But we set off at dusk and instantly see a gator.

This treble hook thing is stupid. Just a tiny 4 pronged hook on the end of a little rope. They toss it over the gator, it snags, he instantly sinks. They pull this little piece of crap boat over so it is sitting directly above him. "Now what?" "We sit and wait." And drink a few beers. They say it can take an hour for him to surface.

Since it is my first (and only) time doing this, they want me to spear it. For the next hour, they tell me story after story of how nobody has ever speared a gator on their 1st try. Everyone always underestimates how difficult it is to penetrate their hide. "It's like trying to jab that spear through the driveway." After about an hour, some bubbles start to rise from under the boat. It's go time.

So I stand up in this piece crap wobbly boat, spear in hand. They are pumping me up. Just like football players before they run through the tunnel. Heart is racing. Adrenaline is pumping at maximum output. These guys are ruthless I think to myself. There is noway I want to mess this up. It's like a Lord of the Flies scene. They tell me the instant he breaks the water, spear him. So boom, I see him break the water. I put ever single ounce of my 150 pound frame, and every amount of leverage and momentum I can muster into this motion.

And 100% miss.

It all happened so fast. Obviously, with that kind of motion, I went directly overboard. I was instantly yanked out of the water and thrown onto the boat. Those 3 dudes were laughing so hard they couldnt breath. I am sitting there, eyes like saucers, wandering if I was in heaven or hell. Everybody calmed down after a few minutes and we all realized my hair was 100% dry. Yes, I fell into a lake, basically head first, and yet my head never entered the water.

Over ten years later, their lips curl in an evil smile whenever they see me.
 

Gator by the Sea

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Ok, I've got a short one, but a good one. After 19 years of coaching and teaching PE, this is still the funniest thing I've ever seen another teacher do.

Several years ago, one of my fellow coaches had an unruly class that as the year went on really tested his patience. One day, while he was trying to give instructions to the class, and they continued to talk, he had finally had enough. So he stops mid-sentence, pauses a moment, and loudly announces to the class "If you see someone talking, please give them the finger!" While everyone stopped to process what he had just said, and a collective thought of "did he really just say what I think he said?" went around the class, the coach slowly brings his index finger to his lips and gives the universal sign for "shh". I about lost it that day, and still laugh today thinking about his version of "the finger."
 

ChiefGator

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This is a short story about a child in a grocery store in say 1962. Child sees a water fountain with a "Coloreds Only" sign on it. He wonders why he can't get a drink from that fountain. Child is say 10.
 

Okeechobee Joe

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I had a friend that told me this true story. He was visiting his aunt and uncle in Dallas, Texas. It was a November 22nd the anniversary of the assassination of JFK. My friend had never been to Dallas before so his aunt and uncle were giving him a tour of some of the sights of Dallas. They drove by Dealey Plaza where the infamous Texas Book Depository Building is located. As they drove by my friend's uncle pointed up at the sixth floor of the Book Depository Building and said "now that's the window where Oswald fired the fatal shots". Just as he said those words there was a loud "BAM" that hit the car's front windshield. Someone had thrown a melon or some such object and hit the windshield. The windshield was not broken but it was splattered with the contents of the melon. There were screams and shrieks from the passengers. The uncle who was the driver of the vehicle floor boarded it and sped off in the direction of Parkland Memorial Hospital which was next on the itinerary. They didn't have the presence of mind to look to see if someone was standing on the grassy knoll.
 

AuggieDosta

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So my extended family are a bunch of good ol country boys. Since I can remember, they have applied for and received their tags to go on an alligator hunt. Every year, I declined. After always hearing their hilarious stories, I finally agreed. This had to have been 2007 or 2008.

If I remember correctly, there are several things you have to do legally kill an alligator:
1) it has to be from dusk to dawn
2) you have to hook it with a treble hook
3) you have to spear it
4) then you can basically shoot it in the head with a bang stick

So we set off early that evening to Lake Sampson just west of Starke. My first horror was the realization that we were setting out in a little aluminum john boat barely big enough to carry 4 people. This thing had to be at weight capacity. But we set off at dusk and instantly see a gator.

This treble hook thing is stupid. Just a tiny 4 pronged hook on the end of a little rope. They toss it over the gator, it snags, he instantly sinks. They pull this little piece of crap boat over so it is sitting directly above him. "Now what?" "We sit and wait." And drink a few beers. They say it can take an hour for him to surface.

Since it is my first (and only) time doing this, they want me to spear it. For the next hour, they tell me story after story of how nobody has ever speared a gator on their 1st try. Everyone always underestimates how difficult it is to penetrate their hide. "It's like trying to jab that spear through the driveway." After about an hour, some bubbles start to rise from under the boat. It's go time.

So I stand up in this piece crap wobbly boat, spear in hand. They are pumping me up. Just like football players before they run through the tunnel. Heart is racing. Adrenaline is pumping at maximum output. These guys are ruthless I think to myself. There is noway I want to mess this up. It's like a Lord of the Flies scene. They tell me the instant he breaks the water, spear him. So boom, I see him break the water. I put ever single ounce of my 150 pound frame, and every amount of leverage and momentum I can muster into this motion.

And 100% miss.

It all happened so fast. Obviously, with that kind of motion, I went directly overboard. I was instantly yanked out of the water and thrown onto the boat. Those 3 dudes were laughing so hard they couldnt breath. I am sitting there, eyes like saucers, wandering if I was in heaven or hell. Everybody calmed down after a few minutes and we all realized my hair was 100% dry. Yes, I fell into a lake, basically head first, and yet my head never entered the water.

Over ten years later, their lips curl in an evil smile whenever they see me.
I lawled so hard at this story!
 

stephenPE

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So we set off early that evening to Lake Sampson just west of Starke. My first horror was the realization that we were setting out in a little aluminum john boat barely big enough to carry 4 people.
Did yall put in at the Slab? Or go back there and have a beer. Pretty lake but I couldnt catch any fish that day we had a tournament there. Great story. John boat with four men and for gator hunting thats for damn sure.............
 

cover2

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Not a story, but I heard a little joke the other day I'll share. William Shatner (Captain James Tiberius Kirk of the Starship Enterprise) recently unveiled a line of women's undergarments as part of his growing fashion line. Unfortunately sales were terrible and the line had to be pulled from stores and re-marketed. Seems that "Shatner Panties" just wouldn't sell!
 

ChiefGator

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Back Alley Gator

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ChiefGator

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Yea...thanks for that, Captain Bringdown. Whats next? Loving stories from Stalingrad in the 1940s? Tales from those who failed to escape East Berlin? The joys of plague in Europe? The virtues of typhus from a soldier in Napoleons army?

Well the original story was to indicate the innocence of a small child in a time of much more intrusive discrimination against blacks.

I think it says something about the progress we have made as a society and culture, and how some or perhaps many were not racists back then in the south.

Sorry you found it not inspiring, I have several stories from WWII that I like but won't bother to share.

And yes the plagues from Europe had several positive impacts, they reduced over population (imagine how many people we might have if all lived and had children, and I seem to remember that some who cared for each other actually survived in larger numbers than those who did not.

The sacrifices of Russia led to the defeat of Nazi Germany, without that the outcome might have been very different.

With say modern medical treatments Napoleon might have controlled a lot more of the world and changed history.

As someone who likes alternative reality stories all these could be addressed in fiction.

Perhaps you are just much different than me, or you just misunderstood the original post.

Have a nice day!!!!
 

stephenPE

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A cowboy, who just moved to Montana from Texas, walks into a bar and orders three mugs of Bud.
He sits in the back of the room, drinking a sip out of each one in turn.
When he finishes them, he comes back to the bar and orders three more.
The bartender approaches and tells the cowboy,
"You know, a mug goes flat after I draw it.
It would taste better if you bought one at a time."
The cowboy replies, "Well, you see, I have two brothers.
One is in Arizona , the other is in Colorado.
When we all left our home in Texas, we promised that we'd drink this way to remember the days when we drank together.
So I'm drinking one beer for each of my brothers and one for myself."
The bartender admits that this is a nice custom, and leaves it there.
The cowboy becomes a regular in the bar, and always drinks the same way.
He orders three mugs and drinks them in turn.
One day, he comes in and only orders two mugs.
All the regulars take notice and fall silent.
When he comes back to the bar for the second round, the bartender says, "I don't want to intrude on your grief, but I wanted to offer my condolences on your loss."
The cowboy looks quite puzzled for a moment, then a light dawns in his eyes and he laughs.
"Oh, no, everybody's just fine," he explains.
"It's just that my wife and I joined the Baptist Church and I had to quit drinking."
"Hasn't affected my brothers though."
 

AuggieDosta

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Since this story thread has some very funny ones in here and that has naturally turned into a bit of a jokes thread, I figured I'd provide a gift idea for all you parents that are in the corporate world and yet have children that, naturally, want to "be like Mommy or Daddy"...
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