David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: "The Shade Tree Choir" Give-A-Way Program

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: "The Shade Tree Choir" Give-A-Way Program: “No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of others.” Charles Dickens “The Shade Tree Choir” Prologue “I st...

"The Shade Tree Choir" Give-A-Way Program

“No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of others.”

Charles Dickens

“The Shade Tree Choir”

Prologue

“I struggled for air and could only whimper for him to stop hurting me. I could feel my ribs being crushed against the floor by his heavy weight on my upper back. The sheer force of his hand stung my wrist as he pulled my arm behind my back and yanked sharply upward. I thought he was going to break it off. The shag carpet ground against my face like sandpaper and I could feel the tearing of my skin. My nose pushed into the fibers and I could barely breathe through the burning sensation of pain. I gagged at the smell of the filthy tattered carpet, at the stench of a decade’s worth of dog waste and urine. As I struggled weakly against his grip, I choked on the odor of unwashed feet, mud, grime, and ground-in food. My stomach heaved at the sickly scent of bourbon and beer and hopelessly, my tears and sweat mingled into the carpet beneath me.

Why was my dad doing this awful thing to me? What had I done to deserve such treatment?

I was eight years old.” 

I am here to thank all of my readers and supporters for your kindness. It’s because of each of you who purchased my books, wrote five star reviews and told others - that many people have been helped by your generosity.

Since my books were published I have given some proceeds to others. No, “WE” have given to others. Donations have been made to Jefferson Middle School library in Dubuque, Iowa. We have helped them purchase a series of Classical books. This is the school that I attended. It is in a poverty area where the children need all the help they can receive.

We helped abused children in Iowa through the BACA (Bikers Against Child Abuse) Program by giving them a donation based on my book sales. If you are not aware of this program be certain to research what they do to help abused children. They are incredible.

We are now donating copies of my books to shelters for abused children and women. If you know of such groups in your community, tell them about the program. They may contact me directly at tncowboypoet@gmail.com

I will be back in Iowa on multi-city book tour in November. If you know of libraries or groups that want a speaker and will allow me to promote my books, ask them to contact me.

I will also be donating my “Cowboy Show” to an elementary school in my hometown. I did this last year and the little ones loved it. I taught them how to write a real “Cowboy Poem.” This year’s theme is “Cowboys Don’t Bully.” You may learn more about that hat I wear at www.cowboycomedyshow.com

There have been two songs written about “The Shade Tree Choir.” One was by Steve Williams and Mick Yaeger out of Nashville. Mick was incredible singing it. Nick Walsh from Toronto wrote and sang another. He too is awesome. All of these folks were so moved by my book, they wanted to do something to help me – and in turn they are helping others. Here are the links. http://youtu.be/oQApYp1S9O0 and http://youtu.be/O5I_XS6xb70

Movie Producers and Agents are being sought to turn my book into a movie. If any of you know of people in the industry, feel free to tell them about my work. When it does become a movie I plan to donate some of my proceeds once again to others. Thus far, my book is slowly making the rounds and is into the hands of several connected people. We are looking for more to help us.

And once again, I say a sincere “Thank-You” to each of you for your help.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Golf: A Game for Cheaters

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Golf: A Game for Cheaters: Golf – A Game of Cheaters and Liars http://youtu.be/5nnjgbV9sks I was recently accused of cheating while playing golf with my...

Golf: A Game for Cheaters

Golf – A Game of Cheaters and Liars

http://youtu.be/5nnjgbV9sks

I was recently accused of cheating while playing golf with my nephew and brother. The source of this lie was my friend, Charlie T. who posted his accusation in the social community, Dubuque Iowa Roots on Face Book. Why, he had the audacity to infer that I used a pencil with a very large eraser on the end to change my score. My brother, Rick and nephew, Brian also accused me of cheating.

I am a liar. Yep, I’m a professional storyteller and the Cowboy Poet Laureate of Tennessee. I’m billed as “The Biggest Liar in East Tennessee.” That’s part of my act – being a liar. The difference between a storyteller and a liar is that a storyteller gets paid. Being a great liar helps with any cheating during golf. If I cheated.

Before I set all wrongs right, I’m obliged to report on other cheaters in our social community. Clair and Randy admitted they cheat when playing with their brother, Herk. Apparently Clair’s wife allows him to cheat. And she still beats him. Cindy Lou didn’t cheat when we played together. I cheated and she still won. I’m so bad she didn’t need to cheat. Jeanie’s husband cheats. She told us. Sandra took lessons a long time ago. The instructor recommended she not take up the game. I want to play a round with her. I’ll just bet I wouldn’t have to cheat.

Now that all other cheaters have been exposed, I have to report exactly why I lost against my brother and nephew. It wasn’t just one game. It was three games.

In the mountains of western North Carolina there are many bears. Also in the mountains of western North Carolina there are many golf courses. If I played the game well, I’d be in the fairways and not off in the woods.

There I was trying to hit out of the woods when I sensed something wasn’t right. I turned around and there was a male bear ten feet away watching me. I have to say, I was frightened. I did what we all should do with instances like that. I tried to make myself look bigger, screamed and yelled and then waved anything I could find at the bear. The goal was to frighten ole Smoky.

I had no difficulty screaming and yelling. Trust me on that one. I stood on a stump and waved my pants that I had removed. I wasn’t about to  use my new University of Iowa Hawkeye shirt. My pants seemed logical during that time of stress. Other golfers reported later that they wondered what was happening seeing a pair of green and red checkered pants being swung around in the woods.

My antics worked. Ole Smoky charged right past me out of the woods and towards my golf cart. The problem was he snagged my pants and ripped ‘em right out of my hand.  That bear drove off with my cart lickety-split. And he was dragging my pants with him.  He crashed the cart trying to make a curve on a downhill turn. Last we saw he was lumbering up the hill over yonder.

People ran from everywhere. I guess it was my screaming. Thankfully no clubs were damaged. There I was wearing my red boxers designed with little sets of golf clubs. Hey folks, I need all the karma on the course I can get. I was busy putting my pants back on and other golfers were picking up tees, balls and a Miller Lite can of beer.

One fella found a pencil with a long eraser. I told him it wasn’t mine. They helped me right the cart and I was back to normal. My brother then said I had to take a penalty stoke. He showed no mercy. Do you see now why I’m inclined to cheat? I lost that round, but think I might have won if that bear hadn’t thrown off my concentration.

I was disqualified during the second round. I was caught wearing my special pants. The pocket has a hole in it. When I can’t find a lost ball, I drop a new ball into my pocket and down the leg it goes dropping where I choose. I get many good positions in fairways using that trick. The third round we played was even worse for me.

It was the last hole and we were tied. A simple chip to the green and one putt and I’d finally win a game. The sweat bee irritated me but didn’t sting - well, at first anyway. Then it dawned on me. Holy Crap! It was a yellow jacket and he wasn’t alone. I had stepped on a nest in the ground and stirred up the entire bunch.

I had no choice but to run. I was screaming like a girl, waving my hands and sprinting to the pond next to the green. I was getting stung all over. One managed to crawl up my pant leg, thru my secret hole in the pocket and stung me on the upper thigh. My brother and nephew stood on the green and watched. They said later they figured I was faking – that was until I jumped into the pond.

That’s right, folks. It’s no wonder I have to cheat. Things like that always seem to happen to me. If it’s not bears and bees it’s snapping turtles and copperhead snakes.

While in that pond waiting for the yellow jackets to calm down, I felt the most awful deep and powerful pain in my butt. Then I felt a sharp sting in my right wrist. Once again I screamed and ran. My brother and nephew leaned against their putters up on the green and watched. They didn’t move. I saw them both from the corner of my eye shaking their heads.

I was jumping, I was twisting and I was rolling on the ground. Hooked to my butt was a snapping turtle. When I rolled for the third time he let loose. But something was whipping off my arm. It was a copperhead. I ripped him loose and threw him towards the pond. Then I had to pull his fangs out of my arm with my teeth. I chipped my incisor, but finally rid myself of the fangs.

There I was with a bloody butt and a swollen and throbbing wrist. It was all I could do to remove the moss and scum from my new shirt and cap. My cap had a saying on it. It read, ”When I die, bury me next to the old bag.” It had a picture of a golf bag. I thought it was funny. My wife didn’t agree.

I yelled to my brother and asked for some type of relief- based on my condition. Again there was more wagging of heads to indicate a “no.” I tried to hit. I topped the ball and lost the game.

Do you see now why I have to cheat?

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Chicken Dies Laying Egg

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Chicken Dies Laying Egg: Nelson Writes Tribute to Chickens  The huge egg in this photo was laid by a chicken that died afterwards. I started thinking about...

Chicken Dies Laying Egg

Nelson Writes Tribute to Chickens 

The huge egg in this photo was laid by a chicken that died afterwards. I started thinking about this whole egg eating process and wondered where it all began.

Explorers (c)

The other day while sippin' on my third or fourth whiskey, I got to thinkin'

About explorers and how everything they did was risky.

Ya' got Columbus, Lewis and Clark and Shepherd up in space,

But what about those unknown folks who changed this here place?

We don't know these unsung heroes by nary a single name,

Like the guy who saw the first egg laid. Now I think that's a shame.

I can picture him watching chickens peck around the lot, and then saying,

"I bet we could crack that white thing open that comes out of a chicken's butt. And it'd be pretty good served it hot."

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Unique Way Some Folks Speak

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Unique Way Some Folks Speak: "Dubuque Roots Members Contribute to Story" On Face Book there is a community called "Dubuque Iowa Roots." I am t...

Unique Way Some Folks Speak

"Dubuque Roots Members Contribute to Story"

On Face Book there is a community called "Dubuque Iowa Roots." I am the founder. I asked members to contribute the unique way some folks in Dubuque, Iowa used to speak. Over eighty members contributed. This story is based on their responses. All slang words were once used regularly where we were all raised.

Swiss Valley Park ©

The caravan of cars, vans and pick-up trucks honking horns with some fifty-one people waving out the windows startled the two brothers from Tennessee. The taller of the two went to his truck, bent down and placed his hand on the pistol hiding under the front seat. He wasn’t certain what was about to happen.

When he saw the smiles and heard the laughter he realized it was just a bunch of friends coming into Swiss Valley Park for a picnic. He released his grip on the weapon. Moments later he was once again sitting at a picnic table next to his brother. 

The two men from Townsend, Tennessee saw the sign at the same time. It read, “Dubuque Roots” on the side of a black Honda Ridgeline. They figured then it was some kind of reunion. Their eyes returned to Catfish Crick as they watched little kids fishing.

Yes, the caravan of people was from a social on-line community who had met one another on Facebook. The name was Dubuque Iowa Roots. They had come to share some camaraderie, food and laughter.

The brothers from the hollers of east Tennessee had never been to Iowa or to Dubuque County before this visit. The taller fella, whose name was Puddin turned his body to watch and listen to the commotion some fifteen feet away. Jimbo spit some tobacco juice to the ground and wiped his lip on the arm of his sleeve. “Hey, Puddin them folks sure knows how to eat from the looks at all them viddles.”

Puddin removed his University of Tennessee ball cap and scratched his head. “Listen to how they talk. I can barely understand some of em. This is kinda fun.”

As the two tourists sat and observed the activities, one fella from the group surprised them from behind. “Hi, youse guys. My name’s Warren. Welcome to Iway. Youse two are from Tennessee, I see by your license plate. We’re all here to have a little dinner. I’d like to bid ya to come join us if you want. Oh my garsh, I didn’t even shake your hands. Sorry, fellas. My hands are clean, I warshed em in the zink just a bit ago,” he said as he reached his hand out.

There was no verbal response. Both men nervously shook Warren’s hand. Warren noticed their furrowed eyebrows and tightened posture. He again offered a bid to join the group and walked away.

“Puddin, did you understand a thing that guy said?”

“Heck no. I’m trying to figure out what a zink is and why they are having dinner at twelve noon. Why didn’t he say lunch? Do you suppose they’s from some home or something? Ya know. Like a mental place?”

“I don’t reckon so ‘cause they look normal enough. Hey look, here comes a couple women with food. Looks like they bees bringing us something.”

“Hi ya fellas. We saw youse guys sitting here and want to share some dinner with youse, my name is Cindy Lou. This lady here is Deeann.”

Deeann extended her hand and shook those of the visitors. “We hope you’re hungry. We have lots of food,” she said as she placed one plate on the picnic table and Cindy Lou did the same.

“Just the other morning at breppurst over at Perkins Restaurant, a bunch of us were talking about what to bring today. We have punkin pie, mashed budadas, squarsh and all kinds of sandriches. There’s turkey and dressing, sweetloaf and even hamsausage.”

“Hi ya fellas,” Gail interrupted and introduced herself. “I brought you some more food from the beer cooler. This is headcheese and this one is Limburger cheese. Here is some pickled pig’s feet and blood sausage. Some of the others wanted to cook up beef tongue and beef heart along with ground beef but we decided against it. Youse know, too much work.”

Cindy Lou became excited and asked, “Hey youse guys, I have a new battry in my camera and a full roll of filim.  Maybe later would youse would take our picture?”

The ladies noticed the dropped jaws of Puddin and Jimbo who said not a word. They each nodded their heads in unison as the ladies turned and walked toward their group.

The two Tennesseans picked at their food with the plastic forks and gradually began eating at a quicker pace. “Purdy good viddles, ain’t ‘em, Jimbo?”

Jimbo nodded in agreement, wiped the corner of his mouth with the paper napkin and leaned forward on the picnic table. He wanted to hear everything the strangers a few feet away were saying.

“Hey, Julie that combination of baking soda and water pritner got all the stain off the top of my davenport. I appreciate your tip on how to warsh out the pop stain.”

“Awe you’re most welcome, Catherine. Glad to be of some help. So it didn’t schmear?”

Jim set the empty Styrofoam cup on the picnic table. “This unsweetened tea sure is nasty, ain’t it Puddin?”

“Show is. Hey didn’t we drive through Davenport yesterday on our way up here? They just mentioned cleaning a davenport. What the heck is that?”

Puddin flicked his wrist toward Jimbo as if to say “hush” and once again continued to eavesdrop.

“And I told those kids I was gunna tan their hides and give them a good lickin if they stood with the ice box door open and just staring into it,” Greg was overheard to say to a bunch of guys.

Jim patted his full stomach. “I’ll bet they were on pins and needles at that point. Oh my garsh, that’s too funny.”

“Hey, Pam what do we owe youse for the plates and things,” Ted yelled out.

“Awe nothing, but thanks for asking. I bought it all at K-Marx so it didn’t cost anything at all. Maybe one day youse can borrow me some money,” Pam laughed.

“Borrow me some money? What does that mean, Puddin?”

Neither fella spoke after the question was raised. Now each of them was sitting on the table and looking directly at those strange Dubuquers. Funny thing is, nobody seemed to care.

Deb placed her hand on Vicky’s left shoulder. “So did youse have to hoover the carpet before coming out today – like you said you were gunna?”

Vicky smiled and exposed her gooms and teeth. “Yes I did. Mark brought those beagle hounds into the house again. They made such a mess on the carpet with their dirty paws. One of them even got mud all over the hassock. I had to warsh it extra good to get it clean.”

“Hey Vicky,” Randy interrupted. “Throw your plate into this waste paper basket and I ‘ll throw all the trash into the dumpster.”

“Whoa! Waste paper basket?” Jimbo snorted as he arched back on the table and gently slapped Puddin on the shoulder. “That’s about a twenty-gallon basket. Ain’t no waste paper basket at tall.

Meanwhile, Vicky was still telling her story about the beagle hounds. “I was so mad I wanted to climb on the ruf and yell as loud as I could. I would have had to hold on to the chimley. That thing isn’t too stable. So I stayed in the house and yelled at the whole kitten cabuttle. Yep, I yelled at Mark, at those dogs and even the kids. Youse should have seen them scatter out the door. Pretty funny.”

Warren returned to the two visitors from the south with Mick and Wes in tow. After some more introductions, Mick asked Puddin and Jimbo if they’d ever been sleigh riding.

“Nope, I’ve done seen them sleighs on television in Central Park up in Ney York City. They seems to hold quite a few people. I often wonder how those horses must feel after a full day.”

Wes and Warren laughed. “No, sleigh riding. Right over there on those hills. Right by the sliding boards, see where I’m pointing? If you fellas come back here in Dezember it can be a lot of fun.”

“Hey, Puddin, he means sledding,” Jimbo reported.

“Oh yes, I knew that,” Puddin lied.

“Well fellas, if youse get thirsty there’s a bubbler right over there by the Men’s Can. All of us are leaving now. We’re going into Dubuque and putt the gut a while. It sure was nice meeting you folks.

The Dubuque Roots gang left Swiss Valley Park like they arrived. There were horns honking, people yelling and lots of laughter. It must have been two minutes before the sounds disappeared into the rows of corn down the road.

It must have been another five minutes of total silence between the brothers from east Tennessee. Puddin spoke first. “Do you have any ideal what those nice folks was a talkin’ bout? I have lots of cats, but I sure ‘nuf never had no kitten cabuttle. And beagle hounds, what was that all about? That’d be like us saying Doberman dog. It truly don’t make no sense at tall. No sir, no sense at tall.”

“Awe, don’t pay ‘em no never mind. I thought it was funny. How about the lady up on the ruf? That’s what my dog says when a stranger wanders on to the home place.”

They both laughed. Jimbo continued. “I sorta likes schmear, garsh, warsh and hoover the rug. I guess we needs to be sayin’ Windex the windas.”

Jimbo continued. “Well they was indeed nice folks. What say you and I go into Dubuque. Maybe we can putt the gut – whatever that means.”

David Nelson

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: #Medical Benefit of Personal Massager: A Satire

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: #Medical Benefit of Personal Massager: A Satire: Author’s Note: This is a satire about a certain medical condition. Some may find it offensive. As a retired physical therapist, I assure ...

#Medical Benefit of Personal Massager: A Satire

Author’s Note: This is a satire about a certain medical condition. Some may find it offensive. As a retired physical therapist, I assure you what you are about to read is based on fact.

Mort ©

By

David Nelson

“Always in a hurry; everyone is always in a hurry these days,” Gertie complained as she adjusted the blue and white handicapped tag hanging from the mirror of the 2014 Cadillac Sedan Deville. She returned her right hand to steering wheel and looked over at Mort hunched down in the front passenger seat.

Mort removed his fedora cap, scratched his head and looked at Gertie. “Who’s Harry?”

“What? What are you talking about? Harry who?”

“You said something about everyone knows Harry. So who’s Harry?”

Gertie turned off the left turn signal that had been flashing since they drove on to I75 North fifteen minutes prior. “You deaf ole coot. I said everyone is in a hurry. Turn your head and let me if you have your hearing aids in today.”

Mort arched his back, pushed his tiny butt further back into the seat and straightened his yellow, wool sweater that was twisted against his back. He did as he was told and turned his head to the right to expose his left auricle. Sure enough, he was wearing his hearing aids. They didn’t seem to work as well as they did when he bought them two years ago at age seventy-eight.

Gertie nodded with approval and then turned up the volume as her favorite song started playing on the radio. It was New York, New York. Her eyes glanced into the rear-view mirror and she noticed a long string of cars behind her as a semi passed in the left lane. A light spray from the truck’s tires covered the windshield. She leaned forward and strained her neck as she fumbled to locate the wiper switch. Gertie wasn’t used to all the new car’s features. It had been two days since they bought the Cadillac. In the process of hunting for the wiper switch, she slowed from fifty to forty miles per hour. Eleven drivers behind her turned on their signals to change lanes.

Mort leaned sideways and picked at his top denture with his index finger. He squinted his eyes at the dashboard. His voice was louder than Frank Sinatra on the radio. “Where the heck is the temperature gauge on here? The guy said it would tell us the temperature inside and out.”

“You don’t have to yell so loud. I’m not deaf like you. It’s right there, those numbers in blue. It’s eighty-seven out side and seventy-four in here,” Gertie replied as she peered through the steering wheel at the road ahead.

“Well, I’m cold. How much further is this place, anyway? I can’t believe those ladies in your group at the synagogue told you about this. It does sound like fun though. I ‘ve heard about these places for years.”

“It’s the next exit, number 141. I want you to behave when we go in there. Do you understand,” she yelled while using both hands to steer the car onto the exit.

“What’d you say about being saved? That crap is for those Baptists.”

“Behave. Behave, that’s what I said. Not saved.”

“Oh I guess because I saw that huge cross up on the road I was thinking of being saved.”

Indeed what Mort saw was true. His eyes had not played a trick. Next door to their destination in Oneida, Tennessee was a stark white, fifty-three foot high cross that could be seen for miles in all directions.

Gertie put the car in park and turned off the engine. She opened the door and once more warned Mort to behave. He had just closed the car door, stood leaning against his adjustable, aluminum cane and looked up at the business sign. On the roof was a ten-foot by twenty-five-foot neon sign that read “Adult World.”

Mort bent his knees, leaned most all of weight on the cane, flexed his left arm at the elbow and proceeded to jiggle his butt left and right. “Let’s go have some fun Mama.”

“You damn old fool. You had better behave and not embarrass me in here. And don’t be yelling. Not everyone is half-deaf like you.”

The gravel in the parking lot crunched as each of them shuffled towards the front door. There was a buzzer that rang until Mort finally made it through the opened door and it closed behind him. The twenty or so patrons shopping in the six aisles all turned to see why the buzzer rang so long. Many squinted their eyes at the old couple. A few smiled and one guy actually laughed out loud.

“Hey, Sonny where do you keep the vibrators? I want one,” Gertie asked the bearded middle-aged man behind the counter.

The store manager looked up from his computer with a wide grin on his face. “You, you want a vibrator?”

“I sure do. Where are they? Oh shoot, where did Mort go,” she asked herself aloud.

The manager bit his lip and his beer-bellied stomach was bouncing. He wiped a tear from his left eye. “Over there against the far wall. That’s where you’ll find the vibrators. Is that old guy in the DVD section in aisle one your husband?”

Gertie didn’t thank the gentleman for directions. She was mad because he called Mort “old.” She was halfway to aisle one when the familiar voice bellowed so loud that everyone in the store heard him.

“Hey little Mama, how about this movie, Nine Different Sex Positions On a Motorcycle. Mort’s laughter was as loud as his speaking voice. He kept yelling out title names between guffaws. Gertie picked up her pace to reach him so she could drag him away from the videos.

The shoppers began moving toward the old couple like the fog running up a mountainside. One patron almost cantered from the end of the store seventy-five yards away. A lady dropped a sixteen-ounce plastic bottle of “Lady Lust” massage oil. She bent down to pick it up and noticed the written advertisement: “The more you rub, the hotter it gets.” She replaced the bottle and joined eleven other shoppers in aisle five who had gathered to glean a better vantage of the vibrators and the two octogenarians standing next to them.

Mort stood back a few feet so he could see the top row of dildos. The arthritis in his neck locked his head in place so that he could only look up about half the normal range of motion. He spread his feet for stability and used his cane to reach the top items. “Hey, Mama look at that pink one. It has little wiggly projections on it. The package calls them rabbit ears. What in the hell would you do with that?”

The store erupted in laughter. One guy knocked over a line of “D” size batteries on a shelf as he reached to steady himself from cracking up. There was a loud slap against the front counter. The manager had hit it with his palm and now was bent over laughing while grasping the counter’s edge.

Even Mort heard hurt the gaiety behind them. He turned with cane in hand and exposed both his top and lower dentures with his wide grin. “Oh hi, folks. How is everyone? My little bride and I are looking to spice up our sex life.”

“Mort! Shut up. You’re making a spectacle of yourself. Leave those nice young folks alone.”

Mort ignored his bride of fifty-five years and revealed another side of his personality. Just like at country club with his buddies, he now had an audience. He was in hog heaven for now he had strangers to entertain. He assumed the same posture as he did in the parking lot. He wiggled his little butt back and forth and yelled, “Yahoo! We are going to have some fun tonight. Hubba Hubba.”

Aisle six now had several people shaking Mort’s hand and laughing. Gertie ignored the shenanigans. She was busy reading the front and back of packages. Mort turned his head left and right to see if the coast was clear. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth several times to get everyone’s attention. “With me being eighty-years old, little Mama here says she never had it so soft.”

“Mort you’re disgusting. Now stop it. There are ladies here,” Gertie insisted while reading the package of a nine-inch “Hum-Dinger.”

“No Ma’am, it’s OK we like you folks,” one lady said.

Suddenly there was more tongue clicking from Mort. He did this between each story as if it signaled the end of one joke and the beginning of another. “I saved a lady from getting raped last week. I couldn’t catch her.”

Just like before, the store erupted in laughter. The manager turned the key, locked the cash register and came to aisle six. Two guys walked through the front door of “Adult World.” They heard everyone laughing and came to aisle six with big grins on their faces. They didn’t know what was so funny. They just knew the laughter was contagious.

Click, click, click. “So this lady’s dog has a hearing problem because of all the hair inside his ears. She goes the pharmacist and asks if he has hair removal. He tells her where to find it and adds some advice.”

He says, “If you use that on your legs, don’t wear any nylons for two days.”

“Oh no. It’s not for my legs,” she replied.

“Hmm,” replied the pharmacist. “Well, if you use it on your underarms, don’t use deodorant for three days.”

The lady says, “No it’s not for that either. It’s for my schnauzer.”

“Well in that case don’t ride your motorcycle for two weeks.”

The patrons went crazy with laughter. A couple guys removed their hankies to wipe their eyes. One used his fingers to wipe tears from his cheeks. People who didn’t even know each other slapped one another’s backs. Mort straightened his back, puffed out his chest and grinned at all the folks laughing.

Click, click,click.  “So this husband stands next to his wife who is on all 4’s cleaning the oven. She’s deep inside the opened door and scrubbing away. The fella tells his wife her rear end is getting as large as a six row John Deere corn picker. She rises up quickly and smacks her head on the top oven element. Her looks could kill and the husband felt awful. That night he wanted to make it up. They are in bed and he snuggled and wiggled up next to her. The wife says, “Hold it right there, Buster! Don’t think for a second that I’m starting up this million dollar piece of equipment for one tiny little ear of corn.””

Adult World rumbled and rattled with sounds of laughter. Mort could have charged a fee for his show and those folks probably would have paid it. But all good things come to an end. “Come on, Jack Benny,” Gertie said. “I have the one I want. Let’s go pay for it.”

Mort had difficulty making it to the counter, what with all the hand shaking and backslapping. He was heard to say aloud, “This is the best I have felt in years.”

The manager finished blowing his nose and unlocked the cash register. He scanned the vibrator and told Gertie it was $39.99. She fumbled in her pocketbook and presented a red, white and blue Medicare card along with her Tennessee Blue Cross Blue Shield card.

“Ma’am, what is this for? I take only credit cards or cash,” the puzzled manager said.

Gertie ignored him and searched through her purse. She then gave the owner a prescription from her doctor. On it was written, “One vibrator that is medically necessary.”

“I can’t use any of this. I can’t file insurance. What’s this all about?”

“Well, ya little whipper snapper, older ladies who are incontinent can benefit by using this. I’ll bet you didn’t know that, did you. It’s reported in medical studies. With these cards I shouldn’t have to pay a thing. It should be free.”

Then Mort chimed in. “Yeah, I used to call her my Little Poodle. Now I call her my Little Puddle.

The fella laughed again and shook his head. “OK, I’ll tell ya what. Because of Mort, I will give you this for free. Is that really true about it helping with incontinence?”

“Sure is. Check it out. Thanks for being so kind to us.”

Mort and Gertie shuffled toward the front door, their arms hooked to each other’s. When they left the store, the buzzer didn’t ring nearly as long as it did when they entered.

The manager pushed the last number on the telephone. On the other end, a woman answered, “Shady Rest Nursing Home.”

“May I speak with the administrator? I’d like to talk with him about some medical equipment I sell.”