An Old West dime store writer walks into a dusty town…

An old west dime novel writer is out looking for a good story when he wanders into a saloon. He sees a group of rough rider lookin’ scoundrels playing poker and he musters up enough courage to sit down with ’em (thinkin’ he might get a story out if he was lucky). “Mind if I play?” The others look up with a scowl that would curdle milk, but one looks at the clock and shakes his head. He points out the time to the others and they gather up their chips and go. “Play alone, we’re a-leavin’. Wild Bill’s comin’ to town.” The writer is confused, but smells a story brewing; a strong one at that. He hoofs it up to the bar, passing most other patrons on their way out, and slaps a whole dollar bill on the table, “Barkeep, give me a beer and a story, and you can keep the change.” After taking a quick glance at the clock, the bartender shakes his head, pours the beer, and pushes the bill back to the man. “The drink is on the house, but I suggest you drink it quick and leave. Wild Bill is coming to town.” Without another word the ‘tender puts his last glass away and walks right out the swinging doors, leaving the writer in an empty bar. Now fear in his gut tears at him as he hears the emptiness in that bar. This emptiness seems to seep in as he realizes that he’s about to be the last man in this town, alone with only the sound of that ticking clock to keep him company. Still, a story of this caliber must be worth something; so he waits… Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, Bong<CRACK!>- Just as the clock strikes the first chime of twelve, a sound like thunder splitting a mountain is heard outside. The author runs to the doors to see what it is. In the distance and closing fast is a tornado coming right for the bar. He hits the ground and watches as the tornado comes up to the bar and stops. The wind settles and there is a giant of a man riding a grizzly bear. He steps off the bear, and instead of hitching it, he punches the great beast right in the face <WHAM!>, knocking it cold on the ground. The writer is so scared he runs back into the bar and dives behind the counter, sure that this is the last of his days. <KaPLOW!> the giant kicks in the saloon doors, and they turn to splinters that imbed themselves into the walls and break bottles and glasses that they touch. The man walks up to the bar, breaking every floor board with each thundering step. He looks down at the writer and slams his fist on the bar, cracking it down the middle, “GIMME A DRINK!” He comes up, shakily holding out two bottles of whisky; which the giant snatches up, chews the glass tops off of, and drinks down as fast as the amber liquid can spill from the bottles. He throws both bottles in the air, whips out his six-shooter and fires off a round. The single bullet rips through both bottles showering the weakened author with shards that rain down. Regretting his curiosity and repenting of his life, the writer stands on weakened legs and whimpers out, “W-w-w-would y-you like a-another drink?” The man turns to him, fire in his eyes, then glances at the clock… “Nah, I gotta go. Wild Bill’s comin’ to town.”

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I’d upvote, but I gotta leave. Wild Bill is cming to town.

qtvlive

In the days of the wild west, there was a young cowboy who wanted more than anything to be the fastest gunfighter in the world. He practiced every minute of his spare time, but he knew that he wasn’t yet first-rate and that there must be something he was doing wrong. Sitting in a saloon one Saturday night, he recognized an elderly man seated at the bar who had the reputation of being a fast gun in his day. The young gunslinger took a seat next to the old-timer, bought him a drink, and told him the story of his great ambition. “Do you think you could give me some tips?” he asked. The old man looked him up and down and said, “Well, how fast are you?” The young man drew his pistol pretty quick and before anyone knew it, then shoots the hat off of the piano player’s head!” The old man looks over at the piano player and says to the young man, “Well, that wasn’t bad. But you’re wearing your gun too high. You should have your holster lower on your leg so you can get to your gun quicker when you draw. And son, tie the holster down on your leg.” The young man did as he was told, stood up, whipped out his Colt Peacemaker and shot the tie off the piano player. “That’s terrific!” said the young gunslinger. “Got any more tips for me?” “Yup,” said the old man. “Cut a notch out of your holster where the hammer hits it. That’ll give you a smoother draw.” “Will that make me faster?” asked the younger man. “You bet it will,” said the old-timer. The young man took out his knife, cut the notch, stood up, drew his gun in a blur, then shot a cuff link off the piano player. “Wow!” said the young gunslinger. “I’m learning’ somethin’ here. Got any more tips?” The old man pointed to a large can in a corner of the saloon. “See that axle grease over there? Coat your gun with it. Just but the gun in it, layer it with grease! ” The young man went over to the can and smeared some of the grease on the barrel of his gun. “No,” said the old-time, “I mean smear it all over the gun, handle and all.” “Will that make me a faster gunfighter?” asked the young man. “Probably not!” said the old-timer, “But when Doc Holliday gets done playing that song on the piano, that grease will make it hurt less when he shoves that gun up your ass!”

specklesinc

Wild Bill must have erectile disfunction because he never came.

champagneshowers34

A cowboy walks into a bar and orders a drink. When the bartender delivers it, the cowboy looks around and notices the bar is completely deserted other than himself and the bartender. “Where is everybody? This place is usually packed this time of day,” the cowboy says. The bartender replies, “They’ve all gone to the hanging.” “Hanging? Who are they hanging?” “Brown Paper Pete,” says the bartender. “What kind of name is that? Why do they call him Brown Paper Pete?” the cowboy asks. “Well,” says the bartender, “he wears a brown paper hat, brown paper shirt, brown paper trousers and brown paper shoes.” “Weird guy,” says the cowboy. “What are they hanging him for?” “Rustling,” says the bartender.

soppinglovenest

Wild Bill is coming but he’s waiting for the Godot

seeseafuss