For My Brothers

A cowboy, who just moved to Texas from Wyoming, 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 Wyoming, 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.” He paused. “Hasn’t affected my brothers though.”


Thanks, Pax!

It's A Coming...

From my friend Robyn, a true Soutehrn Bell:

Three strangers strike up a conversation in the passenger lounge in Bozeman, Montana , while waiting for their respective flights.

 

One is an American Indian passing through from Lame Deer, another is a Cowboy on his way to Billings for a livestock show, and the third passenger is a fundamentalist Arab student, newly arrived at Montana State University from Iran.

Their discussion drifts to their diverse cultures. Soon, the two Westerners learn that the Arab is a devout, radical Muslim and the conversation falls into an uneasy lull. The cowboy leans back in his chair, crosses his boots on a magazine table, tips his big sweat-stained hat forward over his face, and lights a cigarette. The wind outside is blowing tumbleweeds around, and the old windsock is flapping; but still no plane comes.

Finally, the American Indian clears his throat and softly he speaks: 'At one time here my people were many... but sadly, now we are few.'

The Muslim student raises an eyebrow and leans forward, 'Once my people were few,' he sneers, 'and now we are many. Why do you suppose that is?'

The cowboy removes his cigarette from his mouth and from the darkness beneath his Stetson says in a smooth drawl…

 

'I reckon that's 'cause we ain't played Cowboys and Muslims yet, but I do believe...it's a-comin.'