“I’ve been having cowboy fantasies again,” I mumble, before kicking through the saloon doors looking for a duel.
“For the last time Max,” growled the barkeep, “You’re going to get banned for life if you keep installing saloon doors on the front of my sporting goods store. It’s scaring my customers and it’s not good for business.”
The barkeep wanted a rustle of the verbal-variety, and I was gonna give it to ‘em.
“Alright, Joe,” I mumble, dripping tobacco chew all over myself. “I’ve got a riddle for ye: what happens when a cowboy rides into town on Sunday on a horse named Monday, and he’s got an albatross soup but he doesn’t like the soup cause it has three legs in the morning and the Monday is named horse and it’s a white house on a yellow road. Which one is the horse named?”
“What?” The barkeep had no answer for me. “Get out,” he says. So I shot him to death with my finger guns.
