Arkie Bass Boat

[GAHorn]

An Arkie hillbilly won a bass boat in a raffle and brought it home.

His wife asked him, "What you gonna do with that. There ain't no water deep enough to float a boat anywhere on this mountain."

He says, "I won it and I'm a-gonna keep it."

His brother came over to visit several days later. He sees
the wife and asks where his brother is.

She says, "He's out there in his bass boat",
pointing to the field behind the house.

The brother heads out behind the house and sees his
brother in the middle of the field sitting in the
bass boat with a fishing rod in his hand .
He yells out to him, "What are you doin'?"

His brother replies, "I'm fishin'. What does it look like I'm a doin'?"

His brother yells, "It's people like you that give people from Arkansas a bad name, makin' everybody think we're stupid.

If I could swim, I'd come out there and whip your butt!"

[wingnut]

Come on George, at least have the courage/chutzpah/nerve to use my full name

Balls ain't a bad word is it?

[c170b53]

NORTHERN ARKIES

Paddy & Gordie worked together in St. John's, Newfoundland and were both laid off.

So off they went to the unemployment office together. When asked his occupation, Paddy answered, "Panty Stitcher. I sew da elastic onto ladies cotton panties and tongs".

The clerk looked up panty stitcher on his computer and finding it classified as unskilled labour, and gave him $80.00 a week unemployment pay.

Gordie was next in, and when asked his occupation, replied, "Diesel Fitter".
Since a diesel fitter was a skilled job, the clerk gave Gordie $160.00 a week.

When Paddy found out he was furious. He stormed back into the office to find out why his friend and co-worker was collecting double his pay.

The clerk explained "Panty Stitchers are unskilled and Diesel Fitter's are
skilled labour".

What skill? Yelled Paddy." I sew da elastic on da panties and tongs; Gordie puts 'em over his head and says:

"Yep, diesel fitter .........."

[blueldr]

Poetry---The Shooting of Dan McGrew.

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in one of the Yukon halls.
The kid that handled the music box was stealthily scratching his ----- ear.

Del, ----- balls is a dirty word.

[wingnut]

Poetry---The Shooting of Dan McGrew.

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in one of the Yukon halls.
The kid that handled the music box was stealthily scratching his ----- ear.

Del, ----- balls is a dirty word.

Well nuts, Dick. Sorry if I offended . I guess it's all about context

[cessna170bdriver]

Poetry---The Shooting of Dan McGrew.

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in one of the Yukon halls.
The kid that handled the music box was stealthily scratching his ----- ear.

Del, ----- balls is a dirty word.

That's a little bit of Robert Service I've missed...

[blueldr]

Miles,

Actually, "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" is one Robert Service ballad I cannot seem to learn beyond the first four stanzas. The story just seems to get too hard to follow after that.
When I was first up in Alaska, in 1947, I was nursemaiding a Noorduyn Norseman C-64 floatplane on Birch Lake, about sixty miles south of Ladd AF Base in Fairbanks.
I was living in a cabin with another NCO and we both wound up memorizing "The Creamation of Sam McGee" by Robert Service, and another one called
"The Ballad of Yukon Jake", which was a parody on Robert Service by Edward Paramore, Jr. There wasn't a hell of a lot else to do out in rural Alaska when it was still a territory. We spent a lot of time poaching Blue Grouse (Fool Hens) and ducks to supplement our menu.
If you're a fan of that kind of stuff, try Googling up the one about Yukon Jake.
Strange, but I can syill remember both of them pretty well but I always carry a card around in my pocket containing my name and address. just in case!

[bsdunek]

I love Robert Service poetry, but it does take reading through a few times to get it all.

[cessna170bdriver]

My favorite is "The Cremation of Sam McGee". I was one of a flight three 170s enroute from Whitehorse to Dawson City, and one of the others recited it over the air-to-air frequency as we flew up the length of Lake LeBerge (mentioned in th poem). It was shirt sleeve weather, but I still got a bit of a chill listening to it. I think that having lived a substantial portion of my life in Tennessee, I could relate to ol' Sam.

I bought a book of Robert Service poetry on my return, and almost had that poem memorized until I loaned it to my younger daughter and haven't seen it since.

The Cremation Of Sam McGee

Robert Service


There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that he’d “sooner live in hell”.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ’tain’t being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
“You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May”.
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”; . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

[cessna170bdriver]

Poetry---The Shooting of Dan McGrew.

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in one of the Yukon halls.
The kid that handled the music box was stealthily scratching his ----- ear.

Del, ----- balls is a dirty word.

That's a little bit of Robert Service I've missed...

Ah, now that I've found it I remember it! And I also figured out why it wasn't familiar: your particular version must be from the parody (doesn't surprise me a bit ), as I can't find the word "scratching" anywhere in the Robert Service version...