North to Alaska
There was a man named Vic was living in the Silicon Valley who was a battered victim of the tragic and devastating Dot COM Wars back about 01. Now Ol’ Vic decided that he had to get out and start over. So headed up north to Alaska. He ended up in a little town called Devils Armpit, about forty miles north east of Skagway in the Yukon Territory. After settling down a bit, he decided to visit the local bistro and meet some of the towns gentle folk, witch by the way turned out to be mostly a bunch of scruffy old men. But Vic was a friendly sort so tried striking up a conversation with some of them but was met with only silence and cold stares. Undaunted, he decided to buy a couple of rounds of drinks for the house. Still only silence and not even a thank you, just like home he thought. He finally turned to the bartender and said; “Friend, these folks seem somewhat reluctant to even speak to me, why is that”? The man looked him in the eye and said, “Well Sport, these men are real life sourdoughs, blood thicker than molasses and enough gravel in their gut to spit paved highway, they don’t cotton to just anybody. Besides, word is, that your from Cal-if-or-ni-a, we hear’ed bout you people… So if you want these men’s respect, ya got to earn it.” So Vic asked him just how he could do that, again the bartender looked him dead in the eye and told him there were three things he would have to do if he wanted to prove himself to be a true sourdough and gain the respect of these men;
1st. He would have to drink a fifth of whiskey straight down out of the bottle,
2nd. He would have to kill a 10 foot Grizzly Bar with a knife,
And lastly, he would have to make love to an Eskimo Woman.
Without a word Old Vic determined to meet the challenges of his new life, reached over and grabbed a full bottle of JD Black Label and chugged it straight down to the last drop, threw the bottle in the appropriate Re-Cycling container, and stormed out the front door.
Long about two and a half hours later the when party was getting hardy, the front door of that saloon burst open, and there stood Vic, clothes ripped to bloody shreds, blood gushing out of long gaping wounds all over his body, and his hair severely messed. Resolutely, Vic staggers out into the center of the room, pulls out his NRA Commemorative Bowie Knife, and yells “OK! Now where’s that Eskimo Women I’m supposed to Kill!!!”
J. Haynes Original