Sam and I are concerned that our blogs have been too serious of late so we thought a little levity might be in order today.
We were imagining a conversation between the Lone Ranger and Tonto as they sat around the campfire out on the lone prairie.
“Kemo Sabe,” Tonto says, ‘We need em Christmas tree.”
“You see any trees out here on the prairie my friend?”
“No. But Kemo Sabe, what you want for Christmas?”
“Oh, just some silver bullets I guess.”
“Every year you want same thing Kemo Sabe. Silver bullets! Those much hard to find and cost much wampum.”
“Well, you asked me. “
“You never kill anybody with silver bullets.”
“No. They’re mostly just for show. What do you want for Christmas?”
“Me want em new velour suit, get rid of buckskins.”
“A velour suit!”
“Yes Kemo Sabe. Royal blue, no fringes. Tonto tired of fringes.”
“Are you turning weird on me Tonto?”
“No weirder than you Kemo Sabe. Silver bullets. You think we be killing werewolves or vampires pretty soon, huh?”
“I don’t know about that, but I think I’ll move my bedroll over by that cactus, give you a little more space.”
Now we segue to the Flintstones.
“Whad’ya want for Christmas Wilma,” Fred asks?
“I think I’d like a new stone necklace darling. You know, one of those sparkly rock kind they call a diamond necklace?”
“A diamond necklace! You know how long I’d have to work at the rock quarry to buy you one of those?”
“Well, you did ask. I suppose I’d be willing to settle for a George Forman brontosaurus grill.”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
“What would you like Fred?”
“I’d like a new bowling rock.”
“That sounds doable.”
“Yeah, and I’d like a new hunting bow too. And a camo body skin, and a brontosaurus whistle, and a . . .
“Whoa, whoa big boy. You don’t give me that much money from your paycheck you know. Maybe I should get a job.”
“Oh no you don’t Wilma. I don’t want to be looked down on by the rest of my caveman buddies because I can’t take care of my woman. “
“Oh, Fred! Grab a hank of my hair now and drag me off to bed.”
Okay Wilma. Yabba dabba do!”
All right. Here’s one more scenario, this one between a priest and a penitent.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned.”
“For crying out loud, what did you do this time?”
“I broke a commandment, number seven.”
“So, if I add correctly, that’s 49 this month alone.””
“Huh?”
“Seven times breaking number seven. Seven times seven equals forty nine.”
“Huh?”
“Oh forget it!” You realize you’ve confessed this year to the breaking of all the commandments except though shalt not kill?”
“I missed that one, huh?”
“I guess, at least you haven’t confessed to it. Have you been doing penance - you know, your hail Mary’s and all that?”
“Well, I might have forgotten some.”
“You forgot? Dear God, what am I to do with you?”
“Forgive me?”
“Do I look like Santa Claus? You’ve been on my naughty list for way to long.”
“But Father . . .!
“Don’t father me! I’m washing my hands of you - get it, washing my hands?”
“You’re not forgiving my sins?”
“Sure I am. I’m washing my hands of them. Now you’ll have to excuse me I’m going to retire to my priestly quarters and drink a bottle or two of communion wine. You drive me to drink.”
Merry Christmas y’all! Don’t take any wooden poop!
We were imagining a conversation between the Lone Ranger and Tonto as they sat around the campfire out on the lone prairie.
“Kemo Sabe,” Tonto says, ‘We need em Christmas tree.”
“You see any trees out here on the prairie my friend?”
“No. But Kemo Sabe, what you want for Christmas?”
“Oh, just some silver bullets I guess.”
“Every year you want same thing Kemo Sabe. Silver bullets! Those much hard to find and cost much wampum.”
“Well, you asked me. “
“You never kill anybody with silver bullets.”
“No. They’re mostly just for show. What do you want for Christmas?”
“Me want em new velour suit, get rid of buckskins.”
“A velour suit!”
“Yes Kemo Sabe. Royal blue, no fringes. Tonto tired of fringes.”
“Are you turning weird on me Tonto?”
“No weirder than you Kemo Sabe. Silver bullets. You think we be killing werewolves or vampires pretty soon, huh?”
“I don’t know about that, but I think I’ll move my bedroll over by that cactus, give you a little more space.”
Now we segue to the Flintstones.
“Whad’ya want for Christmas Wilma,” Fred asks?
“I think I’d like a new stone necklace darling. You know, one of those sparkly rock kind they call a diamond necklace?”
“A diamond necklace! You know how long I’d have to work at the rock quarry to buy you one of those?”
“Well, you did ask. I suppose I’d be willing to settle for a George Forman brontosaurus grill.”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
“What would you like Fred?”
“I’d like a new bowling rock.”
“That sounds doable.”
“Yeah, and I’d like a new hunting bow too. And a camo body skin, and a brontosaurus whistle, and a . . .
“Whoa, whoa big boy. You don’t give me that much money from your paycheck you know. Maybe I should get a job.”
“Oh no you don’t Wilma. I don’t want to be looked down on by the rest of my caveman buddies because I can’t take care of my woman. “
“Oh, Fred! Grab a hank of my hair now and drag me off to bed.”
Okay Wilma. Yabba dabba do!”
All right. Here’s one more scenario, this one between a priest and a penitent.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned.”
“For crying out loud, what did you do this time?”
“I broke a commandment, number seven.”
“So, if I add correctly, that’s 49 this month alone.””
“Huh?”
“Seven times breaking number seven. Seven times seven equals forty nine.”
“Huh?”
“Oh forget it!” You realize you’ve confessed this year to the breaking of all the commandments except though shalt not kill?”
“I missed that one, huh?”
“I guess, at least you haven’t confessed to it. Have you been doing penance - you know, your hail Mary’s and all that?”
“Well, I might have forgotten some.”
“You forgot? Dear God, what am I to do with you?”
“Forgive me?”
“Do I look like Santa Claus? You’ve been on my naughty list for way to long.”
“But Father . . .!
“Don’t father me! I’m washing my hands of you - get it, washing my hands?”
“You’re not forgiving my sins?”
“Sure I am. I’m washing my hands of them. Now you’ll have to excuse me I’m going to retire to my priestly quarters and drink a bottle or two of communion wine. You drive me to drink.”
Merry Christmas y’all! Don’t take any wooden poop!
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