For Mr. Latigo “Probably The Gloomiest Cowboy In The World” Flint
http://anewwordforfast.blogspot.com/
(I appear to have underlined everything. Hmm. How to un-underline everything? It happened when I was adding the Latigo link above. Can any lovely tecchie person help?)
Update: Ha! Am genius! Fixed it myself.
Following a conversation with Mr. Latigo “Probably The Gloomiest Cowboy In The World” Flint, I came away feeling edified as usual because he is indeed awfully good at writing words down in ways I wish I’d thought of. But also – and I may be imagining this – I was left feeling well, slighted somehow; patted on the head and told to run along, sort of. You see, I think my friend Mr Latigo “Probably The Gloomiest Cowboy In The World” Flint doubts my ability to be an effective second in a bar-brawl! The cheek of that!
Just because I can make a souffle that’s lighter than air, a full roast with all the trimmings and melt-in-the-mouth billberry pie for guests who have telephoned just 30 minutes ago to say they’re popping over, and still appear looking polished and immaculate in every way … just because I have a “skill-set difference” with Latigo “A New Word For Fast” Flint does not mean I would not be superlative in any low-down hole-in-the-wall ruckus. I am a professional housewife who takes pride in all I do! (Although, admittedly, I don’t get paid.)
Needless to say, I took umbrage because it’s cheaper than taking more medication. I had a silent fuming think and this is what I thought: I thought I would outline the 3 certainly-very-useful assets I could bring to the brawl.
Fortunately, I am splendid in any bar-brawl situation. I have attended many, mostly recreationally but sometimes in an incitatory capacity and learnt a fair few things along the way. I feel I could ably assist in the following ways:
Firstly, it is not a difficult task to wound the pride of a man, although his relative woundability depends a good deal on his age and what he is drinking at the time – there’s actually a scientific equation on that, I think. Gin drinkers, for example, are notoriously even-tempered and not where a hopeful brawler should start. Whisky drinkers, on the other hand, are itching for confrontation; the older ones might not be as ready to jump to their feet but can be useful in further agitating the younger men to war (much like in the Middle East or indeed anywhere) It takes only a passing comment about a man’s hairiness relative to the other cowboys to put the explosive spark to the tinder-box that is the average desperado bar (I assume Latigo only goes to very good desperado bars). The jury is still out on whether hairiness is a good or bad thing in the low-life whisky-swilling world. Hairy could = manliness with hairlessness =ing womanliness. Or, so the other school of thought goes: hair is a disadvantage because it allows your opponent more purchase while grabbing you in a fight. Less hairy men are therefore more evolutionarily advanced and hairy ones are mere yahoos.
So, this I do. You’ve forgotten haven’t you? I almost did myself. So this I do: I pass a comment about hairiness; nobody present knows what they think about hairiness but they won’t let that stop them; the older men urge on the younger men and the tinderbox explodes.
The second thing I am very good at is standing about with a raised bar-stool and bashing any comical cowboys who might buffoon their way hilariously into my sphere of whacking. Indeed, I have found no other use to which this skill can be put, than bar-brawling.
Thirdly, if the Goddess of Bar-Brawls (Jennifer) looks like She does not that day favour us, I can be most useful in bringing things to a dignified close through the sheer force of my housewiffery:
Standing on the bar, I will bang my duck-headed umbrella on the taps and call for quiet. This will not be heard above the roar of of the fray, the scraping of the tables and the sickening crunch of bone against splintered bone. I will then repeat the call, more loudly. This will also go unnoticed and, just when I look like the most arrant idiot (heeheehee – what a mistake those men will make underestimating ME!) I will raise myself up to my full height, swiftly don a formidable bonnet and, in the manner of Mary Poppins, roar “WHEN you have QUITE finished!”
Brawlers everywhere will freeze in comical mid-punch attitude and turn to stare.
“Thank you” I will say crisply. Then, untroubled by the gaze of 100 (ish, maybe only 99 if it’s a very desperate desperado joint) bloodthirsty, yet astonished eyes, I will rap the nearest man on the forhead with my duck umbrella and demand that he help a lady down from the bar. Several ham-heads will rush forward to do this, unaccustomed as they will be, to see a lady in their midst, especially one in a wasp-waisted crinolene dress and apron (I’d wear my pinny for protection against the spraying brawler blood, you see. Preparation and foresight are a housewife’s best friends. And also Philippe)
I will stroll amongst the assembled brawlers asking random pugilists what their mothers would think of them if they could see them now. They will blush in shame. I will gesture sweepingly about at the disarray and posit “Who do you think will have to clear this mess up? Yes, you man! (fixing one pulpy-headed galoot with a hard stare, poking him in the chest and then wiping my finger in distaste with a lily-white handkerchief) Do you have something to say? A suggestion of any sort? No? I thought not.”
Then, wheeling round on one heel I will charge: “Somebody’s mother or granny or sister, that’s who! Some poor underpaid cleaning-lady who will be coming in at 2am, hoping against hope that the mess will be minimal tonight so she can get back home to look after her old Mama and Papa, the seven crippled children and in time to medicate the bipolar goldfish, (and we all know what happens when a goldfish doesn’t get his jujubes). And I expect her husband’s long gone – in fact, I bet he’s one of you!”
Somebody will no doubt mutter (for they always do) “Yeah Merv, that’s a sorry stunt to pull on your old lady, runnin’ out on her, what with all her troubles.”
Merv will say (he will be called Merv, they always are) “My Sarah’s an angel, she is, with all she has to contend wid’. She deserves better than me – ’swhy I hadda go! I felt like crap in the presence of such noble, yet never quite concealed, sacrifice. Day after day of bearing someone else’s noble sacrifice (shakes head) I tell you I couldn’t live with such an angel no more, guys, I just couldn’t.” Then he will spit out a tooth.
A muttering will arise around the room: “Sarah…blooming angel…too good for any of us…Shucks I feel bad now…shee-it, man…nothing like a bit o’ guilt to ruin a good brawl…I hardly feel like it any more”.
One by one, battered and bloody men will sit down and look glum and feel shame at the thought of weary Sarah coming in to clean up their mess.
“Come on then, spick spock”, I will interject, because that’s what Mary Poppins would say and not be being racist. “Chop chop, best foot forward! You find a dustpan and brush, and you – my word, that IS a lot of blood! I expect you’ll live. You man, pick up those tables! Get to work all of you, I want to see my face in the floor when you’ve finished tidying this almighty mess up.”
Chagrined, the former testosterone-charged burly ill-breds will fall to their tasks of polishing and sweeping and some of them will secretly like it. The amazed barman will remunerate us for my assistance in the cessation of the brawl, and you and I, Latigo, will proceed to the next bar and repeat. All who see us go will wonder and ask who we were. And we will run away giggling.
Later, after all the patrons have left, Benny, and not Sarah (who doesn’t exist) will come in to do his stint as a cleaner and will be delighted that all is tidy and agleam with the elbow grease of 50 cowboys. He will find that one rough cowboy (his name will be Bud, for it always is) has even folded the toilet-paper into a pointy bit in the bathroom, and left some pot-pourri by the urinal.
Benny does not deserve to be delighted though because he is, in reality, a pimp and “late-night-cleaner-man” is just his cover job; a reason to give the cops for being out all night. The delight of the abominable Benny is the only flaw in my otherwise beautifully planned night of bar-brawling and fun, but I am not inflexible and am open to suggestions there.
I think I shall wear my white evening gloves.
*
(But all my other posts seem to have underlined themselves too. O lovely tecchie person! Where are you??)
August 10th, 2006 at 11:49 am
I think you may be a genius…………….
………………in fact I’m pretty sure you are!
Thanks for brightening up my day!!
August 10th, 2006 at 2:04 pm
Wondering if you and Mr. Latigo Flint restrict your brawling to cowboy bars only or are you for hire for any occasion? Weddings? Graduations, perhaps? My wife and I had the recent displeasure of attending the wedding of a friend’s daughter (an obligation that has since caused us to sever all ties with friends that have children of marrying or graduating age) and I was struck by the fact that what the event needed was a good whoop it up free-for-all. I’m thinking many would feel the same about such events and therefore would pay good money (American) for those capable of instigating just such an event…a booming business may await. Worthy of consideration, no? I would suggest, however, that Mr. Flint might have to dress a bit differently to fit in and definitely should leave the six-shooters at home.
August 10th, 2006 at 5:47 pm
Dear, I thought you British subjects just ended things at a bar by calling “Time, gentlemen.”
Cheers
August 10th, 2006 at 6:27 pm
Ma’am, you forgot you boosty-yer….
I, for one, will always request to have you on my side in any altercation.
August 11th, 2006 at 4:09 am
birchsprite, some have said my choux pastry approaches genius but I modestly demur and offer them my rum babas, which are indeed housewiffery genius, but I have been having trouble with the high altitude recipe for those.
Joel, I would have to confer with the great man himself but I think, for the right price, we might be very easily persuaded to ruin somebody’s special day. I tremble, however, at the thought of asking The Flint to change his customary attire. That would take a better housewife than me. Fixed in the full glare of his soul-piercing squinty-eyed gaze I would dissolve into a heap of dusters on the floor. A heap of dusters murmering “M’awfully sorry. Won’t ask again. Oh, what’s that, I think my new vacuum cleaner has arrived. Must dash! Byeee!
Randall, we British are also renowned, beloved even, for our ability to land in other countries and cultures and adapt to the ways of life we find there. We would certainly never dream of imposing our little ways on them. We have terribly good manners, you know – just ask us! When in a desperado bar it seems only polite to do as the desperados do.
SafeT, I never forget my boosty-yer. It is a little known fact that it was a housewife with a degree in aeronautical engineering who put the boost in the modern boosty-yer. Truly! A felicitious marriage of modern science and clever seamstressing. (In some of the earlier prototypes a few seams were indeed stressed a bit too much – it takes some nifty stitches in very precise locations to defy the great enemy, Gravity)
August 11th, 2006 at 6:13 am
The biggest problem with bar brawls is that sometimes you get punched much harder that you’d have liked to have been punched… and to an organ it turns out you need.
(You are, of course, on the very far side of spectacular Sam, you problem child bride you, and by that I mean the splendid side. And you can be my left side pool cue wielder anytime.)
August 11th, 2006 at 3:15 pm
problem child she is. having fought with her many times in our younger days, i feel qualified to say that the two (very pale) stick-like things attached to her shoulders, which move like T-REX arms, pack less of a punch than you might imagine. she is the proud bearer of muscles that look like a flea’s testicles. if anyone is contemplating entering into some fistycuff action, then for godsake ensure you do so with more backup than skinny-ma-linky. her favourite saying is “run-away, running away” (in a monty python voice)
August 11th, 2006 at 3:16 pm
oh yeah, drinking has never been one of her strong points either
August 11th, 2006 at 5:44 pm
Dear Sam: I have known dear Mary for many many years and she would be proud ofyou. However you do not need help to get down from the bar. You just turn your tootsies out and float down. If it is a very high bar you open your brolly. Keep the faith!
August 11th, 2006 at 9:42 pm
Sam you are a true laydee after my own heart. Manners maketh the man, and even cowboys are true gents deep down. Oh for an old fashioned man, who kisses your hand and walks on the outside. Oh bugger that, oh for a man of any description. I’d settle for a cowboy.
August 11th, 2006 at 10:18 pm
But Daphnne do they walk on the outside to protect one’s skirts from mud splashed up from passing carriages or so that they may more easily expectorate in the gutter? I pray – don’t let your standards slip. I fear Auny Marrianne’s attack of lust may be catching.
August 12th, 2006 at 12:18 am
Latigo, I went to a party, last Christmas where I was punched much harder than I’d expected to be punched. I’m serious, whoever mixed that fiendishly powerful yet lightly fruity concoction must have seen me coming, disliked me and poured another half-bottle of vodka in.
Little Bro, why, you little tyke! Come here…take that…(flails spindly arms in impotent swatting passes). And I can drink with the best of them too. Well maybe not the best of them, but I’d be at the top of the third division. It’s true that some more alcoholically gifted drinkers have called me a lightweight in the bar as I fell off my stool after beer 4, but I usually just stabbed them in the forehead with the business end of a cocktail umbrella and most people will now concede that I’m at least a bantam-weight.
Pat, I fear, in that situation, would be peppered with gun-shot holes and not afford me a very floating descent. I’ve been practicing tootsies-out though and can hover for a good 4 seconds now as high as 6 inches above the carpet. I find if I wear a sweatband around my immaculate bouffant, I can sometimes make it to 5 seconds, before I half-blind myself with the perspiration (ladies never sweat) of exertion.
Daphne, if you didn’t live upwards of 5000 miles away, I would most certainly ask you to come along with us on the outing and maybe find Mr. Right from amongst California’s wide selection of desperado-bars.
August 12th, 2006 at 12:20 am
Pat, that would be my brolly that was peppered in gunshot holds.
August 12th, 2006 at 7:32 am
I think you would have been the perfect partner for Wyatt Earp, Sam. He was good with a six-shooter, but lacked the ability to persuade.
In Africa, it’s the vultures who always clean up after a fight. That’s why most animals try to avoid fighting.
August 12th, 2006 at 9:27 am
zahbongo – 4 pints? i think not…my dear, 4 thimbles and then a random rant at poor mr furry is more the likely.
August 12th, 2006 at 3:34 pm
Mr. Nanas, Wyatt Earp has just shown up in “Deadwood” over here. If you get it in Britain, I thoroughly recommend it. It doesn’t always show we humans in the best possible light but I’m sure you would find it interesting in your anthropological studies. It’s a brilliant show; very evocative, provocative and somewhat expletive, but with beautiful language otherwise. You’d like it. I know you would. Hope it airs over there.
Mr. Furry, Random ranting at you is a pastime I like to indulge whether I’m drinking or not. Any time is a fine time for a spot of Furry-haranguing. In fact it looks like rather a nice day for it today. I knew the world had some larger purpose for me when I woke up this morning! How’s the new house/village/life shaping up, darlin?
August 12th, 2006 at 3:41 pm
I have turned into wirepeach in my comments again, but it is truly I, problemchildbrideakawirepeach. Have rectified the situation. All is as it should be and the world turneth yet.
August 12th, 2006 at 4:12 pm
Well, dear, if you’re going “go native,” then I suggest 3 Derringers: one in the cleavage and one in the stockings on each leg.
Cheers.
August 12th, 2006 at 5:27 pm
Deadwood is easily the best show on television, by the way, which is why of course it has been cancelled. Tis how the world works you know…oh you can fight it but the spin of irony and chaos continues nonetheless.
PCB…what has become of Phillipe?
August 12th, 2006 at 8:00 pm
Randall, Oh you mean GUNS! I thought for a minute you were suggesting I “go native” with the proprieters of Derringer and Sons, our local tobacconists. I wasn’t sure at all how my garter elastic would perform if I tried to stuff Rodney “Tubs” Derringer into one. And they’re none of them getting anywhere near my cleavage!
Joel, I have to admit my domestic housewife heart has been thrilling to the thought of the great Wild West lately. I’ve been re-smitten with Al Swearengen on Deadwood and so it might well be all down to him. (And, somewhere, deep down in all of us, and however civilised our veneers) I suspect there is a Calamity Jane). That and Latigo’s excellent tales from the lonesome trail.
Phillipe has gone on a cooking sabbatical to Las Vegas. I’ve told him not to return unless he’s wearing a new pair of chaps.
August 13th, 2006 at 6:59 pm
I would willingly make the 5000+ mile trip to come on a pub crawl with you and Mr Flint and find me a cowboy with a large Derringer, however recent restrictions on cabin luggage make this an impossibility. I cannot be separated from my make-up bag.
August 13th, 2006 at 9:11 pm
If you’ve handled the ‘rough and tumble’ of the ‘high spirited young lads’ in the bars of your native land, I am quite sure that any fracas in the roadhouses that you frequent these days, will be a bagatelle.
August 14th, 2006 at 12:14 am
Daph, anytime! You might have better luck coming to the US from Brussels than anyone coming from Britain will have for a while, I think. I’ve just read that airlines have reduced their flights from Heathrow by 20% to try and cope with congestion following the new security measures. There are cowboys galore out here, Daphne and they would be falling over themselves in order to meet a glamorous Carmen Miranda type like you. You’d certainly cause a few love-struck shootouts, of that I have no doubt.
Doccy M, it’s true that the only difference between many a Scottish pub and a Wild West bar is the size of the weapons. You never know if a Scotsman is concealing a deadly skeein-dubh in his pocket, but you can be sure he’s always pleased to see you because our countrymen are pretty darned convivial at pub-time. In some Hebridean bars though, men have been known to be packing tarasgeirs, especially if they’ve just been to the peats. I’ve seen it with my own eyes! These are men best left to sup alone, cursing the men who sold them their good-for-nothing tractors. Often it will be the 3rd or even 4th tractor they’ve enmired that week.
August 14th, 2006 at 3:20 am
What of bustles?
August 15th, 2006 at 5:12 pm
A lady never discusses her bustle, SafeT.
August 16th, 2006 at 11:47 am
“I took umbrage because it?s cheaper than taking more medication.”
LOL!