Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Hunter's Campfire The Perfect Squelch

— was the title of a popular panel on a back page of The Saturday Evening Post. In one of my favorites, a doctor told of a group of high muckety-mucks touring a hospital, guided by a young intern. They stopped at the bed of a patient who had a nasty rash around his mouth. The intern noticed on the patient’s chart that he was a musician. Swaggering a bit, he asked the patient whether he played a brass instrument. When the patient nodded yes, he launched his brag that he’d long theorized that brass instruments were medical no-nos for just this reason. Then as an after-thought, he asked the patient what instrument he played.

“Cymbals.”

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After the demise of the old Saturday Evening Post, I heard of another perfect squelch that I love. A Navy war ship was entering a port. A bright light beamed dead ahead in the dense fog. The Captain ordered the other “vessel” to veer aside, to avoid a collision. “You alter your course” was the reply.

“This is a Navy vessel of war,” the Captain radioed. “Alter your course immediately.”

“This is a lighthouse. Your call.”

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A friend of mine was the fattest man whom I’ve seen. He had to have four straight-back chairs to sit down (one under each thigh and one under each cheek of his gigantic butt), and the only parts of his legs that showed ahead of his belly were his knees. And of course he ate as you’d assume — several full-course “meals” at a time.

One evening at a casino in Las Vegas, he sat eating his usual several meals at a front table near the stage where the comedian Don Rickles was performing. Right away, Rickles started focusing his insults on Arnie. Arnie just smiled his lovely smile at Rickles and kept shoveling meal after meal. Rickles’s insults got nastier and nastier — until the rest of the audience got disgusted. Finally, failing to get a rise out of Arnie, Rickles gave-up.

“What do you do for a living, anyway?” he asked Arnie.

“I’m a jockey.”

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As a cop, my friend Charlie O’Neil (the “O” of the “OKH” cartridges and rifles) had killed several crooks in gunfights, and the mob had issued a “contract” on him. He was a tough little bird — a lot tougher than he seemed.

Heading into town to get his mail one day, he pulled onto the narrow two-lane highway. Only one other vehicle was in sight — a semi coming up the hill in compound-low in the other direction. Then around the mountain curve behind Charlie came a guy, driving as if he aimed to cross Montana (the long way — west to east) in minutes. The speeder had four options — he could (a) slow-down and wait to pass Charlie, (b) head-on into the semi, (c) rear-end Charlie, or (d) force Charlie off the highway into the river. He chose (d).

But Charlie wouldn’t let him do that. He pulled slightly to the left, athwart the double yellow “no passing” line, leaving no room for the other guy to get around him, and continued until he almost smacked into the on-coming semi. The guy behind him had to slow-down with a screeching deposit of tire rubber onto the pavement to avoid rear-ending Charlie’s old car. As soon as there was room to pass, he screeched around Charlie. He shook his fist and swore at Charlie as he passed. Then as the heat of his anger increased farther down the highway, he stopped with his car at an angle blocking the highway down where a bog on each side of the highway left no room to drive around.

Charlie knew better than to drive-up close behind him, and he knew better than to sit there in the car waiting. He stopped a good distance away, got out of his car, and stood looking over the top of the open door as the other driver — a big guy, much bigger than Charlie — stomped toward him shouting such fond endearments as “God damn you, you mother-f*cking old son of a bitch, I’m going to kick the living sh¡t out of you!” (Word-for-word, that’s how Charlie’s passenger told me the story.)

Charlie — who looked like everybody’s grandfather — got from behind the seat of his car the over-sized butcher knife that he’d made from a sawmill blade. He slammed the car door and with his beautiful sweet smile walked toward the other man. Pointing with the knife, he said

“And I’m going to hang your liver in that tree.”

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My old hunting partner A U Stanley was known to be so unswervingly honest that his sworn testimony in court was considered as good as documentary evidence. In one hearing, a local millionaire crook named R C Boggs* had maintained that the site where he wanted to build a shopping center had originally been zoned “commercial.” (He knew that the old records had been lost in a court-house fire.) A U, called as a witness, testified that site had always been zoned “residential.” In cross-examination, Boggs’s lawyer tried to impeach A U.

“During your many years as engineer for this city and county, have you ever engaged in independent engineering?”

“Yes.”

“Were you ever employed by Mr Boggs?”

“Yes. I laid-out Far Views development for him.”

“And what were you paid for that?”

“Not one thin dime.”

“Aha! So all these years, you’ve held a grudge against my client, Mr Boggs!”

“Nothing of the kind! I would consider it beneath my dignity to hold a grudge against a despicable cur like R C Boggs.”

Even Boggs’s lawyer laughed (had probably had his own problems with R C Boggs).

*not his real name, of course

MORE STORIES!

keep them coming Dr.
great!

Yes - those are great stories, Ken!

Well, mine was from a five year old.

Big blue eyes, blond hair, cute as a button.

Cafeteria time at school.

I'd said something a bit gruff to another K-kid acting out.

She looked at me with those big, wide, blue eyes and said, "You're like my Dad".

I preened (internally, only, I hope now!).

Then she added, "Kinda mean!"

Thanks Ken.

Loved the story about Charlie O'Neil !

Those old time Lawmen weren't afraid of nothing!

Bill Jordan got a big kick out of it, too.

He agreed that the smile was a lot scarier than the knife.

Mark Twain once referred to that kind of self-assurance as
"the calm confidence of a Christian with four aces."