That’s right bitches, a dude getting kicked in the nuts. Hilarious stuff, right? I know, that’s just how my mind rolls. But trust me, it doesn’t stop there. That is just a snap shot of a moment of time in my brain. The shit goes on. The government tried to tap into this eternal well of knowledge when they had me in Gitmo. Clearly they didn’t succeed. But I digress…
That’s right, muthafukin Potato Oles, bitch. See, the greatness never stops.
By the way, did I ever tell you guys about the time Ol’ Half Beard here was saved by a Taco John’s? Well, bookmark this bitch, because I’m gonna lay it down all right here.
It was back in the late 60s, and I was kicking around in Wyoming. The reason I was in Wyoming escapes me at the moment, but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with an almanac, sulfur, and a shit-ton of mushrooms. Either way, I was hiking through the small towns and partially traveled roads. I was walking because my ’63 Buick Riviera took a shit on the side of the road, and, not giving a fuck, I left it on the side of the road for some hobo and/or drifter to lay claim to. Just giving back to the people, my friends.
I’d stop in the towns, go to the local diners and tell the locals of my travels. Most of the time my visits ending in a big parade being held for me, and then about a week’s worth of unhindered binge drinking. Then I would scoop myself back up off the street and keep on going, turning down offers of jobs, houses, and women the whole time. I can’t have that shit tying me down, ya know?
So anyway, I’m enjoying myself, and feeling pretty damn untouchable. But then guess what I run into while taking a short cut to what was sure to be my next great small town adventure:
That’s right. You know what that is? That is an American Bison. You’re thinking “But Half Beard, why would you be frightened of that? It’s basically a hairy cow!” I say, fuck you. You don’t know what you are talking about. The American Bison can be 6 ½ feet tall, 9 feet long, and can weigh up to 2,000 lbs. That is, quite literally, a fucking ton. It is also capable of running 40 miles per hour. And if you piss it off enough, it will gouge you with its fucking horns on top of its massive head. SO yeah, not something you want to fuck around with.
Thankfully, when I stumbled upon this massive creature, it had its back turned to me. Now, knowing what I know of bison, they aren’t normally overly aggressive, so I was cautious, and pretended like I was just going to walk around and go on my way. The bison had other plans though, saw me, and immediately found me to be a threat to its dominance. It looked at me, lowered its head, and, I swear to shit, it sounded like it growled at me. That is not natural. No bison in the history of nature has ever growled, and if they did, it wouldn’t have sounded as horrifying as this.
Well, being Half Beard, I was naturally drunk at the time, and didn’t quite comprehend my predicament. I lowered my head and looked at it, and I growled too. Wrong move. The fucker charged me, and like a matador, I shimmy to the side at the last moment, but instead of stabbing it, I punched it in the chin. It staggered, and almost fell, but didn’t. I looked to my fist in disbelief. How could it have failed me? The bison turned around, lowered its head again, and charged. Being drunk and distracted by the fact that my hand did not for the first time ever dispatch my opponent, the thing barreled into me, square in the half beard. The half beard absorbed most of the damage, but I was still thrown backwards toward the edge of a cliff (which, by the way, is the worst place to be fighting a pissed off bison). So I stagger to my feet, and, having the drunkenness knocked out of me, narrowed my eyes and charged at the turning bison. I jumped on its back, grabbed the hair on its neck, and proceeded to steer the steer towards the cliff, with the intentions of jumping off at the last second as this thing plummets to its demise.
It didn’t happen quite as I had hoped, as my drunkenness returned to me, and I was a bit slow, didn’t jump off, and rode the bison to the ravine floor below. It hit with a splat, and I bounced once, bounced twice, tucked, rolled, and upon planting my feet to stand up, twisted my ankle. Not being able to walk, I bed down for the night.
In the morning I get up and fashion a makeshift crutch out of the bison’s bones. I hobbled my way to the nearest road (about a 2 day trip) and continued on. I kindly old man by the name of Brutus was driving by in his pickup truck and offered me a ride. He drove me into Cheyenne, and, after a long discussion of him wanting me to just keep his truck and me refusing, he dropped me off on a random corner. Now, by this time, I haven’t had anything to eat in about 3 days, and was so hungry I could have eaten the ass out of a skunk.
On the corner was this little restaurant called the Taco House. They were just closing as I step inside and the owner John was saying he just packed everything in, and that I should probably go to the place next door and grab something to eat there. I take a look outside and, not liking what I saw, instantly started to persuade him to fire the grills up and “make me some fucking tacos.” He does so, and I proceed to devour 20 of the most delicious tacos I have ever experienced. He also fried up some round tater tots, saying “they are great with nacho cheese, and complement the spicy taco meat very well.” Holy shit, he wasn’t lying.
Later that same man apparently sold his franchise that became Taco John’s. And I owe him my life. Had he not opened up, I would have had to eat at an Arby’s.
Fuck that.
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