This letterbox is on private property. However, permission has been given by the owner.
Once upon a time there was this here kid called Jack who lived with his ol’ lady in a cruddy ol’ shack in the country. Now, I means to tell ya', them two is genuine poppers. Now, you knows what a popper is. Them’s poor folk what ain’t got a speck o’ money, nohow! Seems Jack’s ol’ man done got throwed in the jug fer havin’ a still in the cow pasture and sellin’ moonshine. Anyhows, he leaves them without a pot to spit in, so Jack’s ol’ lady says to Jack, “Take this ol’ cow of ours over to ol’ lady Crammit’s house and she’ll give you a dozen quarts of her homemade apple butter in exchange for the ol’ girl.”
So Jack takes that ol’ bossy and he walks to the Crammit’s rickety front porch and knocks on the door. Well, as it so happens, ol’ lady Crammit’s at the grocery store buyin’ prune juice, and this ol’ white haired coot comes to the door instead. He takes one look at that thar ol’ cow, then he sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out a handful o’ beans. “I’ll trade ya' that thar critter fer these,” he says, spittin’ a splat of tobaccer juice on the top step.
Now, Jack’s usually a smidgeon thick between the ears, but this time he’s a thinkin’ real smart like! He knows right away thar’s a skunk in the woodpile somewhar, and he speaks up and says what any smart feller would say! He says, “Is thems apple butter?”
“Apple butter!” the ol’ man sputters. “Them’s beans, ya’ idiot!”
“Beans?” Jack says, kinda uneasy like. “Gee, I dunno. I don’t think my ol’ lady would take too kindly over a deal like that. You see, beans give her gas, and besides, she did some bakin’ this mornin’ and she’s sorta got her heart set on smearin’ apple butter on her buns tonight.”
“Ah!” replies the old geezer. “These ain’t any ol’ run-o’-the-mill beans, Sonny! These here are magic beans!”
“Magic beans! Sweet!" Jack shouts. “It’s a deal!” So that ol’ codger takes that thar cow and gives Jack that thar handful o’ beans.
Well, Jack takes off fer home like a scalded polecat and when he gives his ol’ lady them thar beans, she darn near has a hemorrhage! “You dingbat dipstick!” she shrieks. “Whatta ya' mean by tradin’ off my nice ol' cow fer this handful o' freakin’ beans?”
“But, Ma!” Jack says. “They’re magic beans! The ol' geek told me so hisself!”
“Magic, my flannel bloomers!” she yells. “Yer dumber’n a tree stump, kid!” Then she dumps that whole handful o’ beans right outside Jack’s bedroom winder.
Well, the next mornin’ Jack wakes up and his alarm clock says 8:00, but that thar room’s as black as an ol’ crow’s tail feathers! He takes a gander out the winder and thar’s this here whoppin’ big beanstalk! Why, that sucker musta been more’n 2,000 feet tall! You couldn’t even see the top o’ that honker, it was such a big ol’ booger!
“By Jove!” Jack shouts. “I’m gonna climb that bear!” Then he starts shimmying up that thar ol’ beanstalk like greased lightnin’ and purty soon he’s at the very top! He looks around and he spies this really snazzy lookin’ shanty, so he knocks on the door and this here weird lookin’ ol’ gal jerks it open. “Shhhhh!” she warns. “You’re gonna fool around and wake up my ol’ man and then yer screwed, kid! Whatcha doin’ here, no how?”
“Just come for a lil’ visit,” Jack replies, gettin’ a tad sweaty under the armpits. “No use gettin’ yer bloomers in a bunch! What’s the big deal, lady?”
“You’ll find out!” says the woman. “My ol’ man’s a giant and he makes kid noodle soup outa smart aleck punks like you!” Then she yanks poor ol’ Jack by the shirttail and drags him into the house.
“Hide!” she hisses. “Get the cobs outta yer rear!”
Well, Jack, bein’ sorta a fresh young whippersnapper, shouts, irritably, “Alright, alright, already! Jest hang onto yer garter belt, Toots!”
“The ol’ man’s sleepin’ right now,” Mrs. Giant whispers, “but if he wakes up, he’ll have ya' for a snack, Jack!” Then she shoves him into this here stinkin’ ol’ closet and closes the door!
So, there Jack is, inside this dark, smelly ol’ closet. “Man, this sucks!” he thinks, and he opens the door jest a crack and peeks out. Thar, on an elephant-size sofa, lays this here giant, and I means to tell ya', that ol’ lady said a mouthful when she said he were a giant! Why, that ol’ bruiser musta been 30 feet tall and 5,000 pounds heavy! He was a snorin’ away like an ol’ buzz saw, slobbers runnin’ down his chin an’ all, and you talk about stink! Why, that ol’ overgrown Bozo smelt worse than a dadgummed ol’ billy goat! Anyhows, all of a sudden he wakes up and he bellers, “Hey, woman! Bring me my hen what lays them thar golden eggs!”
“Golden eggs!” thinks Jack. “Whee, doggies!”
Well, the ol’ gal leaves the room and purty soon she comes back with this here chicken and she plops it down in front o’ that ol’ giant. He bonks it a good one on the head with his spoon and yells, “Lay, ya' ol’ biddy, or I’ll make a feather pillow outta ya!”
Well, that thar chicken sorta squawks, then she gets real red-like in the face and her eyes sort of bulge out, then, Bingo! That ol’ gal shells out the biggest dadburned egg ya' ever layed eyes on, and ya' can tell right away it’s solid gold! I tell ya', Jack’s eyes ‘bout pop out o’ their sockets! “Jumpin’ Geehosaphat!” he cries. “My ol’ lady and I could sure use that! Maybe I’ll just snitch that ol’ chicken if I get the chance!”
Well, his chance comes sooner than he thinks, ‘cuz within five minutes that ol’ giant is a snorin’ again, so Jack slips outta the closet, sneaks over to ol’ Sleepin’ Beauty thar, grabs that ol’ chicken and runs out the door like the devil hisself is after him! That ol’ hen starts squawkin’ her fool head off and Jack figgers he’s really got his butt in the wringer this time! “Can it, ya' dumb cluck!” Jack whispers, but it’s too late. That ol’ giant’s eyes pop wide open and he very intelligently mutters, “”Duh---huh? Whazzat?”
Then, he starts recitin’ poetry! He says “Fe, Fi, Fo, Fox! I smell stinky socks!”
“Nonsense, Sloopy!” says Mrs. Giant, (Yep! That’s what she done calls him. Sloopy!) Anyhows, she goes on to say, “Eat yer breakfast and shut yer trap!” So he tanks up on a tubful o’ huckleberry flapjacks, gives a big ol’ belch and lets off a giant-size….well, let’s jest say he deflates. Then that ol’ giant spies Jack and he tears after him like he’s got a bumble bee in his underbritches!
Well, Jack takes off down the path with that fool squawkin’ chicken tucked under his arm, and he starts a slidin’ down that beanstalk! He figgers he’s safe 'til he looks up and sees this dark cloud above him and he realizes ol’ Big Butt is comin’ down the beanstalk in front o’ him! Holy mackerel! That skeers the pee-wadden outta ol’ Jack and he gets so all fired shook up he loses his grip and falls to the ground like a sack o’ taters!
“Ouch! That smarts!” he says. Then he leaps to his feet, dumps that squawkin’ chicken on the ground, brushes off his overalls, races to the wood shed and grabs his ol’ man’s axe. Then he starts a choppin’ away at that ol’ beanstalk like he’s a killin’ rattlesnakes! Finally, he hears a crack and bein’ so smart an’ all, he hollers, “Gesundeit!” Down comes that beanstalk like a ton o’ cement, and the next thing ya' knows, that ol’ giant is sprawled face down on the ground, deader’n a skunk!
Well, Jack’s ol’ lady sees the whole thing from the door o’ the outhouse and she calmly walks over to Jack and says, “Anything unusual goin’ on around here, Jackie boy?” (Reckon the ol’ lady ain’t quite got all her marbles on the board either.)
Well, Jack decides to call in the neighbors to help him figger out what to do with that ol’ giant’s carcass, and they all agrees to make Sloppy Joes outa the ol’ buzzard. (Or maybe I should say, Sloppy Sloopys! Har, har! Lil’ joke thar, folks!) Anyhows, that sloppy mess feeds the whole neighborhood fer the next six months or so. As fer Jack and his ol’ lady, he finally talks her outta pluckin’ that ol’ chicken, and before ya' knows it, they got more dadblasted money than ya' can shake a stick at, what with all them thar golden eggs that ol’ biddy keeps shellin’ out! Why, I tell ya', them two’s jest as happy as a couple o’ ol’ hogs eatin’ slop! Thar's just one teensy weensy lil’ problem. Jack’s a lil’ skeered that some low-down thievin’ polecat of a chicken rustler might come and cabbage onto that ol’ chicken and all them thar eggs layin’ all over the place, so he decides he better go hide ‘em where nobody can find ‘em.
Now, in case ya’ done forgot, Jack and his ol’ lady lived in the country, but I don’t reckon I said whar. That dumpy ol’ shack was a settin’ thar jest west of a lil’ town called Glade thar in the state o’ Kansas….Phillips County, that’s whar it was. So Jack takes off a walkin’ east, down Highway Number 9, ‘til he comes to the Glade intersection whar he decides to stop in at the CCC place to get hisself a mustard sandwich and a glass o’ buttermilk. Then, he crosses Highway 183 and keeps on goin’ east. He passes a ghost office on his left and then a beige house with a ding dong on a post, and across the road on his right is the Johnson’s. Ya' can tell that cuz o’ the rock. Then on his left, agin, is another house, and he creeps up on the west side o’ their driveway, sorta sneaky like, and spits in their wishin’ well. Then he goes on east agin, past the open field and that’s when he stops dead in his tracks. “Well, I’ll be a horse’s ear!” he yells. “Take a gander at that thar short road goin’ north, and that thar purty windbreak just east of it! I betcha I can find a place in them thar trees to hide this ol’ gal and all her golden cackleberries!” So he takes off and crosses that thar road and then he hightails it over to them thar trees. Well, he walks down that thar row of cedar trees headin’ north until he comes to the eleventh tree that’s a settin’ thar in a little clearin’ and he looks at it real close like and he says, “Holy horned toads! This is it! The perfect place to hide a chicken!” Then he starts a shovin’ that ol’ biddy into that thar hidin’ place, and she squawks like crazy, but he keeps on a shovin’ ‘til he gets ‘er all in. That sorta ruffles the ol’ gals feathers a mite! “Hows comes yer stuffin’ me in here?” she squawks. “You think I’m NUTS?”
Well, ‘bout that time, here comes this ol’ gal with a slingshot, a yellin’ and a cussin’! Guess she musta heard that ol’ chicken a squawkin’. Anyhows, she starts screechin’, “You ain’t no letterboxer! Git the heck outta here! Ain’t never seen no letterboxers totin’ a cotton pickin’ chicken before!” Then she leans over and picks up a handful o’ rocks, puts ‘em in her slingshot and starts slingin’ ‘em at poor ol’ Jack. Nails him smack in the kisser! He takes off a runnin’ back west, straight down the center line, yellin’, “Crazy woman! Crazy woman! Run fer yer lives!”
Well, Jack makes it back home after ‘while, and he’s a huffin’ and a puffin’ and a sweatin’, with a mess o’ red welts all over his face and a rock in his left ear. He walks in the door, and his ol' lady says to him, “It’s ‘bout time you got outta bed!” Jack jest walks back out the door and doesn’t say nuttin’. His ol’ lady shakes her head and mutters to herself, “Stupid kid! Takes after his Pa!”
Well, I happens to know ol’ Jack ain’t so stupid as you might think! All on his own, he figgers out that rocks are hard and they smart when they hit. Not only that, he also figgers out thar’s only way he’s gonna collect them thar golden eggs of hissen without endin’ up with a rock in his belly button. He says, “I reckon I gotta become one of them thar…..uhhhh….. what’re they called?……Uhhh……oh, yeah…. litterboxes.” So that’s what he does. Yep, he does just that, and when he tells his ol’ lady he’s a litterbox, she goes out and gits herself a cat.
As fer you other litterboxes out there, you’re plumb welcome to come hunt for that ol’ chicken, cuz she’s still whar ol’ Jack put ‘er. I know durn well she is, cuz she’s stuffed in thar so tight, she can’t get out! I think ol’ Jack even squished her cackler! Don’t you worry none ‘bout that ol’ rock slinger cuz she digs litterboxes! I reckons she must have a cat too.
Well now, guess that’s the end o’ this here story, but as any durn fool knows, ever’ good story hasta have a moral, and I’m a tellin’ ya’ right now, this one’s got a doozy! It goes somethin’ like this:
“Ya’ can still get stinkin’ rich, even if ya’ don’t know beans from apple butter!”
P.S. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Here’s a message from ol’ Slingshot Sally:
“Letterboxers are welcome, but watch out fer rocks,
if yer huntin’ fer somethin’ that ain’t in a box!”
Sassy ol’ broad, ain’t she?