|
 The
morning conference began innocently enough, with Steve and Doc
arguing over which of the little packaged jellies went better on
sourdough toast, and no one caring which one was right.
Dud and Bert and I sat silently, sucking down the morning elixir
until it spread life to our outermost reaches as the Mule Barn truck
stop’s world dilemma think tank crept to life. Bert was unusually
quiet this morning and we asked why. He hemmed and hawed a little,
then said, “Doc, you know about these things. What exactly is female
trouble?”
Oh shoot. Pretty heavy stuff for just two cups of coffee, so the
rest of us hurried down a third as Doc puffed up a bit and got
ready.
“Sure, Bert,” Doc said kindly. Then Doc gave us the best his nine
years of college and 50 years of medical practice had blessed him
with. He waxed eloquent on hormonal elements, the ebb and flow of
female fertility, things that could go wrong with tubular parts, and
the effect all of these things could have on the attitudinal
proclivities of the dear ladies we all love and admire. He took a
break while Mavis returned with more coffee and with strange looks
at our faces while we tried not to stare at her. Then she was gone,
and Doc began again. Finally, when we had been pretty well checked
out on the mysterious workings of the gentle gender, Doc said,
“Bert, if your wife is having some problems, have her give me a
call.” [to top of second
column] |
“Oh, it ain’t her, Doc,” Bert
said. “It’s Dud.”
We all looked at Dud. He grinned sheepishly. No one wanted to say
anything. Finally, Steve said, “I’m not going to be the one to ask.”
“That’s what you said, Dud, right?” Bert asked. “That’s why
Saturday’s plans are shot.”
“Female trouble?” Doc said, looking at his old friend.
Dud nodded. “Anita won’t let me go fishing this weekend.”
[Text from file received from
Slim Randles]
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