Much has been said about global warming, both pro and con and by that I don't mean if favor of or against, but rather is it real or isn't it real. But, there is a tale to be told about the last Ice Age and how my friend Mustang and I were saved from dying in a cold, cold blizzard one summer's night. It was just north of Kiik-Koba what is now the Crimea, and the winds across the steppes was cold, oh so very cold. How cold was it? Why, it was so cold that if you had to take a leak, you'd freeze your ... (well, I won't say because their may be children in the room)... Mustang and I had been traveling for weeks, taking a travois and a five or six dogs to keep us warm at night (you didn't think I was dumb enough to cuddle with Mustang just to keep warm did you? I'd rather snuggle up to an enraged triceratops - which Mustang did once, but that is another story). A brief 6 months earlier we had lived in warmer climes, but Mustang couldn't keep his hands off the chieftan's daughter and so we fled that tribe in fear of our lives. Actually, I just went along with Mustang for the adventure, the Chieftan's daughter was in love with me and wouldn't have reported me for anything, not even the Pterosaur claw that Mustang promised her and swore that he tore off of a living Pterosaur (not that I believed him anyway, Mustang was known to stretch things sometimes, not that I'd ever tell a tall tale mind you. At any rate, we fled the Democratia-liberalis tribe and pledged to each other never to return.

But, I digress. As we wandered north Mustang noted that it was getting colder and colder and I told him that he should have brought his LLBean Parka and hiking boots. Of course Mustang claimed that he couldn't because they wouldn't have been invented for another 35,000 years or so, but hey, that's never stopped him before. At any rate, the farther north we go, the colder we got and the more difficult it became to find grubs and berrys and nuts to eat, let alone giant elk to hunt or even an occasional wooly mammoth. We had eaten the last of the dogs and were in fear of freezing to death or starving; one or the other for sure. In fact, Mustang was looking at me like you might look at a thanksgiving turkey, but I assured him that if he tried anything at all, I'd call out the Marines. Mustang said he wasn't worried, for two reasons, one, that the U.S. Marines hadn't been invented yet and when they were invented, he would be one of the first to join up (and he was too) and secondly, in the wind as it was, a smoke signal would be useless. I could also mention that there were damn few cell phone towers in that neighborhood.

Again, I digress. Mustang and I were in dire straits and were about to succumb to both cold and starvation when all of a sudden, a tribe of almost extinct Neanderthals came across us and took us to their campsite. Now, as most of you who read this blog regularly know, Neanderthals eventually did not become extinct, but grew into republicans. The chief, some really dimwitted fellow by the name of Trenta Lotta (really, that was his name) brought us some hot soup after we had been sitting by the fire in the igloo type dwelling and told us that we would have to elect one of us to undertake a task, join the tribe or both of us would be staked out in the middle of the glacier to die a cold and lonely death. Mustang immediately jumped up and said that since he was the oldest and the most experienced, accomplished, accustomed, adept, been around*, been there*, broken in*, capable, competent, dynamite, expert, familiar, fireball, instructed, knowing (OK, OK!! OLDEST... there, satisfied?) that he would assay the task what ever it may be.

The chief clapped Mustang on the back and handed him a small stone knife and a thin piece of something he called a "sheath" I don't know what that was, but it was marked "Trojan." At any rate, the chief and all the other tribal members danced a while and then turned to mustang and said that he would have to use the knife to skin a sabre-tooth and the sheath to make love to the chief's daughter... and man, was she ugly. (How ugly was she? Well, look here and you get a fair approximation.) Well, they got old Mustang quite drunk on their version of Chevis Regal (I thought it tasted just plain old pretty nasty, but Mustang swore that it was so bad, it tasted like Tyrannosaurous P.... Humph, I guess he would know). When he was drunk enough, out into the cold he went.

While mustang was gone, the tribe made me quite comfortable and insisted on doing everything for my comfort except sleep with one of their womenfolk, for which I am eternally greatful. Months went by and no word or sign from Mustang. Finally, one early afternoon Mustang came staggering into the camp. Man, was Mustang really messed up. Most of his hair was gone, there was a long gash on his chest and one arm looked broken. He was missing a couple of teeth and limping quite badly. He had scratches all over him and a wild look in his eye. Mustang walked to the middle of the camp, stood in front of the chief with that crazed/dazed almost psychotic look on his face and said "Now, where is your daughter that I have to skin?"

And that is the truth. You do believe me don't you?

Filed under: Mustang 'N Me! and Humor

UPDATE: Mustang has responded. Somehow, his memories are a little different.

Posted at 12:31 PM | Comments (14) | Add Comment
Post contains 1009 words, total size 6 kb.

1 BWAHAHAHAH!!!! Oh GM this is CLASSIC!!

---The chief clapped Mustang on the back and handed him a small stone knife and a thin piece of something he called a "sheath" I don't know what that was, but it was marked "Trojan."---


***THUD***

Mustang??? MUSTANG??? WHERE ARE YOU???????

Posted by: Raven at Thursday, November 23 2006 02:17 PM (dFk9B)

2 LOL! What a great story!

we fled the Democratia-liberalis tribe and pledged to each other never to return.

Those of us with any sense at all are still fleeing that tribe. Don't they ever die off?

Posted by: Always On Watch at Thursday, November 23 2006 02:35 PM (0Co69)

3 GM,

Since Mustang use to ask me, with feigned respect, what is was like in "The Old Corps", you might guess that I am a tad older than he.

I would file suit with the ACLU as there seems to be some age discrimination here...but I mostly hate the ACLU.

Is there no respect for elders anymore? Sigh.

Well, Lads, bicker amoungst ye if ye must. Us older bunnies will retire to our snug digs and recall the thrilling days of yesteryear.

Tad

P.S. I didn't know you had developed the fine of of telling sea stories.

Posted by: tad at Thursday, November 23 2006 05:12 PM (0Co69)

4 That is one of the longest jokes I have EVER read. lol

I still cannot get the picture of the naked Helen Thomas looking Neanderthal out of my mind. haha

Posted by: Wild Bill at Friday, November 24 2006 12:50 AM (hXTBm)

5 G.M., you're going to take the place of Jerry Clower for the longest stories before the punch line. I remember one from him that must have gone on for twenty minutes, but the short version is like this:

"John shinnied up that tree till he got close to that coon. He reached into his overalls and pulled out a sharp pointy stick. Then he poked that coon with the stick to knock him out of the tree, down into the pack of dogs. Cept it warn't no coon, it was a lynx, we calls'em souped up wildcats. That lynx attack'tid poor old John, purty soon John started screaming "whoo, somebody shoot this thing, it's a killin' me!" Mr ___ said we can't shoot up thar, we might hit you. John said "Well, just shoot up here amongst' us, one of us has got to have some relief!"

Well, except in Clower's case, we usually laughed because the joke was so bad and we were glad that it was finally over.

As an aside, when I was looking for his joke, I ran into a site called Possumblug ( http://possumblog.mu.nu/ ), which has some pretty funny stories like this one -
http://possumblog.mu.nu/archives/cat_the_loveliest_village.html

and he has a football prognosticator that he refers to as "Football Pickin' Chicken Nancy Pelosi." -
http://possumblog.mu.nu/archives/123584.html

Regarding sleeping with dogs, I heard that the name of the band "Three Dog Night" refers to a very cold night in which you have to sleep with three dogs to stay warm.

Finally, I thought that the Trojan army came after the ice age.

Posted by: Woody at Friday, November 24 2006 02:30 AM (v5VVJ)

6 This . . . rendition . . . of history cannot be ignored, nor shall it go unanswered. For now, suffice it to say that stuffing oneself with Turkey risks hallucination, which can manifest itself in episodes of daymares, exacerbated by radiological emissions from computer monitors.

The glove has been offered, sir.

Semper Fi

Posted by: Mustang at Friday, November 24 2006 04:40 AM (/Ocrj)

7 Sir Mustang (I always address my elders by "Sir") since I am the one challenged, I get to choose the weapons. My choice Sir is Tall tales delivered via computer screen at 1000 miles. Your challenge is accepted. :-)

Posted by: GM Roper at Friday, November 24 2006 06:00 AM (S60yG)

8 At last, the true story behind ol' Frank's song: I’ve Got You Under My Skin.

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