Humor From Slim Randles

This meme has nothing to do with the subject of this post, but I couldn’t resist sharing after a friend sent it to me via e-mail. All of us who love to read can relate.

I’m always so glad that Slim shares his weekly essays with me, so I always have content, even when I’m too busy to write a blog post. That has certainly been the case this week, as Slim and the guys at the Mule-Barn Truck Stop make another visit. Between flares of the pain of trigeminal neuralgia, that ever-present gift from Ramsay Hunt Syndrome, and writing and editing responsibilities, there hasn’t been a lot of time to devote to the blog.

So, without further ado, here’s the story from Slim. No nurses were harmed in the writing of this blogpost.

We hadn’t seen our pal, Steve the cowboy, at the philosophy counter at the Mule Barn truck stop for a while. After a week’s absence, he showed back up for his daily ration of caffeine, and it was obvious he’d lost some weight, if not attitude.

  “Hospital again,” he said.

We nodded. Steve has internal-workings situations from time to time. Usually, these happen during a cold snap when the bunkhouse needs extra firewood. He swears this is just a coincidence.

 He appreciates doctors a lot, it turns out. Especially young, cute, female-lady-type doctors. He has two of them that look after him. To quote Steve: “Cuter’n a pocketful of baby mouses!”

 But nurses?

That’s another thing entirely.

“They run this nurse in on me,” he said, “to give me one of them baths, you know?”

 Doc grinned. “Cute, was she, Steve?”

 “Cute? Doc, her face looked like it had worn out two bodies. She had the exact aerodynamics of a milk carton, and the human kindness of a meter maid. I didn’t stand a chance!”

“Food any better this year?” asked Herb.

We had heard all about 12,000 mile-an-hour toast last year and how they had used it as heat shields on the space shuttle.

“Boys, they don’t have food in that hospital. They just want to tease you by telling you it’s edible stuff. You just take our special Sunday dinner. They called it ribeye steak.”

We waited while he sucked down another cup of coffee and asked Loretta to bring him something to eat that wasn’t good for his situation. 

  “Ribeye sounds good, Steve.”

  “Ribeye? RIBEYE?

“Listen, guys, I don’t know what gopher they cut that hunk of meat off of, but it was sure as sin from a long-distance gopher. That was so small and tough … I’ll bet that steak had more miles on it than my pickup.”

Brought to you by Packing the Backyard Horse by Slim Randles.

Check out all of Slim’s award-winning books at his Goodreads Page and in better bookstores and bunkhouses throughout the free world.

All of the posts here are from his syndicated column, Home Country that is read in hundreds of newspapers across the country. I am always happy to have him share his wit and wisdom here.

Slim Randles is a veteran newspaperman, hunting guide, cowboy and dog musher. He was a feature writer and columnist for The Anchorage Daily News for 10 years and guided hunters in the Alaska Range and the Talkeetna Mountains. A resident of New Mexico now for more than 30 years, Randles is the prize-winning author of a dozen books, and is host of two podcasts and a television program.