The doctor says: “Who are you?” I says: “I’m the fellow that took your prescription.” He says: “Well, what are you calling me up for?” I says: “I ain’t calling you up; I’m calling you down.” He says: “I think you sloped from the slope with my child, you slob, and if ever I see you again I’ll puncture your——”
Just then the barfender—bender—lender—tender asked me to have another Schlitz, so I dropped the fender—the sender to sip the Schlitz. Just as I sized up the Schlitz to seize it the bartender told me to settle for the last Schlitz. I couldn’t settle, so the bartender settled me. He gave me a sassy slap in the slats and spilled all the Schlitz that I had sipped.
Then I got desperate and commenced dropping nickels in the Schlitz and Schlitzes in the slots, then I got some more slaps in the slats; the doctor was trying to call me and I was calling the bartender—something I can’t repeat here, and—well, I finally got out and after a while, about thirty days after, I reached home—my old home. My father and mother said it was the home of my birth. Well, if “my birth” owned that home he never got any rent for it. The first person I met was a girl. Of course I met three politicians; but she was the first person. She was a singular person; she was the first person singular—singular because she wasn’t married. But that wasn’t so singular, because she was born with only one good eye. In the other one she got in a crockery store—kind of a bum pair of lamps.
Then one day she had the misfortune to be walking on a railroad track and she met a train—that, is, the train met her. Of course, there was no regular introduction; they just came together as people and trains will. Well, the train met her and now she’s got a cork—she’s got a corker. [Slap leg with hand.] Well, as I say, I met the corker—I mean the girl—and she told me she was engaged to be led to the slaughter—I mean sled to the halter—I mean led to the altar; going to be murdered—married; and she invited me to bring presents—I mean to be present at the wedding.
There wasn’t many people knew she had a corker. The fellow that was going to board her for life didn’t know she had a corker, either. The day before the wedding the gloom—that is, the groom—you know, the fellow that was going to marry the corker—I mean the girl—well, he was kind of a diffident fellow; he asked me to go to the parsley—the parsnips—the parson with him, and I went with the victim.
The parson charged him $5.00 to tie the connubial nit—the connubial knot. The parson said: “My dear sir; I will charge you $5.00 to set you sailing on the sea of matrimony.” My friend said: “Well, what’ll you charge for a round-trip ticket?” You see he didn’t know about the corker, but he was a corker. He says: “I’ll save you $4.00 to tie the conjugal knit-knot”—not knit but knot. But the parson refused. He said: “$5.00 or knot—nit.” The parson would not take any less than $5.00 for the imposition—the operation. He belonged to the “union.” So my friend that was engaged to the corker paid him the flea—the fee to knit the knot—I mean tie the knot. Well, the next day we all went to the church to see the fight—the wedding.
The young couple stood up in front of the parson and the parson opened a jackpot—I mean the Bible, looked all around the church and said: “Is there anybody here to give the bride away?” I jumped up and said: “Yes, I can, but I won’t!”
Then the queer—I mean the choir sang queer—that is, the queer choir sang “Take Me Just as I Am.” And the young fellow did. Of course, he didn’t know anything about the corker until——
Well, an old woman, 78 or 48, who lived in the town died one day. Of course, that isn’t strange, because old women die every day. But this particular old lady—but she couldn’t have been particular, either, or she wouldn’t have died. But anyhow she died, with a will, or against her will; that is, she had a will or left a will when she died. In the will she bequeathed to the corker—I mean the girl who married the fellow that didn’t know she had a corker—she bequeathed to her an old arm-chair.
Everybody gave the young couple the horse-laugh, but the young fellow took the old arm-chair home and put it in the house along with the glass eye and the corker. A few days after that they sat down to the breakfast-table—the fellow, the glass eye, the arm-chair and the corker—and while sitting at breakfast, talking over their cocoa, the husband said something over his cocoa, and then the wife said something over her cocoa, and they got into an argument over their cocoa, and finally he picked up the old arm-chair, over his cocoa, and passed it to his wife, over her cocoa, and broke it all to pieces—not the cocoa, but the old arm-chair. The old arm-chair was smashed all to pieces and out rolled fifteen million dollars in gold bull-con—bull-coin—gold bullion. You see, this wise old lady knew that the husband would break the old chair over his wife’s cocoa when he found she had a——