(a classic, apologies for the length…)
THE DUCK HUNTER AND THE FARMER
One day a duck hunter from the city shot a duck that was flying over the far shore of the pond where the hunter had stationed himself. To get to where he believed the duck fell, the hunter walked around the shore of the pond and through some woods. Once through the woods he found himself in a clearing that appeared to be a farmyard. The duck had fallen to earth about ten feet in front of the farmhouse porch.
As the hunter bent to pick up the duck, he heard a voice say, “Better leave that duck there, Mister. It’s mine.” He looked up and saw a farmer standing on the porch.
“But I shot it. It belongs to me.” he argued.
“Naw. Fell in my yard. Anything there belongs to me.” Stated the farmer in a slow drawl.
They argued back and forth for a considerable time until the farmer finally said, “This talk ain’t gettin no wheres. Let’s settle this the old fashioned country way with a balls kickin contest.”
“A WHAT?”
“BALLS KICKIN CONTEST. TAKE TURNS KICKIN EACH OTHER IN THE BALLS. Who ever gives up loses the duck.”
Now the duck hunter from the city figured himself to be just as tough as any “red neck” farmer, so he agreed to the contest and was only a little dismayed when the farmer claimed the right to the first kick on the basis of being the originator of the idea.
The two men faced each other in the farmyard. The duck hunter clinched his teeth and braced himself to receive the farmer’s first kick. The farmer’s heavy work boot swung back and then arced forward with great force and velocity. The kick found its mark. Dead Center. The duck hunter doubled up, lurched forward two steps and fell to his knees. His face contorted by pain and his mouth gasping in a silent scream, the duck hunter rolled onto his side and began rotating in the dust. After two minutes, the groans came, then he managed a series of high-pitched yelps. And finally, he writhed on the ground with the dust caked to the tears on his face, his hands buried in his crotch. He sobbed and cursed for twenty minutes in very satisfactory suffering that hurt in a most excruciating manner.
When his agony subsided enough, he painfully got to his feet and confronted the farmer with a snarl. “Now it’s my turn, you bastard.” He hissed as his eyes blazed with hatred and rage.
A faint, almost benign, smile curled the farmer’s mouth as he replied…“Naw. You can have the duck.”
