BILLINGSGATE POST: Elmer Smuckmeister had grown lonesome in the saddle since his horse died. The widows of Beaver Crossing, Nebraska; the ones who still had teeth, had long ago decided that Elmer, despite his extra-large bank account, was an incurable romantic.
That, in itself, would not have turned them off. It was having to share a bed with him and his sheep that ran afoul with their outdated monogamous values. To Elmer, a ménage a trois with a woman and a willing sheep was as American as apple pie.
Of particular concern, and what the widows discussed over tea and crumpets, was his penchant for using a Montana pole while having sex with a sheep. The pole, an ingenious contraption that usually consisted of a mirror dangling from an old pitchfork handle, was positioned in front of a sheep’s face to see if it was smiling while being poked from behind.
But the old heifers, who themselves secretly yearned for a sex life without perimeters, drew a line in the sand when they were asked to do likewise.
So that is why Elmer decided to go to Omaha, the largest city in Nebraska. He had read that there was going to be a feminist rally in the city. He had heard that feminists were, by nature, inherently horny. But by suppressing their basic instincts, they become more and more receptive to taboo sexual behaviors.
Upon returning to Beaver Crossing with his pet sheep, Irma, he had a satisfied smile on his face.
“You don’t go to a feminist rally to find a cook,” Elmer offered.
Dr. Slim: “By God, I think he might have something there.”
Dirty: “Yo, Doctor. That’s why you don’t need to bring ants to a picnic.”