Right Between the Eyes.
It was indeed. Rip and Snort were brothers, the sons of a woman who, by dint of thorough acquaintance with religious romance literature, knew that to be truly masculine, a name must be one syllable and reflect some property of nature that is commonly associated with strength or grandeur. The reunion was moving. So much so that Snort lost his place in his hair. He had just relocated it when the joy was shattered by what sounded like a chainsaw being let loose on a field of granite. “Just one minute, Mister:” it ratcheted. “I don’t know what kind of man you are, but I know what kind of man this other man is, and it ain't the kind who sits well with a man like me. Now I don’t know what kind of man you are, but you’re obviously the kind who will shake hands with his kind-” “Ah, forgive me brothah,” Snort laid a ponderous hand on his brother’s back. “There appeayas to be some kind of misundahstandin’. This man appeayas to be the progenitah of some sort of daughtah, whose hanky I just fetched: and he is undah the curious impreshan that this was a proposal of marrahge.” “HA!” the old stranger exclaimed. The young men ducked just in time, but the exclamation ricocheted off a neighboring barn and smote them in the back of the head. Rip lost his place in his hair directly and spent the ensuing declaration trying to find it. “Now just you listen here: I don’t know what kind of man you are: but if you think I think you’re the kind who would decently propose to any girl, especially my daughter, then you obviously don’t know what kind I am. I may not know what kind of man you are, but I had you pegged for the scum of the earth you could only be before I laid two eyes on you. And I was right. First you sullied my daughter’s hanky, and then you sullied her reputation. That’s just the kind of man you are, and it ain't the kind who decently proposes.” “Mah deayah – sir,” Snort faltered. “Ah have no ideyah of what you are speakin’.” “I’m speakin’ of you, speakin’ to my daughter in the street, is what I’m speakin’ of. And if this young man” he indicated Snort, who was taken aback by the sudden swing of the old man’s vocal engine and lost his place again “will just take my daughter into the tavern to protect her from your further depradations, I’ll show you what kind of man you are, out of this book.” And so saying he produced a weatherbeaten copy of a story of religious love, purporting to be written by a female candlepart. Snort recognized it at once: his mother had kept a copy on her bedside table. In a few moments all that could be seen of Snort was his massive backside, disappearing at the head into an annotated edition of Donovan’s Otter. |
A.W. Pink was right. Dogs are the enemies of the gospel.