20
by Ylatkit
My other one goes like this.
This is the definition of an optimist.
Two white men came over from the old country in 1809. They landed in New York, went through Ellis Island, and ended up on the mean streets of Hell's Kitchen, where they got jobs scrubbing pots. They each made fifty cents a week. Eventually, though, they got tired of scrubbing pots.
Then they heard that out west, in some-fucking-place called California, you could get a bounty of one dollar for every Apache head you produced. Since they were both optimists, they went back to work with renewed fury, got raises, and started saving every penny that they could. After a year and half of scrimping, saving, re-counting their money again and again, another raise, no whiskey and many, many pots, they were able to buy a small used Prairie Schooner and a sway-back, ancient mare to pull it. So finally, they were able to head west.
The journey was epic. This story used to be considerably longer, because it included some of the highlights of their trip, which included running out of water, grizzly bears, snowstorms and a bad case of the clap that they were sure happened either because they didn't pay the hooker or because the hooker was a midget, or because of the night they got drunk and made fun of that gypsy, who promptly cursed them. They never did figure it out, and they never did figure out why both of them caught the clap.
At any rate, eventually, like all trips, it ended, and this one ended because they reached their destination. They came up a little rise, and on a small hill was a sign that said "Welcome to California". Down in a swale on the other side of the sign were three Apache. The two men looked at each other, drew their rifles, and opened fire.
They got two of the Apaches, and the third one got away, although they were sure he was wounded.
So after they finished figuring out how to get the two head separated from the two bodies, they pitched their tent, built their fire, and sat around it congratulating each other. They had been here less than two hours, and they had already made four weeks pay!
The next morning, the first white man to wake up lay in his tent, looking up at the canvas, full of the nice, warm feeling of finally having found a viable path to complete financial security. As he lay in the comfort of his blanket, he heard a small noise, and opened the tent flap and peered out.
And there, from a point three feet in front of the tent to the horizon, for 180 degrees in both directions, standing shoulder to shoulder in utter, ominous silence, was the entire Apache nation. A fire had been started and allowed to burn down to a deep bed of coals, that shimmered in the gentle breeze. A sturdy tripod built of logs stood twenty feet over it, with a rope already fixed to the top. More than a thousand Apache warriors stood there, backed by a thousand Apache women, all waiting patiently, in that deadly, cold silence.
The first white man rolled the tent flap back down, then shook his partner awake.
"Wake up, man, we're going to be rich!"
"When I have your wounded." -- Major Charles L. Kelly, callsign "Dustoff", refusing to acknowledge that an L.Z. was too hot, moments before being killed by a single shot, July 1st, 1964.
"Touch it, dude!"
