Spitoon

Fred, a city slicker, was travelling in the outback. It was the middle of summer and the water in the waterbag was boiling. He stopped at a one horse town and decided to patronise the local pub.

Fred stepped into the front bar. He couldn't help looking cool and sophisticated.

"Hi y'all." He said. "Gimme a drink, barkeep."

Fred strode towards the bar, tripped on a loose floor board the Barkeep had been meaning to hammer down for at least 3 months, and plunged head first into a spitoon.

"Nice brasswork," he spluttered trying to regain his composure. "I've got one like it in my car. I call it a cartoon."

Silence greeted this sally. He could imagine the eyes of the bar upon him. He tried to look nonchalant as he attempted to remove the spitoon from his head.

The barman, a hunchbacked neanderthaloid type with hairy chest, hairy arms and hairy palms slapped down a drink in front of Fred.

"Dollrfifty," the barman rumbled in a voice that sounded almost human. "You got a lot of brass commin' in 'ere and telling jokes like that." There wasn't a tremor of humour in his voice.

"That is," he added thoughtfully. "If it wus a joke."

Fred payed up, and picked up his drink as casually as you like. This, it was clear, was a tough pub. Determined not to show any sign of weakness he raised the glass of amber fluid to his lips. Then he realised there was not a lot he could do with it in his present state. He turned to the rest of the bar.

"I knew a bloke," he began. "Who could play a song on a wind chime just by spitting at it."

"Yea," burped the barman. "A spit tune."

Realising he was hopelessly outclassed Fred staggered towards the door, defeated. He wondered vaguely, as he passed through the door, how he was going to get the spitoon off his head.

At closing time the barkeep lead him out of the broom closet and threw him into the street.

"And stay out." The barman said disgustedly. "You spit hoon."

It was just one of those days.