Author Archives: tattletaleroadhouse


My friend Floyd was getting a divorce after seven years of “wedded bliss.” He was seventy and looking forward to living alone without snipping and without compromise. His soon-to-be-ex-wife had already taken most of the furniture, and all of the good stuff, but she had not moved out of the house yet.

Floyd asked me to use my truck to help him pick up an item at the local consignment shop. We arrived at the loading dock and a strapping young man wheeled out a seven-foot-tall, solid oak secretary.

My pal is a strong, burly man but he has bad knees. So he stood by as the twenty-year-old and I loaded my truck. although the football-player-type had the heavy end, it was  a strugle. I wondered how two old men were going to handle the unloading.

We arrived at Floyd’s house.

“I suppose you could have parked in the next county,” was Floyd’s way of reminding me about his bad knees.

We stood looking at the secretary. “Floyd, this darn thing is heavy.”

“It ain’t no hill for a couple of climbers.”

There was a time when Floyd and I could have carried that secretary up a whole flight of stairs. But that was forty years ago.

I took the heavy end and we started to inch it off the truck. The farther it slid, the more I strained mightly.Floyd got a hand under the other end.

“Are you ready?” he said.

I managed to nod through a grimace.

I began to shuffle backwards and he attempted to follow. He yelled, “Oh, %$#@,%$#@,%$#@,  this frigger is heavy!”

The veins in his neck looked as if they were going to burst.

“I told you it was heavy.”

“Shut up.”

“What’s matter, Floyd?”

“Oh, lord, even my butt is hurting.”

“Man, you got to loosen up.”

“Shut up.”

I continued to edge backwards. When I felt my foot against the porch, I said, “I’m going to shift some of the weight toward you while I back-step onto the porch.”

“Oh, yeah, hell yeah. Kill me, why don’t you? Just shoot my sorry arse.”

We got the secretary up on the porch and into the living room with a banshee scream from Floyd on the last step.

“Put your end down!” he roared in panic.

I put it down, but Floyd was spent. He could not hold his end another second. His arthritic knees buckled. I heard a crunch. His eyes popped wide; his head bobbed. Then he shook all over and began to sink–slowly at first. I pulled the secretary upright as Foyd collapsed onto the floor.

He whimpered, “Lord, I’m coming home.”

Floyd’s wife sashayed into the room. She looked around. “I think it would look better over there.”

Eerie silence. I held my breath

Floyd growled, “It ain’t going over there. It ain’t going nowhere. I’ll walk around that %$#@ every day of my life, but I ain’t gonna move it one more %$#@ inch.

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SILLY WOMEN by Tony R. Lindsay

The cars were burning up the track on the NASCAR oval in Charlotte, North Carolina. My pal and I staved off the heat in the stands by downing jumbo cups of beer. I told Fred that I had to go to the bathroom. After I jogged up the stadium steps, I entered a long corridor. A sign read “RESTROOMS.” The first door was marked “WOMEN,” so I pushed through the other door.

No one was inside and the place seemed odd somehow. There were no urinals to go along with two rows of stalls. Some dumb architect must have tried to save construction costs by omitting the urinals. With urgency I entered a stall and closed the door behind me. There I stood when I heard the door to the restroom open and the voices of two women chatting and giggling. I thought, “Boy, those silly women are sure going to be embarrassed when they find out they are in the wrong restroom.” I decided to save them the humiliation by staying in my stall until they had washed their hands and left. I eased up my zipper and waited.

Then I heard the door open again. Two women entered laughing loudly. I thought, “Two more silly women are going to be embarrassed when . . .”

Wait a minute. Hold on. Houston, we have a problem. I was in the wrong restroom!

I heard two stall doors open and close. All four sitters were behind closed doors. I leapt out of my stall and dashed pass the washbasin and out the door. What a relief.

My respite lasted no more than a second. An older churchlady-type was reaching for the door as I burst out. Our heads turned in unison to gaze at the sign on the door–“WOMEN” What in heck was going on?

Churchlady’s face turned menacing. “What were you doing in the women’s room?

“Well, you see, I’m a plumber.”

Churchlady snarled. “Bull feathers.”

“Really, the thingamajig was hanging on the hickywaddle. It’s fine now.”

“Bull feathers!”

At that moment two women came out of the restroom and stood there with their mouths agape.

Churchlady said, “This man came out of the ladies room.”

I said, “I did not! I don’t know what this women is talking about.”

“You’re a liar. You just came out that door.”

I protested, “Grandma here has been smoking some bad stuff. Did you see me in that room?’

The women shook their heads. I said, “I think this old girl is listing badly. She may be a danger to herself. You ladies restrain her, and I’ll go find a policeman.”

One of the women stepped forward. Churchlady said to her, “You touch me and I’ll flatten you. I’ll pull out every hair on your head.”

I said, “I’ll be right back.”

Churchlady turned to me. “You’re an idiot. You are a pervert. You are a perverted idiot. You should be ashamed. You would gag a maggot. You should be locked away from decent folks.”

I left the women standing there and sprinted along the corridor, and passed a sign that read “RESTROOMS” and two doors labeled “MEN.” That stupid architect nearly got me thrown in jail.

I bought a couple of beers and returned to my friend. Fred asked, “Where on earth have you been?”

I flopped down in my seat. “The short answer is I’ve been to the restroom.”


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