So I decided to gather up a few bits about moonshine, the official beverage of Appalachia, to announce that I should be getting back to a normal routine of posting.
The next installment of the current running short story, Butterfly Dreams should appear on Friday, 10/22.
A young man was hitchhiking down south and a farmer driving an old pickup truck stopped to give him a lift.
As they were driving, the farmer started bragging about how good the local moonshine whiskey was. The young man told the farmer that he didn’t drink very much, and that moonshine would probably be too strong for his tastes.
“Nonsense!” said the farmer. “You gotta try some.” He fished around behind him and finally produced a small jug. “Here,” he said, handing the jar to the lad. “Take a drink!”
“Oh, no thanks,” said the young man. “I really don’t think I care for any.”
“No, I insist,” pressed the farmer. “Have some.”
“No, thanks — really,” said the young man.
The farmer wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He stopped the truck and grabbed his shotgun from the rack in back. He pointed the gun at the lad and roared, “I said, take a drink!”
“Okay! Okay!” said the young man. He took a few swallows and instantly realized just how powerful the stuff was. His throat muscles tightened, his eyes watered, and he made a choking sound.
“What do you think of it?” asked the farmer. “Good, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” gasped the lad, afraid he would be forced to drink more if he disagreed, “I guess so.”
Then the farmer handed the young man the shotgun and grinned. “Here! Now, you hold the gun on me and make me drink some!”.
A reporter goes way up into the hills of West Virginia to write an article about the area. He meets an old man in a small town and asks him about any memorable events in his life.
The old man says, "Well, one time my favorite sheep got lost, so me and my neighbors got some moonshine and went looking for it. We looked and looked and finally found the sheep. Then we drank the moonshine and one by one, started shagging the sheep. It was a lot of fun!"
The reporter figured he can't write an article about that, so he asked the old man to tell him another story.
The old man said, "Well, one time my neighbor's wife got lost, so me and all the village men got some moonshine and went out looking for her. We looked and looked and finally we found her. Then we drank the moonshine and one by one, started shagging the neighbor's wife. Now, THAT was a lot of fun!"
The reporter, feeling frustrated, finally told the old man that he couldn't write articles about those stories and asked him if he had any dramatic or sad memories that he could talk about.
The old man paused a little and with a sad expression on his face said -"Well, one time it was me who was lost . . . "
The preacher was having a heart-to-heart talk with a backslider of his flock, whose drinking of moonshine invariably led to quarreling with his neighbors, and occasional shotgun blasts at some of them.
"Can't you see, Ben," intoned the parson, "that not one good thing comes out of this drinking?"
"Well, I sort of disagree there," replied the backslider. "It makes me miss the folks I shoot at."
“Old Jethro’s next door makin’ moonshine again,” the wife told her husband.
“How can you tell?” he asked. “Did you smell it?”
“Nope. But a bunch of mice from his place came over here this morning and beat the shit out of our cats.”