Tag Archives: cowboy

Thirst

The cowboy drank until he’d had enough, then topped off his flask for later.

When he turned to go, a couple mean-looking gents had gathered.

“Had enough?” said one.

“Got my fill.”

“Well at this lemonade stand most folks pay before they drink. Now give the little girl her quarter.”


This story was based on the prompt “had my fill” at TypeTrigger.

Lyin’ For Love

“I’m just a lonely cowpoke,” Billy admitted. “I ain’t no gun-totin’ hero, really.”

“Aw, shucks,” Milly muttered. “I was countin’ on you to save my ranch from Bad Bart!”

“I’m awful sorry, Milly.”

“Don’t be, darlin’. Truth is, I’ve been lyin’, too.”

“Pardon?”

“Y’see, pardner, I actually am Bad Bart!”

Kyle Farnsworth: Buffalo Keeper

He was a subculture within a subculture. Cowboys called him “bisonboy,” which wasn’t technically accurate, but it had a better ring to it than “buffaloboy.” He listened to country southern music and wore a 9-gallon hat.

But when he was sad, his tears made mud puddles, just like everybody else’s.


This story was based on a title suggested by @metcarfre.

Signs and Cymbals

The day Tom was born, his father wore a high hat.

As a two-year-old, Tom loved taking a ride on his mother’s knee.

When he was four, he watched his brother catch rabbits in a snare.

At six, a pony gave him a nasty kick.

Naturally, Tom became a cowboy.


I know, I know, explaining jokes isn’t funny, but… form your own conclusions.

Bourbon For Breakfast

He’d killed his first outlaw after drinking bourbon for breakfast; it had become part of his routine.

For similar reasons, he drank saké for supper and lemonade for lunch, though he didn’t much advertise the latter.

One time he swallowed mud at midnight, so he let the train robbers go.


This story is based on a title suggested by the ever profuse @MisterFiendZero.

I Call it Describofiction

“I reckon you best be moseyin’ off now, son,” drawled the drawling old cowboy.

“Well aren’t we Mr. McDrawlyPants?” snivelled the snivelling little sniveller.

“Ker-Bang!” shot the shooty six-shooter.

“You brought it on yerself,” grunted the grunting, grumpy cowboy.

“Ow, my chest cavity really huuuuurts…” whined the whiny, dying whiner.


I’m trying out a new way to write dialogue. I think it has promise!

Doody

The cowboy walked up to the toddler, who was sitting on the cowboy’s hat. “Howdy!” he said.

“Doody!” said the toddler.

“Baw haw haw!” said the cowboy. “I love Howdy Doody! Great minds think alike, pardner!”

“Doody!”

“That’s right, you’ve–” The cowboy sniffed. “Aw, crap, little pardner. In my hat!?”