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Hogspore News

National Society of Newspaper Columnists
2008 First Place Humor Column
                                                                                   Hogspore News from the Ozarks
                                                                                                      By Clet Litter
                                                                           Jimmy Suspenders wants to work for GPS

       Jimmy Suspenders is looking for a position. No, he ain’t taking Yoga classes; he’s searching for a job. He heard about the
guvernment’s Global Positioning Service, (GPS), so he applied with them.

       I tried to tell him what the GPS was, but he knows that they’re gonna get him a job. Maybe later, they can help him find
his way to work.

       I don’t fiddle with the GPS thing myself. I’ve been lost many times, but I’m exactly where I wanna be now, so everything
worked out without some satellite informing me when and where a turn is coming. That’s unnatural to me.

       I like to rely on the gifts that I been given. I don’t need no stinkin’ space radio to show me how to find the nearest  barbeque

       I visited Sheriff Combover in his office, and he was resting in his sheriffing chair with his bandaged foot propped on the
desk. I sez, “What happened to your foot?”

       He said, “Which foot, Clet?”

       “Let’s start with the swollen one up there on your desk.”

       He give an answer like he was writing a story, “Clet, you know I hate to use my gun. I never pull it out of the holster unless
there’s a serious situation going down, or if I’m cleaning my piece, or just taking some me-time and admiring my hardware after
a couple of beers.

       However, I was forced to pull out Lucille yesterday.”

       “Did a bad guy shoot you?”

       He says, “I am getting to that part, and yeah that’s my story. You remember I got in some wanted posters. Well, I come in  to
hang em up and I couldn’t lay my hands on a hammer.

       I drew my revolver to pound some nails into the posters with the butt-end. The last nail sorta got away from me and my
ordinance discharged.”

       “You mean you fired your gun?”

       Sheriff said, “Yeah, but for the official record, the word is Discharged. Turns out, I shot my boot. The bullet progressed
straight through my big toe, the little piggy that goes to market. Dr. Mel Practice looked at it and wrapped it up.

       It’s gonna be sore for two weeks; I’m having trouble walking on it. I wish it coulda been any of the other toes, but it’s the
alpha digit, my lead toe. The other four do what he does.

       Dr. Mel is willing to write me a stay-away-from-work note. Maybe I can wrangle a prescription for some fishing time.”

       Next week, I’ll let you know what Morton Trubletoof did on Aprils Fool’s Day.

       You can contact Clet Litter at  


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Bob Simpson
Largo, Florida
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