A bear strolls through Billings, Montana, and goes into a bar. He walks through the door, leans his huge body up against the bar, and growls, "Gimme a beer!"

"Sorry," says the bartender, "we don't serve beer to bears in bars in Billings."

"Dammit, I said gimme a beer!"

"I told you, we don't serve beer to belligerent bears in bars in Billings."

On huge hair arm thrusts out and a paw points at a middle-aged woman in the corner. "You see that barfly there! If you don't gimme a beer right #$##in' now, I'm gonna eat that barfly!"

"Sorry, we don't serve beer to belligerent bears in bars in Billings who are bullies."

The bear simply growls, walks over to the barfly--and sure enough, he eats her. He comes back to the bar, wipes the blood off his lips with one huge paw and says, "NOW you gonna gimme a beer?"

"Sorry, we don't serve beer to belligerent bears in bars in Billings who are bullies, who are also on drugs."

"DRUGS?!? What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"That was a bar-bitch-you-ate."


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During the latter days of the Old West, during the days of cattle drives and gunfighters, there was a kid who wanted nothing more than to be the fastest gun in the West--he wasn't a very bright kid, see?

So he practiced and practiced and practiced, and he was fast, but he knew he still wasn't the fastest there was.

One night he was settin' around in a saloon and he saw an old man he recognized--because back in his day, this old man had been the fastest gun there was; in the West or anywhere. So he walked up to the old fellow, bought him a drink, and explained his situation--and then asked if the old-timer had any tips.

"Well, first off, y'holster's ridin' too high on y'laig. Lower it jus' a mite, so's it comes more natural to y'hand."

"Will a little thing like that really make me a better gunfighter?"

"Sho' will."

So the kid took off the gunbelt, adjusted it a bit, strapped it back on, and made sure it was good an' low on his leg. Then he stood up, whipped that gun out like greased lightning, and the cufflink flew off the piano-player's wrist as the gunshot boomed through the small room.

"Whoa, that really did help! Got any other tips?"

"Ayup... Cut a notch in y'holster, right where th'hammer rides, so's it won't scrape on th'way out."

"Will that make me a better gunfighter?"

"Sho' will"

So the kid took off his gunbelt again, set the pistol on the table, then drew his Bowie knife and cut a notch in the holster. He inspected his handywork, then slid the pistol back in to see how it fit, smiled, stood, and strapped on the gunbelt. This time the gun just about lept into his hand, and as the gunshot cracked across the saloon-room the coal went flying right off the piano-player's cigar.

"Whoa.... That really did work... Got any other tips for me?"

"Ayup.... See that bucket of axle grease over there? Coat y'gun with it."

This certainly makes sense, so the kid grabs a handful of grease and slathers it over the barrel of his pistol

"Naw, boy--coat th'whole thing; handle an' all."

"Will that make me a better gunfighter?"

"Naw... But when Wyatt Earp gits done playin' th'pianer, he's gonna come over here an' shove that gun right up y'ass--an' this way, it won't hurt s'much."