Erroneous on both counts, pard. Hell, I'm a 47-year-old rusty pipe wrench fella, and I have always held truthfulness right on up next to manliness. That reminds me of this one night where me and the fellas decided it might be a good idea to imbibe three quarts of the elixir each and head on down to the Forsyth County fair. Upon our arrival, a fella jumped out from behind the bovine exhibit to inquire as to our willingness to box an orangutan for money. He said it would cost $25 to get in the ring, and if one of us was lucky enough to survive one round on our feet, we could split his day's revenue. It sounded like on helluva'n idea to all of us (none of us had any concept of expected value at this point), and each and every one of the fellas wanted to test his might against the great ape. In the end, we only had enough pooled currency for one fella to get in the ring. After the doughnut performance at the Delta Gamma house that ended with four pregnancies, I was once again tapped as the most worthy of the test.
As I donned my protective headgear and gloves, the homo owner said, "I'll make it 65% of the day's take if you lose the headgear." I obliged. I put in my mouth piece, turned 'round, and saw the beast for the first time. Standing on his hind legs, he was 16 hands if he was an inch, pards. The knuckles on his kielbasa-sized fingers were ashy and cracked, either from dragging on the ground, or from the day's work. The dried tears in his eyes were the color of the dried feces stuck to his fur. Hell, I knew it would be no easy feat to lick him, but I knew I had a chance. I assumed my tried and true 1920s southpaw stance that had only once let me down at the hand of a very ornery girl in the fourth grade. The bell rang, I circled the creature, threw half of a jab, and there was dark.
Dr. Katzenstein did one helluva job with the reconstruction over the next 12 hours, and after the bandages were removed I saw one beautiful face in the mirror. The fella in the next bed was in for a broken leg after he jumped from a movin' tractor at the fair in a fit of anabolic steroid rage brought on by the calves that "would not listen" to him. He looked over at me as I admired my new face and said, "Hey, what are you smilin' 'bout, fool? You're in the damned hospital!" I said, "Hell, there are worse places to be, pard. Hell, this one day I--" "You sure are a good natured boy." he interrupted, "Yeah, the nature boy. I like your style, kid."
It was an odd exchange, but I shrugged it off and was back at the fair eatin' corn on the cob that afternoon.