SPITTIN' FOR FUN AND PROFIT
or, SPIT HAPPENS!
He was kinda like a ventriloquist,
Except it had to do with his chew.
Instead of throwing his voice,
He'd spit and make it come from you.
He was a champion spitter and that's for sure.
He'd practice day and night to get it right.
Spittin' and chewin' and spittin' some more.
A wad between cheek 'n gum, packed in tight.
Well, he got so good at the contest spittin',
He'd won the championship title in every contest.
He even gave lessons to newbies and such,
But none could come close to being the best.
After some time, it got to be sorta dull for him,
So he started working on a new plan.
He added in some magic tricks with his spit.
He'd aim for the near spittoon, but the ring came from the far pan.
If you knew, and were in on the joke, it was hilarious.
He'd wait for just the right moment to embarrass someone.
About the time they were all wound up for a punchline,
He'd let it fly like he was using a blow gun.
Of course, he never had any real chew in his mouth.
It was all stage performance based on his fame and lore.
But the victims never knew, which made it all the better,
Especially when the person was right next to the cuspidor.
Well, he got so good at it, he could do multiples -
Simultaneously spitting, embarrassing friend and foe.
He had spittoons ringing all over the room.
Once he even made the local Rabbi lookin' like a schmo.
Next thing we knew, he was globally famous.
Ed Sullivan introduced him as a really big SHOO.
Carson, Griffin and Bishop had him demonstrate.
So, that is when we started calling him... The Wandering Chew!
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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CARTOONING THE OLD WEST
He had a certain flair with a pen.
He was a cartoonist in the old West,
For newspapers and magazines,
In El Paso and also in Juarez.
Everyone liked his work and his message.
He favored stories about Pancho Villa.
Each new episode showed a hero -
With a horse, a gun and bottle of tequila.
Then a gringo outlaw rode into town.
Mean and ornery and full of hate,
But he got into the cartoon anyway -
Just in time for a Mexican debate.
Villa on the right, Gringo on the left.
With pistols ready and hands steady,
But aim was off for each man,
And wouldn't you know they became friends already.
With press corp watching and scribbling,
Everything documented and cartooned.
The Border bandit and Lefty -
Were historically and hysterically lampooned.
With more than simple artistic ability,
As a cartoonist, he was called the Cactus Rembrandt.
And all over El Paso and all over Juarez,
People fell in love with TOONS Van Zandt.
He had a certain flair with a pen.
He was a cartoonist in the old West,
For newspapers and magazines,
In El Paso and also in Juarez.
Everyone liked his work and his message.
He favored stories about Pancho Villa.
Each new episode showed a hero -
With a horse, a gun and bottle of tequila.
Then a gringo outlaw rode into town.
Mean and ornery and full of hate,
But he got into the cartoon anyway -
Just in time for a Mexican debate.
Villa on the right, Gringo on the left.
With pistols ready and hands steady,
But aim was off for each man,
And wouldn't you know they became friends already.
With press corp watching and scribbling,
Everything documented and cartooned.
The Border bandit and Lefty -
Were historically and hysterically lampooned.
With more than simple artistic ability,
As a cartoonist, he was called the Cactus Rembrandt.
And all over El Paso and all over Juarez,
People fell in love with TOONS Van Zandt.
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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THE DOUBLE DECKER OUT BACK
You've heard of a two-holer outhouse, I'm sure,
But what about a two-story privy for the elite,
Or possibly even for the demure?
That way, two occupants never need to greet.
It was a real thing, I'm told, though I don't know.
First-hand knowledge, I'll confess, is missing.
But, imagine the poor feller in the cellar, on the go,
When the customer on the upper level is pissing.
But still, only half as bad down below,
As when the high-and-mighty up above,
Have a gastronomical expulsion show,
With deposits they wish to dispose of.
But that's not even the worst of it all.
There is still a piece of this story, left for your amazement.
'Cause what I should have told you first of all,
Was about the feller who had to use the basement.
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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| This image is a 1941 photograph of a two-story outhouse located at 458-460 Agnes Street in Indianapolis, Indiana. It was built around 1913 behind a four-unit apartment building. |
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THE CHANGING OF THE GONG
Bang the Gong, you say.
But do you know what game you play?
The word you use,
Could mean refuse.
Tudor times used the word -
For a common human turd.
More polite than shite.
Gong farmers worked at night.
A modern revenue AI firm,
Now uses the name, I'll confirm.
But do they know what they say,
Meant something else in another day?
Time heals all wounds it seems,
And the stigmas of society's extremes.
Where once a gong-farmer was secluded
Now, the skills have been excluded
The gong you bang is no kin,
And shares no associated sin.
Technology and modernization win,
Where old-school must give in.
But let it be known all over,
A gong-farmer made sweet clover,
But a gong-banger is paid -
Not according to the noise made
They shared only one commonality -
The mallet swinging ability.
To bang a drum loud enough,
To avoid smelling the stuff.
[pause for effect]
But wait, did I hear you want more?
You're not quite ready to close the door?
In Tudor times, "Gong," from the word "Gang,"
Meant "To Go" - like when you get the pang.
Which makes me really wonder,
If we don't make a modern blunder,
When we fail to see the danger,
Of using terms like Gang-Banger.
Bang the Gong, you say.
But do you know what game you play?
The word you use,
Could mean refuse.
Tudor times used the word -
For a common human turd.
More polite than shite.
Gong farmers worked at night.
A modern revenue AI firm,
Now uses the name, I'll confirm.
But do they know what they say,
Meant something else in another day?
Time heals all wounds it seems,
And the stigmas of society's extremes.
Where once a gong-farmer was secluded
Now, the skills have been excluded
The gong you bang is no kin,
And shares no associated sin.
Technology and modernization win,
Where old-school must give in.
But let it be known all over,
A gong-farmer made sweet clover,
But a gong-banger is paid -
Not according to the noise made
They shared only one commonality -
The mallet swinging ability.
To bang a drum loud enough,
To avoid smelling the stuff.
[pause for effect]
But wait, did I hear you want more?
You're not quite ready to close the door?
In Tudor times, "Gong," from the word "Gang,"
Meant "To Go" - like when you get the pang.
Which makes me really wonder,
If we don't make a modern blunder,
When we fail to see the danger,
Of using terms like Gang-Banger.
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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A FISH TALE YOU WON'T BELIEVE
The flies were dancing on the water
Fishermen lined up on both banks
The world record would be slaughtered
The annual derby for the trout fishing ranks
We'd all seen her, in years gone past
And some said they caught and released
Though that was hard to stand fast
She must be three feet long at least
Famous for slippin' off the hook
Some said she ate hooks for dinner
Certain that she played 'em for a rook
Stealing their title of "Winner"
She bit my line in two more'n once
And she did the same to others
A sly rainbow with fox-like stunts
Taunting, she has other druthers
Year after year we did the same
Lined up on the banks with rod and reel
Waiting to see if she'd be game
Each year we go home with no deal
This year just felt right somehow
With new Vanadium steel hooks
Escape, I will no longer allow
She'll be stuffed and mounted for looks
Fly dancing just above the surface
And she jumped up for the bait
On my line, you bet I'm nervous
Just reel her in slow, let her wait
Oh, my, great Scots, look at her size!
Four feet, tip to tail and then some
Weighed in on the scale, to my surprise,
One hundred pounds without my thumb
A record for a rainbow trout
Unbelievable but undeniable
The proof was there, without a doubt
The trophy was mine, and justifiable
Oh, the bragging rights and fish tales
You should'a heard me tell 'em
"Fisherman of the Year" - with scales
Said the photo in the news item
Four feet was just shy of the record
But she out-weighed 'em all by twice
A huge smile but yes, I was floored
Now every sportsman wants my advice
But, they soon came and took my title
I didn't cheat, but they put it on the telly
When they cut her open to remove her vitals
They found sixty pounds of hooks in her belly
The flies were dancing on the water
Fishermen lined up on both banks
The world record would be slaughtered
The annual derby for the trout fishing ranks
We'd all seen her, in years gone past
And some said they caught and released
Though that was hard to stand fast
She must be three feet long at least
Famous for slippin' off the hook
Some said she ate hooks for dinner
Certain that she played 'em for a rook
Stealing their title of "Winner"
She bit my line in two more'n once
And she did the same to others
A sly rainbow with fox-like stunts
Taunting, she has other druthers
Year after year we did the same
Lined up on the banks with rod and reel
Waiting to see if she'd be game
Each year we go home with no deal
This year just felt right somehow
With new Vanadium steel hooks
Escape, I will no longer allow
She'll be stuffed and mounted for looks
Fly dancing just above the surface
And she jumped up for the bait
On my line, you bet I'm nervous
Just reel her in slow, let her wait
Oh, my, great Scots, look at her size!
Four feet, tip to tail and then some
Weighed in on the scale, to my surprise,
One hundred pounds without my thumb
A record for a rainbow trout
Unbelievable but undeniable
The proof was there, without a doubt
The trophy was mine, and justifiable
Oh, the bragging rights and fish tales
You should'a heard me tell 'em
"Fisherman of the Year" - with scales
Said the photo in the news item
Four feet was just shy of the record
But she out-weighed 'em all by twice
A huge smile but yes, I was floored
Now every sportsman wants my advice
But, they soon came and took my title
I didn't cheat, but they put it on the telly
When they cut her open to remove her vitals
They found sixty pounds of hooks in her belly
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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OLD WEST SIGN PAINTER
I was paintin' signs in between ranch work
It wasn't cowboyin' but, better'n bein' a clerk
I had a gimmick, so I was gettin' to be in demand
And I was pretty fast, doin' everything free-hand
On store windows, I'd paint backwards on the inside
So that the weather wouldn't deteriorate the paint after applied
The businesses all loved that they didn't require touch-ups
And left me free to find a cowboy job for bigger bucks
One day the mercantile in Cheyenne wanted their window done
It was the largest plate glass window around - bar none
I knew it was gonna take quite some time, so I bid the job high
Well, I was pert' near half done, or just 'bout nigh
That's when a rowdy cowboy fight sent a feller through the glass
Startin' over weren't no fun, but this window needed to be first class
Well, wouldn't you know that the same thing happened again
When the bank next door was robbed and the bullets flew right in
Well, to make a long story short, I spent the entire winter in the store
Paintin' and repaintin', over and over. I must'a painted ten or more
Then, the mercantile owner started gettin' after me to gitt'er done
I was in agreement, cause by then, I sure weren't havin' no fun
Well, now to tell you true, he bothered me just one too many times
When he belittled me for not finishing, like I'd done some crime
When he said; "Ain't you got that dad-blamed sign done yet?"
I got me a plan, right there and then and made him a bet
I said; 'I'll get this thing done so that no one will ever break it
And then you'll pay me every year that you don't have to repaint it
Well, that was a bet he figured he couldn't lose
And, you know, just like I thought, he didn't refuse
Well, I stared over with a brand-new design
This was gonna be the world's first unbreakable sign
I painted in cracks and broken glass and even bullet holes
On the sidewalk out front, I painted glass shards and red-hot coals
It was realism in art to the utmost degree, even if I do say so myself
I saw people walkin' an' sidesteppin' but stopped countin' after the twelfth
Then the owner, with complete disbelief, looked at my new design
He didn't realize it was all paint, thought it another broken sign
Well, he started in on me again, right there in front of customers
And I could hear them all with their half-hushed murmurs
It was more than I could take. I was about to lose my mind
So, I just looked at him, as I cleaned my brush and said; "Here's your sign!"
I was paintin' signs in between ranch work
It wasn't cowboyin' but, better'n bein' a clerk
I had a gimmick, so I was gettin' to be in demand
And I was pretty fast, doin' everything free-hand
On store windows, I'd paint backwards on the inside
So that the weather wouldn't deteriorate the paint after applied
The businesses all loved that they didn't require touch-ups
And left me free to find a cowboy job for bigger bucks
One day the mercantile in Cheyenne wanted their window done
It was the largest plate glass window around - bar none
I knew it was gonna take quite some time, so I bid the job high
Well, I was pert' near half done, or just 'bout nigh
That's when a rowdy cowboy fight sent a feller through the glass
Startin' over weren't no fun, but this window needed to be first class
Well, wouldn't you know that the same thing happened again
When the bank next door was robbed and the bullets flew right in
Well, to make a long story short, I spent the entire winter in the store
Paintin' and repaintin', over and over. I must'a painted ten or more
Then, the mercantile owner started gettin' after me to gitt'er done
I was in agreement, cause by then, I sure weren't havin' no fun
Well, now to tell you true, he bothered me just one too many times
When he belittled me for not finishing, like I'd done some crime
When he said; "Ain't you got that dad-blamed sign done yet?"
I got me a plan, right there and then and made him a bet
I said; 'I'll get this thing done so that no one will ever break it
And then you'll pay me every year that you don't have to repaint it
Well, that was a bet he figured he couldn't lose
And, you know, just like I thought, he didn't refuse
Well, I stared over with a brand-new design
This was gonna be the world's first unbreakable sign
I painted in cracks and broken glass and even bullet holes
On the sidewalk out front, I painted glass shards and red-hot coals
It was realism in art to the utmost degree, even if I do say so myself
I saw people walkin' an' sidesteppin' but stopped countin' after the twelfth
Then the owner, with complete disbelief, looked at my new design
He didn't realize it was all paint, thought it another broken sign
Well, he started in on me again, right there in front of customers
And I could hear them all with their half-hushed murmurs
It was more than I could take. I was about to lose my mind
So, I just looked at him, as I cleaned my brush and said; "Here's your sign!"
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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HULL-A-BALL-LOO
It was a carnivore carnival
And was full of cannibals
Cannonballs don't eat their own kind
But a melonball won't mind
Knuckleballs, on the other hand
May not quite understand
Whereas the eyeball sees all kinds
From the front, but never behind
Now a screwball will argue the point
But a slimeball gets his nose out of joint
A snowball doesn't have a chance in hell
But a pinball can sure ring your bell
A cornball and a goofball are similar
But an oddball can be very insular
A football doesn't have feet
And a softball ain't soft and sweet
There's a fireball up in the sky
And a fastball can really fly
Mothballs are usually round
A hairball comes up and a highball goes down
A hardball attitude with a lowball bid
A curveball might cause a skid
Handball produces a win and a loss
A meatball is covered in sauce
Three balls wins a Kewpie doll
But not at the carnivore carnival
Beef-on-a-stick might cause a frown
Could be the balls of the clown
It was a carnivore carnival
And was full of cannibals
Cannonballs don't eat their own kind
But a melonball won't mind
Knuckleballs, on the other hand
May not quite understand
Whereas the eyeball sees all kinds
From the front, but never behind
Now a screwball will argue the point
But a slimeball gets his nose out of joint
A snowball doesn't have a chance in hell
But a pinball can sure ring your bell
A cornball and a goofball are similar
But an oddball can be very insular
A football doesn't have feet
And a softball ain't soft and sweet
There's a fireball up in the sky
And a fastball can really fly
Mothballs are usually round
A hairball comes up and a highball goes down
A hardball attitude with a lowball bid
A curveball might cause a skid
Handball produces a win and a loss
A meatball is covered in sauce
Three balls wins a Kewpie doll
But not at the carnivore carnival
Beef-on-a-stick might cause a frown
Could be the balls of the clown
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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THE FORKED TONGUE RAN AWAY WITH THE SPOONERISM
He planed the roads and rode the plains
He fought the battle then bought the faddle
Dang the bum, he banged the drum
Full frontal lobotomy? I thought he said, "full bottle in front of me"
He planed the roads and rode the plains
He was a drifter without many brains
He thought life was fast when he rode the trains
But it got faster when he flew the planes
He fought the battle then bought the faddle
PTSD had left his brain mostly addled
Was it TV or DVD that became raddled
Perhaps that's why he preferred his saddle
The dang bum, he banged the drum
The shock-waves spilled his rum
It wasn't that he was really dumb
Just a little off-plumb
Full-frontal lobotomy? I thought he said, "full bottle in front of me"
It was, behind the swinging doors, where he wanted to be
But the dinging sores didn't come for free
That's his story, and he's sticking to it, believe you me.
He planed the roads and rode the plains
He fought the battle then bought the faddle
Dang the bum, he banged the drum
Full frontal lobotomy? I thought he said, "full bottle in front of me"
He planed the roads and rode the plains
He was a drifter without many brains
He thought life was fast when he rode the trains
But it got faster when he flew the planes
He fought the battle then bought the faddle
PTSD had left his brain mostly addled
Was it TV or DVD that became raddled
Perhaps that's why he preferred his saddle
The dang bum, he banged the drum
The shock-waves spilled his rum
It wasn't that he was really dumb
Just a little off-plumb
Full-frontal lobotomy? I thought he said, "full bottle in front of me"
It was, behind the swinging doors, where he wanted to be
But the dinging sores didn't come for free
That's his story, and he's sticking to it, believe you me.
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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AN IRISH LILT WITH AN IRISH TILT
He goofed when he golfed on the gulf
Because the gulls had all been culled
No word of the birds or their demise
At the end of the game there was no prize
It all started when he came to pick me up
He waited by the door for me to finish my cup
He worked for the law firm of Cuttrite and Coyure
Which meant he was a lawyer in the foyer
As we were travelin' to the golf in County Karney
Who should we meet, but a man full of blarney
He was doctorin' a horse 'cause he said
The vet was hoarse and now the horse is dead
We were delayed getting to the game
But we played a round just the same
Golf on the gulf or what you call a bay
Is a hazard, hard to play any day
Green sand traps look like Irish lawn
The ball doesn't bounce but will slightly yawn
A hole in one at the eighteenth hole
A pint of brew to soothe your soul
All the Irish tilt their glass unless they use a straw
'Tis a rule to remember when drinkin' in the bah
An Irishman ne'er drinks alone
Except when there's nobody home
Ah, 'tis grand if I do say so myself
To be goofin' and golfin' with an Irish elf
Without gulls that have bean culled
Or...at least, 'tis the story I've bean tulled
Duh dum, dum, ditty ditty dum dum, ditty dee
Duh dum, dum, ditty ditty dum dum, ditty dee
Ring ding, ditty daddy, ring ditty daddy oh
Ring-di-diddle-i-diddle-o, diddle-i-o
Duh dum, dum, ditty ditty dum dum, ditty dee
Ring ding, ditty daddy, ring ditty daddy oh
Ring-di-diddle-i-diddle-o, diddle-i-o
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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THE MALAPROP OUTPHYTT
It was a Taxes wrench with bob war -
Sung all around the pastor.
All the cowbouys worked in the drawers,
And fought the fild wires in the disaster.
When time for Spring woundup came,
They got refused and sow'd the bulls, and kept the culls.
The mix-up was a fix-up at the auction game,
And all were sow'd for a load price by the numbskulls.
They road deranged and plaid in a coontree muscle brand -
In the honkin' tank at knight where they frequency'd usury,
And shoot their boots crisscross the dunce flour...and -
Go buck home where the chattel didn't small like a brewery
Well, they herd the rusters comin' dawn the ribbon
And was weightliftin' there four 'em
With guns polled, flour masked riders fell war they had ridden
So the corner said, "Suicide by Wrangler," after the post modern
And that's the whey it was, I'm hair to sell ya,
At the Malaprop Outphytt where muddle manglement -
Has it all mopped out, and they map up the hellions
But ne'er has a cowbouy e'er left 'cause of too mulch famishment
Now this was the fist time I've towed this story
And if you relieve me, aisle be glad-handed intentionally
Now, I'm not an efficated man so my spoiling may be sorry
But it's the whey it is, aether on porpoise or occidentally
It was a Taxes wrench with bob war -
Sung all around the pastor.
All the cowbouys worked in the drawers,
And fought the fild wires in the disaster.
When time for Spring woundup came,
They got refused and sow'd the bulls, and kept the culls.
The mix-up was a fix-up at the auction game,
And all were sow'd for a load price by the numbskulls.
They road deranged and plaid in a coontree muscle brand -
In the honkin' tank at knight where they frequency'd usury,
And shoot their boots crisscross the dunce flour...and -
Go buck home where the chattel didn't small like a brewery
Well, they herd the rusters comin' dawn the ribbon
And was weightliftin' there four 'em
With guns polled, flour masked riders fell war they had ridden
So the corner said, "Suicide by Wrangler," after the post modern
And that's the whey it was, I'm hair to sell ya,
At the Malaprop Outphytt where muddle manglement -
Has it all mopped out, and they map up the hellions
But ne'er has a cowbouy e'er left 'cause of too mulch famishment
Now this was the fist time I've towed this story
And if you relieve me, aisle be glad-handed intentionally
Now, I'm not an efficated man so my spoiling may be sorry
But it's the whey it is, aether on porpoise or occidentally
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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FROM THE RIM TO WHISKEY ROW
(How The TALES Grow)
Late at night with the fire dim,
We was camped out on the rim.
Just the three of us,
Me and Slim and Gus.
Ridin' for the big Q down below,
Movin' beeves down from the plateau.
Gus was on night herd duty,
Me and Slim keepin' our beauty.
So tired, we didn't know we were human.
Jarred awake by Gus shakin' our soogan.
Said: "You boys better git outta those blankets -
Lest ya wanna be sleepin' in caskets."
Night riders and herd cutters were about.
Just then we heard the shout.
"Thar they be, boys, cut 'em down."
That's when the lead started flyin' 'round.
Easy targets, silhouetted against the firelight glow.
How they missed, is something we'll never know.
Rescued by Tom and Hike comin' up with supplies.
Rustlers didn't plan on a rear-guard surprise.
There was six of 'em, but one got away.
At least as far as the herd, but that is where he stayed,
Trampled by a couple hundred hooves or more.
After he fell from the shot of a forty-four.
The others, wounded, but kept alive,
Until we finished the drive.
Turned over to the sheriff in Globe,
Who also wore the judge's robe.
But he was lookin' for six men, not five.
"What happened to the other, was he still alive?"
Questioned us and the outlaws all at once.
And discovered the dead guy was named Bill Buntz.
But was it really Bill or just the name this guy used?
Many an imposter had tried that copycat ruse.
Bill was famous and they wanted some of his glory.
At least they all tried to horn in on Bill's story.
We thought he was down south with Butch and Sundance,
But lately, it seemed, the look-a-likes were in abundance.
Now, we'll never know for sure if we shot Bill Buntz,
The famous outlaw who beat the devil and almost beat us.
Well, we all drifted away from the Q.
Went separate ways - scattered so no one knew,
But I saw ol' Slim down in Prescott on Whiskey Row.
Changed his name now to Sandy Bob..so-and-so.
Was pallin' 'round with a chap named Buster,
And they was tellin' a different story 'bout that rustler.
They tried to say he was reincarnated after that fall.
Came back as the Devil himself, horns and all.
They knew this to be true 'cause they met him up in the pines.
Had a run-in with him and whipped him good and fine.
Said they left him up thar after they was done,
But only after they marked him up for fun.
And if you ever see him, you'll know him on sight,
With his swaller-forked ears and his tail tied up tight.
Well this story had so much to tell, he had to carry it 'round in a pail.
At least that's the way it was when he told it to a feller named Gail.
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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