There was a little boy named Dirty Johnny. He’d always be the hellion in class, and his teacher didn’t think much of him.
So the teacher had an in-class project, and she says, “Now this is what you’re gonna do here, class. I want you to stand up and tell the class a story from your life, and then afterwards say the moral to that story.”
A little girl raises her hand. “Yes, Becky, what’s your story?”
“My dad works for the hatchery here in town, and what happened was he got about fifteen eggs, and he put them all in one basket. And he put it on the horse and buggy and drove back home, and by God,” Becky says, “the bouncing, and… all the eggs broke.”
“Well, that’s a good story,” the teacher says, “but what would the moral be to that?”
Becky says, “Well, the moral is, don’t put all your eggs into one basket.”
“Well God damn,” the teacher says, “that’s a good one. Anybody else?”
Marjorie puts up her hand. “Marjorie, what’s your story?”
She says, “Well, my dad works for the hatchery, as most all of us… thank God for the hatchery,” she says, “or we’d all be lost. But anyways, my dad knows that eggs become chickens. And so he was… counting his chickens, and he added in the eggs, you see. And then he put them on a horse and buggy to go to town, and they all broke.”
“Well, what’s the lesson to that?” the teacher says.
She says, “Well, don’t count your chickens before they hatch out of an egg!”
So the teacher says, “That’s a great one too. Anybody else?”
Well, wouldn’t you know it, Dirty Johnny has his hand up. So the teacher’s like, “Holy God… I don’t want it, but on the other hand, I made an oath to… every child should… I suppose I gotta…” “Alright, Dirty Johnny, what do you have to say?”
Johnny stands up.
“This story’s about my uncle Terry. He never worked at the hatchery, on account of he was in Vietnam, and he got disability. He don’t even like people that work at the hatchery. But this story happened faaaaaaar from these shores… in a little town called Da Nang. Terry was not well liked. His whole troop left him, abandoned, and he woke up in the weeds, and all they left him with was three bottles of Jack Daniels and some weapons. Terry stood up, downed one bottle right away, and said, ‘If I’m going out, I’m going out.’ He took his Kalashnikov, a couple of Glocks, and his two bottles, and away he went. He found a town, and he didn’t know if it was Charlie or if it was one he was sent to protect, but all he knew was he had hate in his gut. So he started firing, and he fired that Kalashnikov with an arching kind of… like a farmer would with hay, with a scythe. And sure enough the men fell like hay before him, and then the women, and by God I’m ashamed to say it, but then the children. And finally all that was left was Uncle Terry, standing in the mud and the blood and the glory. And he touched his pants, and it was wet, and he was ashamed. He felt shame, Uncle Terry, for he’d pissed himself. Well, he touched it again; it was not urine at all, but ejaculate. And Uncle Terry felt pride where shame once was.”
The teacher’s like, “Good Christ! What kind of story is that? What the hell is the moral to that?”
He says, “When Uncle Terry’s been drinking, you don’t fuck with him.”
