HORSE-SHIT
Have you ever heard someone say, upon recoiling from a bite of foul food, “This tastes like horse-shit.” One time, upon hearing this comment, I asked “How do you know?” “Know what?” he shot back. “ How do you know it tastes like horse-shit? Did you ever taste it?” “NO!” he protested. “Well, I can tell you that this tastes nothing like horse-shit.” I said. “I suppose you have tasted horse shit” he replied defiantly. “I know of what I speak.” I said. “Horse shit tastes like rotten straw. I’ll tell you how I know.”
I was at the county fair with a group of my buddies from Roosevelt Junior high. We were standing alongside the dunk tank. There was a man in a business suit sitting contributing 15 minutes in the victim chair. He was probably a volunteer from the Chamber of Commerce. He was taunting every one who attempted to hit the very small, bright red, metal target below him. Probably he had been told that it was impossible for anyone to hit it. I was hoping that the brash bastard in the chair would get dunked, but every one who threw the wooden balls, at the tiny target, missed.
A group of boys, of our age, were on the other side of the tank from us. They were unfamiliar to us. They were probably from our rival school, Woodrow Wilson Junior high. A muscular man stepped up to try his luck. He took a ball. He tossed it in his hand, getting a feel for its weight. He then focusing on the target. He wound up with the certainty of a baseball pitcher and threw that wooden ball with force and deadly accuracy. A loud click resounded as the ball struck the target and released the leaver securing the chair. The man in the suit fell, like an astonished rag doll, into the tank. With my mouth wide open and head back, I yelled my approval of the impressive bullseye strike. At that moment there was a second well placed shot. This one, from one of the Wilson boys who threw a hand full of horse-shit from the other side of the tank and scored a direct hit on my face and into my open mouth.
End of story