Pete's News


Howdy folks! This here's ol' Pete and Rosebud comin' at you again!

Did I tell you about my mule Rosebud goin' to a fortune teller last week? That's what I call 'em, fortune tellers, but they don't like to be called that no more. I reckon it ain't political correct or somethin'. You know how that goes. One day it's okay and the next day it ain't. Anyways, this one said she was a "medium." Somethin' like that. I wasn't payin' all that much attention. She could've said she was a "small," but I know it was one of them sizes. And I know it ain't political correct, but she just seemed kinda spooky to me. Spooky would've been a lot better name for this little ol' woman.

Anyway, what it come up over, Rosebud got to readin' this book about somethin' that happened way back when George Washington's dawg was a pup. It wasn't about George or his dawg either one, but it was about somethin' that happened way back in them histerical times. Anyways, she was readin' this book, and got to wonderin' about her ancestors, about her mule kinfolks from way back in them olden days.

People is curious about their family trees y'know, who their great-great-somethin'-or-other grandpaw was and all that stuff. Me, not so much. All my kinfolk for the last couple a hunnert years is buried in the family graveyard up behind my Grandmaw's house. Mine and Cousin Denver's too, everbody 'cept for our great-great-uncle Albert. He was both of our daddy's-daddy's brother and he run off to Oklahoma back in the 1920s and wasn't never heard from again. Ain't nobody knows nothin' about what happened to him or nothin'. Ain't nobody cares either. Not no more. Ain't nobody still alive that ever knowed the man. But it ain't just everbody that can go to their family graveyard like me and Denver and see where about all of their family's buried at for no tellin' how long.

And if you ain't a human bean, it's twice as hard to figger out your family tree. Even if you don't know where they're buried, most of your human bean kinfolks has got stuff wrote down about 'em somewheres. Like if they owned land, you can go to the courthouse and look it up. Or sometimes you can go to the li-berry and find stuff that somebody's wrote about 'em. But there ain't hardly nothin' ever wrote down about mules. So if you're a mule, you're purty much outta luck if you're tryin' to search out your family tree. If you go to the courthouse, you ain't gonna find out nothin'. Well, nothin' 'cept that you ain't gonna find out nothin'. And that's why Rosebud went to the fortune teller woman. 'Scuse me, the medium-size woman. She wanted her to conjure up one of her long dead mule kinfolks so she could ask 'em questions and find out about other mule kinfolks in her family tree.

I could sorta understand her reasonin' but it still bothered me, her tryin' to raise up some mule that'd been dead a hunnert years. I just don't think you ort to go botherin' no ghosts, kinfolks or otherwise. Not just to ask 'em a bunch of questions. Take my uncle Albert. I don't know nothin' about him. What if he was a bank robber? What if he took up with Bunny and Clyde? Or that John Derringer feller. There was a bunch of bad outlaws runnin' around back then. What if that medium-woman woke up a bank robber? You think he's gonna be happy with me when I tell him I'm his great-somethin' nephew from the future and I woke him up so I could ask him a few questions about the family? The family that he prob'ly didn't even like when he was still alive? Or is he gonna be mad 'cause I 'roused him up out of a sound sleep?

There ain't no tellin' what kind of hornet's nest you're fixin' to stir up when you start wakin' up dead people and aggravatin' 'em with a bunch of questions. And there's a ol' sayin' about mules. They say a mule will live forty years to kick you in the head. Now Rosebud ain't like that. We've had our spats, but she ain't never done more'n just think about kickin' me in the head. She's prob'ly done that. I know I've thought about kickin' her a time or two, but there ain't either one of us ever actual done no kickin'. But we don't know nothin' about her great-great-great-uncle Jack. He might've kicked somebody in the head and killed 'em dead for all we know. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. There ain't nobody knows. And the last thing you want to do is find out you've raised up some killer-mule after he's already standin' there in front of you in the medium-size lady's fortune tellin' parlor. I don't know about you, but I don't want no part of it.

I reckon if it was to do over Rosebud wouldn't have no part of it either. But you can't put toothpaste back in the tube after you've squeezed it out. And if you think squeezed-out toothpaste is a problem, you ort to try your hand at dealin' with a two-hunnert year old dead jackass!

But I'll have to tell you 'bout that next week.

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