Smokin Harley mentioned jokes this morning, and it struck me this thread has been quiet for a bit. So I'll give it a year-end kick . . .
Sixty years ago I spent nearly a year working near Whitehorse YT on the hydro power dam. Reminiscing recently, this tale came to mind:
In the Yukon territory there were, anecdotally, four criteria to qualify for the “sourdough” label”.
1. Having seen the freeze and thaw of the Yukon River
2. Having panned an ounce of gold
3. Having shot a Grizzley bear, and
4. Having made love to a descendant of one of the original tribal inhabitants.
Late one night an aspiring sourdough painfully pulled himself along into a Whitehorse bar – a bloody mess, clothes in shreds, claw marks all over, one ear hanging by a hair . . .
In a whisper he asked the bartender for a double rum. He managed to down it, then turned to the crowd and gasped, “now – where do I find the gal I’m supposed to shoot?”