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Old Man Whittler

Old Man Whittler sits on his porch and whittles.  He's whittlin' his dream lady.  She has a big butt.  Just like those figurines found in caves ten thousand years ago.  Sure, Old Man Whittler is a farmer, but what his whittlin' will not be is an offering to the farming Gods.  No his whittlin' is a manifestation of his desires.  There she is.  She says nothing, but look at those hips!  Yes, her silence is a virtue.  Real ladies have things to say, and what they say is not always agreeable to Old Man Whittler's fantasies.

"Must everything massage your ego?"  The figurine one day utters.

Well, she is tossed into the fire unceremoniously.

"Don't need my own creations talking tough with me, thank-you.  Damnation for her.  Time to start another."

So he starts another, this time he carves her with a smaller butt, smaller hips, not as fun to carve maybe, maybe requires a bit more skill.  Old Man Whittler is not short on skill.  He'll carve her with the slightest hips.  See if he cares. No more guff.

"No more guff!"  He shouts aloud.

There are some passers-by.  They laugh at him, Old Man Whittler out there on his porch, in the cold, carving the weird ladies.

"Well, let's see how the weird ladies haunt your dreams!  See how you like that!"  Old Man Whittler smiles as he imagines the figurines haunting the dreams of the passers-by.  He has another sip of hooch.

"Hoochy-Koochy!"  he yells.   Well, there is no one there to hear him... except for his dream lady there... in his hands... sleight of hip.

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