Dick Shornoff

‘People always gotta be poking things where they don’t belong!’ Dick Shornoff griped.  ‘I just know he’s gonna sue.  His excuse might be worth the hearing, though.’
Shornoff ran a Gift Shop complex in a holiday village high in the Appalachians.  He explained that his entire complex was littered with memorabilia of the Old West, flintlock rifles, wooden-barrel washtubs, animal skins and even bear-traps.  He had mounted one of the latter on a rest-room wall. 

It was a kind of a joke’, he insisted.  ‘It was at least a hundred years old and the hinges were rusted solid.  I sprayed it with WD-40 and stomped on the release and it still wouldn’t close.
How that guy got his penis loped off in it is a total mystery.
We attempted to recover the severed member, hoping it could be re-attached.  Apparently it fell through a hole in the floorboards.  We searched outside under the old wooden building, but we couldn’t find it.  It may have been eaten or carried off by some animal.
Enoch, they call him.
Well, that’s what they call him now, anyhow!’

Several aspects of the story unnerved me, not least of which was the Gift Shop owner’s name.  

Surely this better suited the victim, I pondered.

‘I’ve a rather embarrassing problem,’ yer man confided to his mate.

‘Every time I sneeze, I get an erection!

‘Are you taking anything for it?’ his friend asked.



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