Railroad Red

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Last Laugh

When ideas fail, words come in very handy.—Goethe

Well sir, the Ramblin' Rail Riders of the Plumtree Crossing General Assembly had seen enough of New Jersey (last issue, remember?), so they jumped on a southbound train. It was a dank, bonechilling March night. No one was in the fellas' railcar except one heavyset man in an old burly overcoat, so Purvis Jacobs pulled out a jug of homemade pertnin' juice and passed it around. After Ott Bartlett took his swallow, he offered some to the stranger beside him.

"Spasibo," the man said, and took a long swig. The boys smiled slyly when that fella filled his throat with Jacobs' 150-proof tonsillectomizer. But the man just smacked his lips and passed the jug on. "Horoshiey," he said, then produced his own bottle from his overcoat and offered it to Ott. Bartlett was a tad surprised, but then tilted 'er back.

"Vodka," the man said in a thick voice. "My name is Ivan Redneckovich. I emigrate from Russia. Happy to meet you."

You could have knocked our boys over with a sparrow's breakfast when they heard that. After sharing a few rounds of liquid glasnost, though, the Plumtree gang was feeling downright comradely. Ol' Ivan loosened up, too.

"I come from Mother Russia," he said, "because I was a farmer, and who can farm under communism? Do you know what the government claims are the four reasons for the failure of Soviet agriculture? Spring, summer, fall and winter."

The fellas were a bit surprised to hear a Russian crack a joke, but Ivan soon proved that his people aren't a bit backward when it comes to humor.

"One day Premier Gorbachev was complaining to the minister of agriculture that his Kremlin office was infested with mice. The minister's suggestion? `Why don't you put up a sign in your office saying Collective Farm? That way half the mice will die of hunger, and the other half will run away.'

"A frustrated woman once wrote the same minister of agriculture to complain about the constant shortage of meat. He had an answer for that, too. `Comrade Housewife,' he replied, `you must understand that we are moving toward communism so quickly that the livestock cannot keep up with us.' "

Just then Lafe Higgins (who was feeling the effects of the vodka-moonshine combination more than most) broke in. "I aways thought ya'll Russins was tryin' to conquer the world."

"If we did that," replied Redneckovich, "where would we buy our wheat?"

"So you came to America to farm?" Clarence Smithers asked.

"I come for many reasons. Let me explain with a story. Stalin dies and goes to heaven. St. Peter meets him at the Pearly Gates and says, `You can't come here. Go to hell where you belong.' Stalin grumbles and shuffles off:

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