I think one thing rings true in southern literature.  It is that the art of telling the story is often more important than the story itself.  Or, in other words, the journey is more important than the destination.  An example of that can be found in this tale passed on to my brothers and I by my dad:

My dad once, when he was much much younger, came across his cousin Rooster, dragging a mule into the house.  Or should I say trying to drag a mule into his house?   Dad was perplexed.  He knew Rooster, so named for his bright red hair and his cocky attitude and lack of smarts, was a bit…well….special.   So dad politely asked “now Rooster, why would you want to put that mule in your house.  You know your mom works so hard to keep it clean”.   Rooster, never relenting in his efforts, replied “It’s ok, I’ll clean it up.  I just want to play a joke on Cassius”.

Well, Cassius was the know-it-all cousin.  My dad’s evil cousin so to speak.  So Dad thought it over a second and agreed to help, but only if Rooster promised to keep his involvement secret.  Rooster replied “Ok, cousin Tommy, it’s just between us” and he mimicked buttoning his lips shut, zipping, them, locking them and throwing away the key.   And with that overly elaborate gesture, a pact was made.

Dad joined Rooster in front of the mule and began pulling on the lead rope.  They strained and strained and coaxed and cursed the mule but go no where.  If anything, they lost a few inches and the mule plopped down in a stubborn sitting pose.

Finally, exhausted and covered in sweat, Rooster called a break. “Cousin Tommy, this aint workin.  You got any ideas?”

Dad responded by dispatching Rooster to the kitchen to bring back some iced tea.  Then he sat down, put on his thinking cap and began to ponder the situation.   After a few moments dad got up and suggested that it was a problem of angles.  Of applied force (Dad had recently browsed through a physics article in Boys Life).   So he suggested that Rooster could apply more force pulling alone while dad pushed he creature along from the rear.

So, they set about trying this.  Rooster pulling managed to convince the animal to stand up at least.  Then dad met with some success pushing the mule. They got him up the two steps into the house, and down the short hallway to the stairwell.  But they still had to go up because Rooster insisted that the joke would be better if the mule was upstairs.  Apparently the greater the height, the greater the humor.

When the mule reached the stair case, it locked up again.  Dad heaved and heaved on the animals tuckus, but all he managed to get was a good healthy mule fart delivered mere inches from his nose.

So, once again they were at an impasse.   Dad and Rooster.  The brain trust.  Finally, dad suggested scaring the mule, thereby encouraging him to move forward.  So, they raided Roosters stash of firecrackers, chose a nice big one, tied it to the mule’s tail and lit it.   Then they took cover, Rooster running upstairs to pull and dad running downstairs to hide behind the couch.  Now, firecrackers back then were not from well regulated factories.  They were home made.  And varied in effect.  Some were practically duds and just let off a mild pop accompanied by a noxious smoke.  Others faired better.  And as the legend goes, this particular firecracker went off like a cannon, deafening both boys, singing the mules backside, and literally scaring the crap out of him.  But it worked, that mule ran up and up and up those stairs,  all but trampling Rooster in the process.  The mule ran until he could not run any more.  And here is where luck sided on the two adventurers.  The mule was hiding in Cassius’s bedroom.  The desired place.

Of course there was a trail of dung to be dealt with.  Mule dung in the foyer. Mule dung on the stairs going up.  Mule dung In the hall.  And Mule dung all over the bedroom.  But that was a small obstacle.  After all, Rooster was a country boy and was no stranger to removing messes like this.

Once the boys had cleaned the floor and removed all traces of the mules progress -except for some scuff marks on the stairs and a place he had nicked the paint on the wall, they were ready.  Rooster then left dad holding the reigns to the mule while he went into his bedroom and returned with a shotgun.   As dad held the mule, Rooster surprised him by raising the gun, pointing it at the mule and shooting.  BLAM.  The mule fell dead on Cassius’ bed.

Dad, once he recovered from the shock, asked “why the H E DOUBLE L did you do that?”  (Dad, always the gentlemen, preferreed to spell out his swearing)

Rooster grinned and replied, I just wanted to see how Cassius would respond once he found a dead mule tucked into his bed.

I sincerely doubt the core of this tale is original, but it is in my telling of it. After I jotted it down, I shared it with my brother. And his response was “God yes, I remember the dead mule joke.  It never made sense then and it still doesn’t, but I laughed anyway.”  I think this statement just about sums it up.