From Hillbilly Zeb in
Texas
to a soldier from Eromanga
(and Siobhán in Mullinavat)
It's not often that a story makes us laugh out loud, but this one did.
It's posted on several Australian websites:
Letter from a kid from Eromanga to Mum and Dad.
(Eromanga is a small town west of Quilpie in the far southwest of
Queensland, Australia).Dear Mum &
Dad,
I am well. Hope youse are too. Tell me big
brothers Doug and Phil that the Army is better than working on the farm
- tell them to get in bloody quick smart before the jobs are all gone!
I wuz a bit slow in settling down at first,
because ya don't hafta get outta bed until 6am. But I like sleeping in
now, cuz all you gotta do before brekky is make ya bed and shine ya
boots and clean ya uniform. No bloody cows to milk, no calves to feed,
no feed to stack - nothin'!!
Blokes haz gotta shave though, but its not so
bad, coz there's lotsa hot water and even a light to see what ya doing!
At brekky ya get cereal, fruit and eggs but
there's no kangaroo steaks or possum stew like wot Mum makes. You don't
get fed again until noon, and by that time all the city boys are
buggered because we've been on a 'route march' - geez its only just like
walking to the windmill in the back paddock!!
This one will kill me brothers Doug and Phil
with laughter. I keep getting medals for shootin' - dunno why. The
bullseye is as big as a bloody possum's bum and it don't move and its
not firing back at ya like the Johnsons did when our big scrubber bull
got into their prize cows before the Ekka last year!
All ya gotta do is make yourself comfortable
and hit the target - it's a piece of piss!! You don't even load your own
cartridges - they comes in little boxes and ya don't have to steady
yourself against the rollbar of the roo shooting truck when you reload!
Sometimes ya gotta wrestle with the city boys
and I gotta be real careful coz they break easy - it's not like fighting
with Doug and Phil and Jack and Boori and Steve and Muzza all at once
like we do at home after the muster.
Turns out I'm not a bad boxer either and it
looks like I'm the best the platoon's got, and I've only been beaten by
this one bloke from the Engineers - he's 6 foot 5 and 15 stone and three
pick handles across the shoulders and as ya know I'm only 5 foot 7 and
eight stone wringin' wet, but I fought him till the other blokes carried
me off to the boozer.
I can't complain about the Army - tell the boys
to get in quick before word gets around how bloody good it is.
Your loving daughter,
Jill
Curious to find out who had written that hilarious story, we googled a few
key words, and discovered that it began life as this letter written by a
Texas hillbilly named Zeb, still posted on a handful of US websites:
Hillbilly Joins The Army
Dear Ma and Pa:
Am well. Hope you are. Tell Brother Walt and
Brother Elmer the Army beats working for Old Man Minch a mile. Tell them
to join up quick before maybe all the places are filled. I was restless
at first because you got to stay in bed till nearly 6 a.m. (but am
getting so I like to sleep late).
Tell Walt and Elmer all you do before breakfast
is smooth your cot and shine some things -- no hogs to slop, feed to
pitch, mash to mix, wood to split, fire to lay. Practically nothing. You
got to shave, but it is not bad in warm water.
Breakfast is strong on trimmings like fruit
juice, cereal, eggs, bacon, etc., but kind of weak on chops, potatoes,
beef, ham, steak, fried eggplant, pie and regular food. But tell Walt
and Elmer you can always sit between two city boys that live on coffee.
Their food plus yours holds you till noon, when you get fed.
It's no wonder these city boys can't walk much.
We go on "route marches" which the Sgt. says, are long walks to harden
us. If he thinks so, it is not my place to tell him different. A "route
march" is about as far as to our mailbox at home. Then the city guys all
get sore feet and we ride back in trucks. The country is nice, but awful
flat.
The Sgt. is like a schoolteacher. He nags some.
The Cap. is like the school board. Cols. and Gens. just ride around and
frown. They don't bother you none.
This next will kill Walt and Elmer with
laughing. I keep getting medals for shooting. I don't know why. The
bull's-eye is near big as a chipmonk and don't move. And it ain't
shooting at you, like the Higsett boys at home. All you got to do is lie
there all comfortable and hit it. You don't even load your own
cartridges. They come in boxes.
Be sure to tell Walt and Elmer to hurry and
join before other fellows get onto this setup and come stampeding in.
Your loving son, Zeb
Then, after that story had been widely copied, some anonymous wit had a
brainwave. How about giving the letter-writer an instant sex change? With a
few taps on the keyboard, "Your loving son, Zeb" became "Your loving
daughter, Sally" ... and the story went gangbusters. Funsite webmasters,
bulletin board writers and chat room gossips around the world fell into a
feeding frenzy.
The story crossed the Atlantic to Ireland, where it was
posted variously as a Letter from a Kerry kid to Mum and Dad; Letter from
a Mayo kid to the parents, and even a Letter from a Mullinavat kid to
Mam and Dad ... from Siobhán, Sharee and other colleens. Here's the
Irish version:
Dear Mum & Dad,I
am well. Hope you are. Tell big brothers Sean, Paddy and Mick that the
Army is better than working on the farm - tell them to get into the Army
quick before the jobs are all gone.
I was a bit slow in settling down at first,
because you don't get outta bed until 6am. I like sleeping in now, but
all you do before brekky is make your bed and shine your boots and clean
your uniform. No cows to milk, no calves to feed, no feed to stack -
nothing. Men must shave, but its not so bad, coz there's hot water and a
light to see what ya doing.
Breakfast has cereal, fruit and eggs but
there's no fillet steaks or sausages. You don't get fed again until
noon, and by that time all the city boys are buggered because we've been
on a 'route march', just like walking to the well in the meadow.
This will kill Sean and Paddy with laughter. I
keep getting medals for shooting - dunno why. The bullseye is as big as
a bloody bull's head and it doesn't move and its not firing back at you
like the Jennings did when our bull got their cow pregnant before the
Listowel show.
All you gotta do is make yourself comfortable
and hit the target - piece of piss. You don't even load your own
cartridges - they comes in boxes and you don't have to steady yourself
against the rollbar of the tractor when you reload.
Then you gotta wrestle with the city boys and I
gotta be real careful coz they break easy - it's not like fighting with
Sean, Paddy, Mick and all the other local fellas all at once like we do.
Turns out I'm not a bad boxer either and it
looks like I'm the best the platoon's got, and I've only been beaten by
this guy from Dublin he's 6 foot 8 and 120 kilos and I'm 5 foot six and
65 kilos, but I fought to the end.
I can't complain about the Army - tell the boys
to get in quick before word gets around how good it is.
Your loving daughter,
Siobhán
You may think that
Mullinavat must be in cyberspace, but it's a small
town in the real world.
TravelWire.com says:
Mullinavat lies on the N-9 main Waterford to
Kilkenny City road some 8 miles north of Waterford. The village has a
relatively small population of less than 300...The name of the village
comes from the Irish 'Mulleann an Bhata' translating as 'The mill of the
stick.'
And Eromanga, home of Jillaroo Jill, is fair dinkum, too.
Queensland Holidays Outback says:
The town is surrounded by vast sheep and cattle
properties. Reputedly the town farthest from the sea in Australia,
Eromanga is named after the aboriginal word meaning "hot, windy plain."
- If anyone knows who first wrote those amusing letters from
Hillbilly Zeb, Siobhán or Jackeroo Jill, please tell us their names, so
that we can give them due credit.
