Mark Twain Explains — Chuck Norris Fixes It
The saloon was the sort of place where the floor complained, the mirror lied, and the sarsaparilla was poured with all the solemnity of a church sacrament. Behind the bar stood bottles enough to ruin a town, though on this evening only the respectable ones were in use. Mark Twain sat on a stool near the end of the counter, white suit wrinkled in a scholarly fashion, mustache cocked like it had already heard the joke before anyone told it. He was nursing a glass of sarsaparilla and studying the room the way a preacher studies sinners—professionally, and with … Continue readingMark Twain Explains — Chuck Norris Fixes It