George Noory

It’s a typical day at the old, western saloon in Tombstone, Arizona. It’s early afternoon with the sun blazing outside, while inside a few regulars sit at the bar, with a few more sitting at two-tops.

Suddenly the swinging doors at the entrance are kicked open. Standing as a silhouette backlit against the bright, desert sun stands Art Bell. Clad in a long sleeve shirt, leather vest, cow hide chaps, boots with spurs, and a dirty black cowboy hat, with two 6-shooters holstered at each hip, Art pauses at the entrance for effect, then slowly saunters bow-legged toward the bar, his spurs clanking with each deliberate step.

Every step is a measured, deliberate, purposeful demonstration to instill fear and intimidation to all those present. Days worth of dirt and grit cover not only Art’s clothes, but are caked to his sun-burnt, weathered face. Everyone is watching him.

As Art approaches the bar, the bartender’s heart rate increases in conjunction with his uncertainty about what this fearsome stranger has planned. Patrons at the bar move over a few seats to make way for this stranger in town.

Art’s sidles up to the bar, hoisting one leg up & over a barstool, taking his seat at the middle of the bar. A couple people are so intimidated, they leave the saloon.

Art’s iron jaw is in a perpetual clench. His eyes are permanently beady with determination and will. His stare is penetrating.

It’s dead silent in the saloon. The piano player has stopped playing for fear Art won’t like the song. You could hear a pin drop.

The barkeep nervously approached Art and sheepishly asks, “What’ll it be pard’ner?”

Art slooowly looks right, then left, then back down at the bar counter in front of him.

“Like something to drink?” the bartender asks again, even more sheepishly, with a slight crack in his voice that he tries to cover for by clearing his throat nervously.

Ever so slowly, Art raises his head so he’s looking right into the bartender’s eyes. He pauses for a 5-count. Beads of sweat accumulate on the barkeep’s forehead. Everyone’s holding their breath.

Art’s sun-burnt, chapped lips part for what seems to take hours. Then…he speaks…

“Gimme a Shirley Temple. On the rocks. No chaser. And keep ‘em comin’.”

It’s a typical day at the old, western saloon in Tombstone, Arizona. It’s early afternoon with the sun blazing outside, while inside a few regulars sit at the bar, with a few more sitting at two-tops.

Suddenly the swinging doors at the entrance are kicked open. Standing as a silhouette backlit against the bright, desert sun stands Art Bell. Clad in a long sleeve shirt, leather vest, cow hide chaps, boots with spurs, and a dirty black cowboy hat, with two 6-shooters holstered at each hip, Art pauses at the entrance for effect, then slowly saunters bow-legged toward the bar, his spurs clanking with each deliberate step.

Every step is a measured, deliberate, purposeful demonstration to instill fear and intimidation to all those present. Days worth of dirt and grit cover not only Art’s clothes, but are caked to his sun-burnt, weathered face. Everyone is watching him.

As Art approaches the bar, the bartender’s heart rate increases in conjunction with his uncertainty about what this fearsome stranger has planned. Patrons at the bar move over a few seats to make way for this stranger in town.

Art’s sidles up to the bar, hoisting one leg up & over a barstool, taking his seat at the middle of the bar. A couple people are so intimidated, they leave the saloon.

Art’s iron jaw is in a perpetual clench. His eyes are permanently beady with determination and will. His stare is penetrating.

It’s dead silent in the saloon. The piano player has stopped playing for fear Art won’t like the song. You could hear a pin drop.

The barkeep nervously approached Art and sheepishly asks, “What’ll it be pard’ner?”

Art slooowly looks right, then left, then back down at the bar counter in front of him.

“Like something to drink?” the bartender asks again, even more sheepishly, with a slight crack in his voice that he tries to cover for by clearing his throat nervously.

Ever so slowly, Art raises his head so he’s looking right into the bartender’s eyes. He pauses for a 5-count. Beads of sweat accumulate on the barkeep’s forehead. Everyone’s holding their breath.

Art’s sun-burnt, chapped lips part for what seems to take hours. Then…he speaks…

“Gimme a Shirley Temple. On the rocks. No chaser. And keep ‘em comin’.”

Jorch plans to put the RUMP in TRUMP '24

barely made it thru last night. fuck. fridays blow HALF TIME!

As the prostitute squats over George’s face, lowers herself til she feels the first tickle of his mustache hair, and then farts in his mouth, the radio blares John Lennon’s hit song: Whatever Gets You Through the Night..

As the prostitute squats over George’s face, lowers herself til she feels the first tickle of his mustache hair, and then farts in his mouth, the radio blares John Lennon’s hit song: Whatever Gets You Through the Night..

George Noory was heard at LAX berating Tahmee about his new hobby.

GN:”I just think it’s a big waste of time is all.”
TD:”You never support me. I have other needs too.”
GN:”Glass blowing can be dangerous. If you get hurt I’d have to rely on Dan whatshisname to fill in, I don’t trust him!”
TD:”So it is all about YOU, isn’t it?”
GN:”Tahmee….”
TD:”Well, when I blow glass, it stays hard afterward…”