“Where ya goin,”‘ says Chet.
“I’m going to pick up my pheasant.”
“Your pheasant? I don’t think so. Anything on my land belongs to me,” says Chet.
“You don’t understand,” says the hunter. “Where I come from you can retrieve any game that you knock down even if it’s on private property”.
“Well, here, where I come from, anything that comes onto my land belongs to me,” asserts Chet.
“Well, how’re we going to settle this?” queries the hunter.
“Well, why don’t we do it the old Cape Codder’s way,” suggests Chet.
“How’s that?” asks the hunter.
“It’s simple: I kick you in the crotch. Then you kick me in the crotch. Then I kick you in the crotch. And so on. Whoever gives up first, the other guy gets the pheasant.”
“Well,” ponders the hunter, at least it’s a fair method, though a bit odd. “Okay, let’s do it.”
Chet backs up a step and a half, then comes forward and gives the hunter a wicked kick, right on target, right square between the legs. Down goes the hunter rolling over, groaning in pain, his eyes bulging out, his face turning pale and then beet red in turn, and, after a while, staggers to his feet.
“Wow, that was some kick there. Now’s it’s my turn.”
Smiling, as he begins to sharpen his scythe, Chet says, “You can have the pheasant.”