Ned: Let's throw us some horse shoes, Pons.
Pons: I'm not much good at that game, Ned.
Ned: Well it's changed since I first played it as a kid.
Pons: Oh? How's that?
Ned: Well first, ya ain't gotta take the shoes offa the dang horse. They's already yanked 'em.
Pons: You had to take the horseshoes off an actual horse?
Ned: Where else would ya git'em?
Pons: How about BEFORE they were put on?
Ned: Well gosh, Pons. They gotta be shaped like a horse's huff, else dey won't hook on that pole yonder.
Pons: What?
Ned: And dey got's ta be flat.
Pons: Flat?
Ned: Yeah. The horse flattens 'em out so's dey fly like a sickle in a "So's yer old man" fight.
Pons: So's your old man?
Ned: Dat's the spirit, Pons.
Pons: Wait! The shoes are iron; they don't need flattening.
Ned: That's a dern nice pleat in dem pants a yers, Pons. Someone IRON doze?
Pons: You mean -- because they're flat? Like a horseshoe? Iron -- flat -- like that?
Ned: Now yer learnin', Pons. A fore long yall be a exbert.
Pons: Okay. So I throw it at the pole and ring it; right?
Ned: Yep. OR ya can jes' git close. Like in hand grenades.
Pons: Right. I heard that joke that close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.
Ned: Nukes too I wager.
Pons: Hey! I have a ringer!
Ned: Dat's great, Pons. I prob'ly cain't do no better'n dat.
Pons: So I win?
Ned: Well, mebbee. Let's see what I kin do wit this here hand grenade.
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