A redneck farmer from back in the hills walked twelve miles, one way, to the general store. “Heya, Wilbur,” said Sam, the store owner. “Tell me, are you and Myrtle still making fires up there by rubbing stones and flint together?”
“You betcha, Sam. Ain’t no ‘tother way. Why?”
“Got something to show you. Something to make fire. It’s called a Match.”
‘Match? Never heard of it.”
“Watch this. If you want a fire you just do this,” Sam says, taking a match and striking it on his pants.”
“Huh. Well, that’s something, but that ain’t for me, Sam.”
“Well, why not?”
“I can’t be walking twelve miles to borrow your pants every time I want a fire.”