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Here's a sample from the book. This is one of 45 great tales, each fairly true.

Edna

My mother used to say, “It takes all kinds to make a world.” Her words didn’t refer to the wide range of physical attributes of individuals. Rather, she spoke of personalities when she often repeated, “It takes all kinds.” The old Corner Bar offered many examples. There was gruff, grumpy Harry G, always complaining about one thing or another. Folks said that if he ever ran out of things to gripe about, he’d complain about that, too. And Harvey, the bartender who'd grin like a chimp with a fresh banana every time he'd hear the till ring. And remember sweet old Eben, the fellow always willing to share the trout he’d caught that morning? And how about tall, gushy Mona Sneed, with her coal-black hair and bright red lipstick? She’d grab a kid’s cheek and pinch really hard saying, “You’re such a cutie, Jimmy.” Boy, I hated that! It left a red mark on my cheek that lasted an hour. I’d run for it whenever I saw her coming. Yes, on any given night, one could go down the row of nineteen barstools in the old Corner Bar and find nineteen unique individuals, each with a queer quirk or two—or maybe eight or ten.

But of all the characters who held down the barstools, no one captured attention more than short, feisty Edna Fife, a dear old tippler and regular patron of the place. And of all the habits this octogenarian exhibited, one stood out. Way out! It began with a shout. “C’mere, you,” she’d holler as almost any age male walked through the door. “Gimme my kiss.” And the fellow in her sights had two options. The first, to succumb and let Edna lay a big sloppy smooch smackdab on the lips. Generally, the man’s reaction was to wipe his mouth, leaving a lipstick smear on both face and sleeve. A stroll through the barroom told you which guys the old gal had conquered that evening. They were the ones with lipstick-stained shirtsleeves.

But a fellow’s second option created far more excitement. Should he choose to ignore Edna’s advances, she’d dig in her heels. “C’mere,” she’d repeat. “Give an old lady a thrill, will ya, young fella? What can it hurt?” Or, “C’mon, cowboy. This old bronco is ready to ride.” And with that, she’d rush right up with arms extended, wrestle her victim into position and lay that smacker on him to the cheers of onlookers. If her quarry ducked, Edna dodged. If he bolted out the back door, she’d follow. If her man ran for the can, Edna would be right on his heels. With no place to hide, the object of her false fondness usually surrendered his lips, begetting praise from Edna Fife in the form of a loud shout. “What a man!”

Thus, nobody thought it odd when, one Saturday night, with the Corner Bar’s beer cooler half empty and many faces aglow, the crowd cheered when they heard Edna call out, “C’mere, you,” as two young men entered. With the element of surprise on her side, she’d corralled the first fellow and laid her lipstick-laden brand square on the chops. “What a man!” she yelled as she turned to his friend.

“C’mere, you, Gimme a kiss.”

“No thanks, ma’am.”

“Aw, you wouldn’t deny an old gal a thrill, would ya?”

“Not interested, lady,” he insisted.

“C’mon. Just one little peck?”

“Nope. Not a chance.”

Now, at this point, one might think Edna would retreat. Give way. Abandon her quest and withdraw. But Edna Fife knew well that if she let one fellow off the hook, others might likewise deny her saucy, sassy advances. So, with an, “Aw, sonny, just one,” Edna lunged for her quarry. He ducked. She dodged. He pushed past two gals yakking by the back door. Edna followed. He jostled three gents jawing near the jukebox, Edna in hot pursuit. Then, when he rushed around the pool table, Edna saw her chance. The old gal ...    (What happened next will amaze!)