Truth B. Told

It's just me again, back to set a record or two straight like.

I've heard me some impolite squabbling since my last entry, people have their elastic britches in a binder about my reporting of the facts regardlings the Tucket clan and their current events as such they are. Yes, some critters out there are actually a calling me a liar. Last night one of them threw a partially eaten possum through my open gee-rage window.

Normally that's not a huge deal, folks are more than welcome to wrongly disagree with me and make a fool o' themselves all silly like, but in this case, a family of coons got into the gee rage, they smelt that delicacy, and dragged that possum all over as they feasted on it. the aftermath is downright horrific for me to reckon with. there are bones on the top of my almost fully restored 1976 cherry red pinto with the white wall tires! there's even tracks of grease and blood on my maple wood workbench. And that makes me mad enough to kick my dog Patsy in the ball sack.

So I have to set the record straight, befores I have to grab my monkey wrench and go out and brain me some idjits.

The Tucket story is 105% bona fido on the level. Just as I told it. I even left out a few details that I now may be forced to reveal. Like for example, I didn't mention that last month Henrietta had posted up pictures of herself with 3 other women, all getting down and dirty with a chubby guy in an Elias Brothers Big Boy outfit. I'd post the link to those pictures, but really, I don't want to do that to any of you. But if this doubt and naysaying continues, I may have to do just that. Have you ever seen a guy in an Elias Brothers Big Boy outfit doing it doggie style? Holding up that plate of burgers with one hand while he grabs an ass to hold it with his other hand, and with that damn goofy smile plastered on his face? Just banging away, while whistling?


That shit will keep you up at night.

Tailpipe Varmits

The other day ah'm outside tweaking the spoilers on my 78 Futura with the three speed on the tree and the fully restored 8 track deck with sub woofers on the half shell, and I hears this knock knockin goin on from the rear of the v-hickle. I looked, taint nuthing there. So ah's go back to my fiddlin but then, sure as shit in a bag on the back porch, flamin, there it wuz agin. knock knock. knock knock.

I snuck around the other side like a skunk hunter in a sewer system and caught none other than little Buck, banging on my crankshaft with a rock.

Well, he's not my kid (that I know of!) so I tried to send him skeedaddlin back to his parents. Cept it turns out his parents, Jimbob-Lou and Henrietta Tucket, weren't home and he was locked out! his pappy had gone to work after dropping sis (also his wife, dont mean to confusicate ya, ah'm talkin bout Henrietta) off at the center for the emotionally challenged and hygienically disturbed.

Then Buck pointed at the road and grunted (he don't know how to speak, its a genitalnetics thing) and I'll be suit and tied if it wasn't his sister Oopsy (apparently she wasn't planned) in the middle of the road playing in traffic!

Well at this point the pigs arrived and I wasn't about to get involved, as I was higher than a treed chipmunk on some Canadian bluegrass with a hint of rabies. And I still had those 12 unpaid parking tickets and the indecent proposal warrant out on my ass. So I told Buck to get lost and went back to my spoilers all discrete like.

Thats the end of that story right? Wrongo.

Yesterday I got me a call from Social Sermons! Apparently they aren't sure if them Tuckets are good parents. Seems they were making Buck sleep on a rusty sawblade top of the fridge with the moldy potatoes and stuff like that.

OK look, I like potatoes better than most fellas, so my pursipsion may differ. I say why let potatoes go moldy. Eat the damn things before it comes to that. Fry em up. And for God's sweet sake, if you let your sawblades go rusty like that you not only lose a lot of time sharpening them later, but that rust dust gits into EVERYTHING. Ever wipe down a rusty lawn mower with our kid's shirt and some spittle? Then you know what I mean

I don't know a lot about raising kids without ever interacting with them, but I do know this. Once Social Sermons gets involved, it's time to clean up your britches and piss straight. Even if it means you have to stop watching TV for up to an hour at a time to inter relate with your spawn. No one said accidentally having 3 kids with someone while being broke up from them and living apart was easy.

The last time I saw my old lady and however many kids we have, I made sure to say hi to nearly every one of them, the cute girl twice. Is she even mine? I hope not, when she gets to be 17 next year, well I best not go on about this train of thought in case I'm breaking a law. Sorry I got distracted.

The point is, my wife seems to be on a first name basis with all of them. And God bless her for that, and for her naivety about how much of my work paycheck she knows about. Someone has to tend to those kids or else before you know it, one of them has smoked all your best weed and/or lit your house on fire.

Back to the important stuff, by the time I got done with Social Sermons, I had not only missed American Idol but in addition to that, someone had the poh lice tow away my Futura on the grounds that it was on fire. Please. There's a difference between a smoldering engine and an engine on fire. Use some judgement here fellas. Now I have to bribe my brother Itchy to go get it from the impound, on accounts of my warrants and such.