Thursday, January 20, 2011

RE: Any Good ole Boys?

Any Good ole boys? - 22 (My computer..Duh!)

Date: 2011-01-19, 10:40AM MST
Reply to:

Well lets get right to the point......
I'm 22 and I have a job
I have a car
I'm pretty redneck but have a rock n' roll/biker side.
I'd love if you have a job too. I dont wanna have to pay for everything nor do I want you to pay for everything.
I LOVE country music.
I like my men tall and on the bigger side.
I'm kind of chubby but in a cute way.
I want someone who can make me laugh and is a gentlemen.
I'm a red head just an f.y.i.
I'm a total smart ass!
I have tattoos and piercings.
Bad girl on Friday night, Church girl on Sunday.
I'm a tough chick but still have a girly side
Any takers?

Location: My computer..Duh!
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PostingID: 2168755514

...And They Call Me Warrior
Colin Heintze to pers-XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.
show details 11:27 PM (2 minutes ago)

Yep, that’s my favorite song right there, because that’s what I am: a warrior. I’m a patriot, a freedom-lover, and soldier of Christ, and anyone who doesn’t like it can’t come crying to me when they end up in one of Saddam’s rape-rooms.
Anyways, you want a good ole’ boy, you found one. I’m originally from Oklahoma, near the Texas border. I’m one-quarter Cherokee Indian, two-quarters Irish, one quarter Union, and one-quarter Confederate. My grandmother says I have a little black in me, though when I was a kid me and my friend Jeremy would see who could swim across Bailey’s Pond the fastest and I would always win by three, four seconds – so I seriously doubt some ancestor of mine was getting up to any misceginatin’.

So yeah, I’m looking for a girl. It’s hard finding a girl. Most nights, if I’m feeling a little excitable, me and my cousin Jim have to drive down county road 6, all the way to where it dead-ends past the Miller Ranch. After that, we flash our headlights three times into the bushes and wait. Sometimes they never come. Sometimes, we only have to wait two minutes and they start coming out of the bushes, those Fern girls, all dressed up in their Sunday finest all besmirched with axle grease and river clay and giving hand-jobs for a few vicodens or a jar of corn-mash. No one’s seen their daddy for ages – folks around the bait shop say he got a little too fresh with his youngest one night and she had to put him down with a claw-hammer – so ain’t no one afraid of him raising hell over his daughters being used that way. Heck, he was the one who turned them on to it in the first place. Him and his wife, that was Tilda Fern, not to be confused with the Tilda Fern across the border in Tulia, just kept on having kids figuring that, the more dependents they got, the more they get from the welfare every month. Of course, they was trying to turn a profit, so they didn’t exactly spend much of it on the girl’s upbringing. Back when Clay Aires was hitting the meth pretty hard, he said he broke into the Fern’s basement and saw it was full of ratty old mattresses, and there was jars on the shelves with these little dead babies, some of which had two faces, or three eyes, or a pair of unmentionables, one male and one female. Of course, Clay hasn’t been right in the head since he got kicked by his uncle’s horse, but it would sure explain what made those Fern girls the way they are. Point is, I don’t want to get hand-jobs in a forest by the local folklore, I want a real girlfriend!

Like I said, I’m a patriot and a Christian. Mind you, I don’t care much for going to church, but I’m Christian in the sense that it is something familiar to me I can use as a means feel outraged at people who have and opinion in conflict with my very limited view of the world. Ditto on the patriot part. Obama can go back to Africa when he tells me I shouldn’t love America. I met a foreigner once. He was all dark and had these short little legs and curly hair and was jabbering at me in this language. His shirt was torn open and bloody and it looked like he’d been walking for hours, and he kept asking me to take him to a hospital. So, you know what I did? I left him right there on the road cause we don’t need no more foreigners going to our hospitals and spending our tax money to fix their problems. The next day, I heard he was actually the new algebra professor for the community college. Seems he got hit by a drunk-driver and staggered ten miles from the accident site before dying on the road. The newspaper said he was from Bangladesh, which I guess is part of China, so we lucked out not having another commie in town along with those pinkos at the Southern Poverty Law Center, plus we don’t need no one teaching our kids no foreign math. We’ve done fine by American math so far, and I don’t see reason to change.

But, I ramble, which I tend to do ever since last winter. I was varnishing an old tool-chest in January, and believe me when I tell you that there can be some nasty cold-spells in a panhandle January. So, I had the garage sealed up tight so I wouldn’t catch cold, when suddenly I start feeling… dizzy. Then, my grandmother comes in and starts asking me about the muffins, cept grandma’s been dead for fifteen years now. When I got out of the coma, this doctor tells me I damaged a part of my brain damaged a part of my brain damged my brain and my mind might wander from time to time. So there’s that. What was I talking about?

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