Archive for the ‘Redneck’ Category

 
   This is a letter from a Kentucky woman to her son:
 

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Dear Johnny: 

   I’m writing this letter real slow ‘cause I know you can’t read that fast. We don’t live where we did when you left. Your Dad read in the paper where most accidents happen within twenty miles of home, so we moved. I won’t be able to send you the address as the last family that lived there took the numbers with them for their next house so they wouldn’t have to change their address. This place has an indoor porcelain washing machine. I haven’t figgured out how to use it yet. The first day, I put four shirts in it, pushed the handle down, and haven’t seen them since, although it did refill with water.

    The weather’s been nice. It only rained twice this week: three days the first time and four days the second time. The coat you wanted me to send you, you’ll have to sew the buttons back on. Your Ant Sue said it would be a little too heavy to send in the mail with them metal buttons, so we cut them off and put them in the pockets.

    Your father has an important new job. He now has over 500 men under him. He is cutting the grass at the cemetery. Your sister had her baby this morning. I haven’t found out whether it is a boy or a girl, so I don’t know if you are an aunt or an uncle. The neighbor’s wife had twins and he is out with a shotgun looking for the other man.

    Your Uncle Jim fell in the whiskey vat at work. Some men tried to pull him out, but he fought them off. He drowned with a smile on his face. We had him cremated and he burned for three days. Grampa went to the doctor. He wasn’t feeling too well. The doctor told him, “take one of these pills a day for the rest of your life.” Grampa is quite upset ‘cause the doctor only gave him thirty pills. By the way, we got a bill from the funeral home. They said if we didn’t make the last payment on grandma’s funeral, up she comes.

   Your brother is turning in to a neighborhood bully. He can beat up all the kids around except for the Murphy family; they have boys. Two of your high school friends died the other day. They went off the Cedar Narrows bridge in a pickup truck. Paul was driving; Randy and Scott were in the back. Paul got Out. He rolled the window down and swam to safety. The other two drowned; they couldn’t get the tailgate down.

   Well, that’s all the news for now.

Love, Mom

PS. I was going to send you a check for $10, but I had already sealed the envelope.

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Letter to my darling husband

Letter from Boot Camp

   This letter is written from a farm kid going through boot camp at Parris Island Marine Corps Recruit Depot

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Dear Ma and Pa: 

   I am well. Hope y’all are too. Tell Brother Walt and Brother Elmer the Marine Corps is easy and beats working for old man Minch by a country mile. They really ought to join up quick before all the places are filled.

   I was restless at first because they make you stay in bed till nearly 5:00 a.m., but I am getting so I like to sleepin in late. Tell Walt and Elmer all you has to do before breakfast is smooth your cot and shine your boots and buckles. No hogs to slop, feed to pitch, mash to mix, wood to split, hay to lay… practically nothing. Men gots to shave but it is not so bad, they’ve even got warm water.

   Breakfast is strong on trimmings like fruit juice, cereal, eggs, bacon, etc., but kind of weak on the pork chops, fried potatoes, salt cured ham, steak, sausage, gravy and biscuits and other regular breakfast foods, but tell Walt and Elmer you can always sit by some city boys that live on coffee and doughnuts. Their food plus yours holds you till noon when you get fed again. It’s no wonder these city boys can’t walk far.

   Speakin of walkin; we go on “route marches” which the Platoon Sergeant says are long walks to toughen us up. If he thinks so, it’s not my place to tell him different. A “route march” is about as far as to our mailbox at home. The countryside is nice but awfully flat. We don’t climb hills or nothin. Them city guys get sore feet and we all get to ride back in trucks. The Sergeant is like a school teacher. He nags us a lot. The Captain is like the school board. Majors and Colonels just ride around and frown. They don’t bother you none.

   This next part will kill Walt and Elmer with laughing. I keep getting medals for shooting! I don’t know why. The bulls-eye is purt-ear as big as a chipmunk’s head and it don’t move, and it ain’t shooting back at you like the Higgett boys do at home. All you got to do is lie there all comfortable and hit it. You don’t even load your own cartridges. They come in boxes.

   Then we have what they call hand-to-hand combat training. You get to wrestle with them city boys. I have to be real careful though, they break real easy. It ain’t like fighting with that ole bull at home. I’m about the best they got in this except for that guy Jordan from over in Silver Lake. I only beat him once. He joined up the same time as me, but I’m only 5’6″ and 130 pounds, and he’s 6’8″ and weighs near 300 pounds dry.

   Be sure to tell Walt and Elmer to hurry and join before other fellers get onto this setup and come stampeding in.

Your loving daughter,

Gail

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Letter from a hillbilly mom

Letter from a college friend

Justin Wilson, Cajun cook and storyteller
1914 - 2001

   [Author’s Note: I don’t know for sure, but I attribute this story to Justin Wilson.]

   Back in the swamplands of Southern Louisiana, Theodore had some city folk to come visit him. While they were visiting, they wanted to experience some true bayou life, so they asked Theodore if he would take them to try some alligator hunting. Theodore was obliging, so Theodore and the two men loaded up their rifles in his pickup truck and headed out under the Spanish Moss down an unpaved road back into the darkest part of the Bayou.

   Theodore told the fellows, “Naw ah have to make a stop ‘a the Broussard place an’ let ’em know we’ll be ‘ta roamin’ his property,” Theodore told them. So Theodore stopped the truck near where some cattle were grazing and walked up to the Broussard cottage.

“‘Lo, Amos!” Theodore called.

“‘Lo, Theo,” Amos replied. “What you about these parts for?”

Theodore told him, “Ah got some city folk visitin’ and they wan’ try their hands at a ‘gator hunt. So’s I tol’ ’em we’d try out yore way, but ‘figured I’d stop t’ ask first. Ya’ll doing well, I presume?” asked Theo.

“Not the best of days ever I see’d.” said Amos.

“Whaz goin’ on?” asked Theo.

“Well, my old kine Abigale is ill, and Doc says she’s too old to recover. I hate to see her suffer. She needs to be put down, but I ain’t got the heart. It tears me up somethin’ fierce.”

“Amos, if it’d do you, I got the rifle in the truck wi’ me. I’ll jus’ take care o’ that for you, then me and them boyz’ll be on our way.”

“‘Preciate you’d do that for me, Theo. Yo’re a good man.” said Amos.

   As Theodore walked back to the truck, he spotted the old cow, Abigale, and decided to have some fun with the city folk.

“Dang that Amos Broussard!” Theodore hollered. “He makes me madder ‘an a wet hornet.”

“What happened?” the men asked.

“He said he’s tired o’ people tramplin’ up his property, cuttin’ his fences, an’ leavin’ they trash behind, and said he won’t let us hunt his land. Now, we been frien’s near twenee-six year, I ‘tol him. I hain’t never did you no ways wrong, but he said he didn’ care. Wasn’t no way he’s lettin’ some city folk come cross his lan’ an take a ‘gator.”

“Well, what are we going to do?” the city boys asked.

“I’ll show him friendship!” and Theodore grabbed his hunting rifle, walked over to Abigale, and *BLAM* shot her in the head.

Then, from behind, he heard two more shots: *BLAM – BLAM*. Theodore turned around to see one of his guests putting his rifle back in the truck. “Come on, Theodore! I just shot two more cows… now let’s get out of here.”

Theodore’s four doors

Hillary Diane Rodham Clinton is the 67th United States Secretary of State, serving in the administration of President Barack Obama. She was a United States Senator for New York from 2001 to 2009.

   
Poor Hillary, bless her heart.

   When Hillary Clinton ran for President in 2008, the top-selling bumper sticker in the Washington DC area was one that said, “Run, Hillary, Run.” The Democrats were snatching it up to put on the back of their cars, and the Republicans were snatching it up to put on the front of theirs.

   During that campaign, Hillary Clinton came to East Tennessee to cultivate a constituency. She and her driver were cruising along a country road one evening when an old cow who had gotten out of the pasture, wandered in front of the car. The driver tried to avoid it but couldn’t – he struck and killed the aged bovine.

   Hillary told her driver to go up to the farmhouse and explain to the owner what had happened, and offer to reimburse them for the cow. She stayed in the car making phone calls to lobbyists.

   About a half-hour later the driver staggered back to the car carrying a huge bag full of fresh beans, corn, tomatoes, peppers, and squash, a half-empty jar of moonshine, and a home-rolled tobacco twist. His face was smeared with lipstick and he was smiling from ear to ear.

“What happened to you?” asked Hillary.

“Well,” the driver replied, “I tried to tell them about hitting their cow, but the farmer started dancing around and gave me the twist, his wife gave me the victuals and the moonshine, and their beautiful twin daughters covered me in kisses!”

“Well, what did you say to them?” asked Hillary.

   The driver replied, “I just stepped up to the door and said, ‘I’m Presidential Candidate Hillary Clinton’s driver and I’ve just killed the old cow.’ The rest happened so fast I couldn’t stop it.”


 
 
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