AND YOU SAY YOU’VE GOT PROBLEMS BUCKY?– Just received the letter regarding the Sunday Post I owe you, stating you would cause me trouble as you thought the article should have been posted long ago and you couldn’t see why it wasn’t.
When you talk about trouble, let me enlighten you. In 1947, I bought a saw-mill on time payments. In 1948, I bought an ox cart, two oxen, a breech-loading shotgun, a tractor, a Colt revolver, a pair of razor-back hogs. In 1949, the saw-mill burned down and didn’t leave me a damned thing but a pile of ashes. One of the oxen died and I loaned the other to a son-of-a-bitch who let it starve to death.
In 1950, I joined the church. My father died and my brother was hung for horse stealing. A railroad worker knocked-up my daughter and I had to pay a doctor $38.00 to keep the bastard from becoming a relative of mine.
In 1951, one of my boys got the mumps and they fell on him. He had to be castrated to save his life. One day I went fishing, the boat turned over and I lost the biggest fish I have ever seen! Two of my boys drowned (neither one of them was the castrated one).
My wife was a cold potato. I had trouble getting her to go off, so I went to the doctor and he advised me to create excitement about the time she was ready to climax. So I stuck my breech-loading shotgun out the window and fired. Well, to make a long story short, my wife shit in the bed, I ruptured myself and I killed the best cow I ever owned.
In 1955, the rest of my buildings burned down and I took to drinking. I didn’t stop this habit until I had nothing left but a waterproof watch and kidney trouble. So for some time all I did was wind my watch and piss in my pants.
During the following year, I came to my senses and decided to give it another try. I bought a binder, a threshing machine and a manure spreader. Sure enough a cyclone came along and carried everything into the next county.
My wife caught the clap from a traveling salesman and my boy wiped his ass with a corncob that had been soaked with rat poison and died. Now I am so broke that if it cost me a nickel to shit I’d have to vomit. So, trying to get money out of me would be like trying to shove butter up a wildcat’s ass with a knitting needle.
And you say YOU can cause me trouble……..
–from Buckshot
Will she help?–Bandit
