hard, fast, and continuous .
7. I’ll slap you so hard, you won’t wake up till your clothes are back in style .
8. I’ll be on you faster than a crackhead on his pipe .
9. I’ll be on you quicker than a fat rat on a Cheeto .
10. I’ll go through you like a Sherman tank through downtown Atlanta .
11. I’ll be all over you like a bee on a honey-dipped hamburger .
12. I’ll beat you like an Indian drum on a wedding night .
13. I’ll beat you down like a blind gopher in soft dirt .
14. I’ll pop you like a two-day-old pimple .
[Country]
1. Country as cornflakes and gooder than grits .
2. Country as a baked-bean sandwich .
3. Country as cornbread .
10
You Always Catch More Flies with Honey Than Vinegar … If You Want to Catch Flies
I t was my younger brother Jason’s senior week, and we had made our way down to Myrtle Beach to do some celebrating. Now, Jason had always worked harder than a forty-dollar mule, and he was pretty thrifty with his savings; but when it came to common sense, he’d have to study to be a half-wit. Seeing also how, at times, we got along like two shaved rats in a wool sock, we decided to drive separately. Jason had bought himself a yellow ’87 Corvette convertible and he was as proud of that car as a short-legged puppy with two peters. Now, me, having a neck as red as five miles of Georgia asphalt, I went down in my ’69 Ford F-150 with a six-inch lift kit and a three-speed on the column. That old truck was like a moped: she sure was fun to ride, but you didn’t want your friends to catch you on it.
So we got down to the beach along with our friend John and, per tradition, piled in the ’Vette and started cruising the strip. Now, the two-mile drive down the strip takes about an hour and is usually slower than a herd of turtles marching through molasses in January. But the scenery is always worth the wait: the girls down there look good enough to run a bulldog off the back of a meat wagon at lunchtime. Shoot—if I had swings like some of them on my back porch, I’d never leave the house!
Well, of course, we got hung up at an intersection with about twenty other guys itching to piss on a porcupine and call the dogs. They started mouthing off about Jason’s’Vette, saying he must be a daddy’s boy, and that got him hotter than a goat’s butt in a jalapeño pepper patch. Jason can have enough mouth for about five sets of teeth, so next thing you know he was out of the car and those boys were right on us. See, when it comes to the ability to think things through, I’d have to say that the closest Jason ever got to a 4.0 in school was his blood alcohol content. But when it comes to fighting, he’s about as crazy as an outhouse horsefly.
So though it was thirteen on three, we were holding our own. Heck, I hit one boy so hard I thought he’d starve to death before he quit sliding. But just as I finished with that punch I looked over and saw a fellow bury a knife to the hilt in Jason’s back and he went down like a sack of wet potatoes. John had also been split open with a bowie knife from ring finger to rib and was bleeding like a stuck pig on aspirin. I broke into a full run and jumped on the boy who had stabbed Jason. I was all over him like a one-armed paperhanger with jock itch.
Then the cops came. When it was all said and done, the three of us were in the emergency room. John had thirty-eight staples in his side. Jason had a hole in his back that I swear was so deep we could have tapped into it and found oil. And I had two bones sticking out of my hand which, unfortunately, were mine. So the ER doctor recommended I head back to Raleigh and see a specialist, since duct tape and superglue were not an option. Problem was, I couldn’t drive my truck, since it was a three-speed. So I talked Jason into letting me take the ’Vette and he could follow me in my old beater.
We were tired, beat up, and in severe pain, and none of us was looking forward to the three-hour
7. I’ll slap you so hard, you won’t wake up till your clothes are back in style .
8. I’ll be on you faster than a crackhead on his pipe .
9. I’ll be on you quicker than a fat rat on a Cheeto .
10. I’ll go through you like a Sherman tank through downtown Atlanta .
11. I’ll be all over you like a bee on a honey-dipped hamburger .
12. I’ll beat you like an Indian drum on a wedding night .
13. I’ll beat you down like a blind gopher in soft dirt .
14. I’ll pop you like a two-day-old pimple .
[Country]
1. Country as cornflakes and gooder than grits .
2. Country as a baked-bean sandwich .
3. Country as cornbread .
10
You Always Catch More Flies with Honey Than Vinegar … If You Want to Catch Flies
I t was my younger brother Jason’s senior week, and we had made our way down to Myrtle Beach to do some celebrating. Now, Jason had always worked harder than a forty-dollar mule, and he was pretty thrifty with his savings; but when it came to common sense, he’d have to study to be a half-wit. Seeing also how, at times, we got along like two shaved rats in a wool sock, we decided to drive separately. Jason had bought himself a yellow ’87 Corvette convertible and he was as proud of that car as a short-legged puppy with two peters. Now, me, having a neck as red as five miles of Georgia asphalt, I went down in my ’69 Ford F-150 with a six-inch lift kit and a three-speed on the column. That old truck was like a moped: she sure was fun to ride, but you didn’t want your friends to catch you on it.
So we got down to the beach along with our friend John and, per tradition, piled in the ’Vette and started cruising the strip. Now, the two-mile drive down the strip takes about an hour and is usually slower than a herd of turtles marching through molasses in January. But the scenery is always worth the wait: the girls down there look good enough to run a bulldog off the back of a meat wagon at lunchtime. Shoot—if I had swings like some of them on my back porch, I’d never leave the house!
Well, of course, we got hung up at an intersection with about twenty other guys itching to piss on a porcupine and call the dogs. They started mouthing off about Jason’s’Vette, saying he must be a daddy’s boy, and that got him hotter than a goat’s butt in a jalapeño pepper patch. Jason can have enough mouth for about five sets of teeth, so next thing you know he was out of the car and those boys were right on us. See, when it comes to the ability to think things through, I’d have to say that the closest Jason ever got to a 4.0 in school was his blood alcohol content. But when it comes to fighting, he’s about as crazy as an outhouse horsefly.
So though it was thirteen on three, we were holding our own. Heck, I hit one boy so hard I thought he’d starve to death before he quit sliding. But just as I finished with that punch I looked over and saw a fellow bury a knife to the hilt in Jason’s back and he went down like a sack of wet potatoes. John had also been split open with a bowie knife from ring finger to rib and was bleeding like a stuck pig on aspirin. I broke into a full run and jumped on the boy who had stabbed Jason. I was all over him like a one-armed paperhanger with jock itch.
Then the cops came. When it was all said and done, the three of us were in the emergency room. John had thirty-eight staples in his side. Jason had a hole in his back that I swear was so deep we could have tapped into it and found oil. And I had two bones sticking out of my hand which, unfortunately, were mine. So the ER doctor recommended I head back to Raleigh and see a specialist, since duct tape and superglue were not an option. Problem was, I couldn’t drive my truck, since it was a three-speed. So I talked Jason into letting me take the ’Vette and he could follow me in my old beater.
We were tired, beat up, and in severe pain, and none of us was looking forward to the three-hour
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