Hey George, I hate to have tell you this, son, but they're talking bad about you out at the deer camp. That's real bad. When you've lost the deer-camp-boys you're in big trouble around here.
George, they're a calling you a liar. Yep, they are. And if it's one thing they don't cotton to, it's a liar, George. They know liars; they've had liars for employees and dealt with liars in trying to do businesses. "Cain't' trust a liar" just about sums it up around here, George.
I guess it's partly cause we come from pioneer stock. Most of our people moved here from Tennessee and Alabama, and before that Georgia and the Carolinas and some from Virginia. We come from a long line of survivors, George. Only the survivors got this far. They survived by their wits and hard, honest work, with a little luck thrown in. Excuse' me for saying so, but they also learnt' real early how to separate the chicken salad from the chicken s****, George. (G's note: anybody who kin misspell a cuss word with asterisks is my kinda guy!) They watched out for what people did rather than pay too much attention to what they said. Their Grandpas taught em' that.
And, oh yea, these ol' boys, they really don't like being played for a fool when they've kindly given you the benefit of the doubt. On a scale of one to ten George, that's a ten.
Yep, when he loses the flannel-shirt-'n-.30-'06 boys, he's lost everybody who breathes even a little oxygen.
They're not too crazy about all the new and proposed gas wells in prime huntin' country in Colorado, Wyoming, and a coupla other Western states, either.
No comments:
Post a Comment