Tuesday, October 23, 2007

The Rifle

Drill Sergeant: Platoon, ten-hut! At ease. This – is – your – rifle, you SOB’s.
For the rest of your time here you will clean your rifle every day.
You will go to the latrine with your rifle. You will sleep
with your rifle. Your rifle is your friend. You WILL take care of it,
because one day your rifle will save your sorry asses!
Do - you - understand – me you apes?
Platoon (shouts in unison): Yes, Drill Sergeant!
Drill Sergeant: Platoon, ten-hut! Right, face. Forward, march.

This is my rifle, this is my gun.
This is for fighting, this is for fun.

A soldier’s rifle is a tool that any fool may use
but when it comes to life or death it’s definitely time to choose.

When I was in the army we cleaned our rifles well
‘cause we knew one day we’d have to shoot the enemy all to Hell.

Sound off…one, two…

But since my term of service I’ve learned a thing or two
‘bout the difference ‘tween a rifle an’ a gun and what they’re made to do.

A rifle’s d’rect fire makes it very good indeed
when the enemy’s comin’ ta kill ya with all good haste and speed.

Sound off…one, two. Sound off…three, four…

A gun’s another animal of a totally different stripe
it shoots its projectile in a curve to do it’s duty right.

A soldier nev’re confuses a rifle with a gun
his rifle is for fightn’ and his gun is jus’ for fun.

Sound off…one, two. Sound off…three, four.
Sound off… one
One two, THREE FOUR!

Chuck Connors, October 23, 2007

Monday, October 22, 2007

Roscoe the Fireplug Dog

Chuck Connors

Roscoe was some kinda dog. Roscoe’s owner Pete, loved to take Roscoe to the
leash-free park everyday. Roscoe loved it. He could run like a wild dog without having
to drag Pete behind on one of those nasty throat-choking leashes. Only these days’ folks
are worried ‘bout just what ole Roscoe might do to Hondo’s monument in the park.
The leash-free park in Hillsboro, Oregon was dedicated to Hondo, a brave police
dog who died in the line of duty a few years back and the park's designers put up a
special monument to Hondo; a glorious fireplug all painted up in our country's patriotic
colors--red, white, and blue! Now the designers figured that dogs were gonna do what
they were gonna do on and around this special patriotic monument to Hondo. So they set
the fire plug up on a big pedestal at least two feet high. They even went to the trouble of
plantin’ prickly bushes around it so pups like Roscoe couldn't cock their hind legs an'
take a shot at Hondo's special monument.

Well it turns out some media type found out about the monument and took a

picture of it for one of the local papers. Naturally, this created a big hullabaloo all up and
down the west coast an' people started sendin' in lots of emails against dogs cockin' their
legs at Hondo's patriotic monument despite park officials not receiving any reports of
dogs lettin’ loose on it.

To say this might be somethin’ of a "tempest in a teapot" wouldn't be exaggeratin’
much as some of the emailers were pretty irate. “That gallant dog must be turning in his
grave at the thought of the flag being desecrated every time a dog pees on that hydrant!”
wrote an individual who shall remain anonymous. Say what? I saw that Robin Williams
movie ‘bout goin’ to Heaven and I think old Roscoe is chasing a lot of rabbits and havin’
himself a good ole time up there.
Well I don't know what you think about this sorry state of affairs out in the leash-
free park in Hillsboro Oregon but I got the answer and its pretty simple. Paint the fire
hydrant the colors of the Iranian flag, take the prickly bushes away an' let every Roscoe,
Rover and Ranger take their best shot. The way I figure, it would be a whole lot cheaper
than sending a bunch of our soldiers over to Teheran an' a lot less dangerous too. But I
guess that would be too easy and un-socially correct. I doubt Hondo is rolling in his
grave over this foolishness. I think it’s a bunch of dog haters laughing from theirs.

Later, ya’ll.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

The High and Windy Places

In the high and windy places, the places above the stairs,
lives a furious untamed wildness up in the thin and freezing airs.

It’s when I go a marching, a tramping from the start,
to those wonderfully empty places
that quickens the beating of my heart.

Though I’m a stranger in high places, I strive to understand;
those high and windy places, the special places of the land.

Chuck Connors

Little Candle

Little candle in the deep dark woods,
your yellow flame so cheerily bright;

your warmth and glow means so much,
little candle, hold me tight.

Little candle always protect me please,
save me, little candle from my own fright.

If I should wake and you be out,
little candle please dispel my doubt.

Little candle how I love you so,
‘cause we’re always together, this I know.

Chuck Connors

Sunday, October 7, 2007

A Day in the Life


Chuck Connors

The dream is always the same. The sun is hot and bright as I enter the tool
shed at Uncle Doyle’s place. The old, uneven boards are rough on my bare feet.
I can hear the squeaking from the old bed with the dirty mattress in the back where it’s dark. The voices are barely audible to my ears.

“Now turn over while I take real good care of you honey. C’mon baby doll its
good an’ you know it.”
“You ain’t gonna tell my Daddy are ya?”
“Naw, you just be a good little girl an’ everythang’s gonna be alright. Hell, I’ll even get you another Barbie doll.”
“Shush, what wuz that?” the young female voice said.
“Must be them damned cats fuckin’ and fightn’ up in the crawlspace again.”
Just about then I knock over a can of nails. It always happens, can’t avoid it.
Hey! Who the hell’s there? Is that you Jeremiah? Get yore ass in here boy. I wanta show you sumptin. We’s gonna make a man of ya ain’t we Doreen?”
Doreen giggles and I hear slurping sounds.
I feel myself pulled towards the speaker, Uncle Doyle. He’s about 50. He takes me fishin’ sometimes. Uncle Doyle let me drink a beer once when we was fishin’ on the lake. My Aunt Lily plays the piano in Church and makes good apple pies.
She’s a nice lady. The girl is Doreen Stokes. We ride the school bus together. She lives down the way with her widow mother Elberta. Doreen was twelve a ‘couple
of months back.
As I move towards the back of the shed it’s dark and my eyes can’t adjust. I hear the slappin’ of sweaty flesh hittin’ together. It kinda sounds like a hog fartin’.All I can make out is two bodies laying on the dirty mattress movin’ in
ways that make me squirmy.
“Are you comin’ boy? Where you at? Aww, there ya are. Come over an put
yore hand on Doreen’s butt.”
I hear my ten year old voice shakily saying, “Uncle Doyle, I don’t wanna touch Doreen’s butt.”
“Boy, I told ya to get over here an grab Doreen’s butt or I’m gonna whip yore
I start to do it. One part of me wants to an’ the other part don’t. Then something like a fire alarm goes off. I piss my shorts.
The alarm clock is jangling and the wife is hollern’ for me to come into the
kitchen for breakfast. The kids (Jerry jr’s eight and Lori’s six) are fightin’ over who gets gets the Cheerios first.Manda, my wife, is tellin’ ‘em to shut up an’ eat or they’ll miss the school bus.
I’ve got it real good; decent marriage, happy kids, money-making business. Not bad for a “Bubba” who’s only got two years of junior college. There’s still
that rotten place in me deep down I can’t talk to nobody about. God help me.
After a cup of coffee an’ some raisin bran I give Manda a kiss an’ a big hug—tell Jerry junior an’ Lorri if they do good in school this week we’ll go out
fishin’ on the lake.
I love my family. They make the pains of when I was a kid growin’ up a little easier—even though they don’t know it.I know its time for another trip
outta town.These days I don’t want to do it.I know it ain’t right. But I got to.
The dreams stop for awhile when I do.
My daddy was the one who took me down to Knoxville for my first time with the
young ones. “You don’t shit where you eat,” he said. So I go to Knoxville. I can’t hold my head up though— look folks in the eyes.
After I eat I head to the shop an’ make sure Mike, my head mechanic,
made it into work an’s got something to keep him busy for the rest of the day. I tell him I got to go to Knoxville to get some parts for a Mustang that’s been
sittin’ for three days. Mike gives me a sly smile and says “sure Jeremiah,
anything you say.” He don’t know shit.
I took off south down the four lane to Knoxville. Cruisin’ along at 70 per,
I wonder what it could have been like. Got married right after graduation; first kid came along ten months later. Inherited the garage that the old man started when
he got home from the war; hell I’m even a member of the Rotary. Seems like it
don’t mean nothin’ though.
Made good time. Got off the four lane onto East Magnolia. Cruised past the bus station an’ there they wuz. Hell, they wuz always thare. All dressed up
an’ hot lookin’. My hands were shakin’ a little; ya know, kinda anticipatin’.
Who knows ware they come from. They got to have the money to smoke their crack.
Makes ‘em feel good. Makes ‘em want it.
I cruise past a couple of times checkin’ for cops. If ‘n ya look careful, you ken see the cop spy van parked down the block. They got ta have ya on tape or it won’t stand up in court. Nope, not today.
I slow up ‘side a little blonde honey. She’s cute. Gotta little polk-a-dot mini on with a black low cut top. Hmmm, something ain’t quite right though.
“Hey, how you baby? How much ya lookin for ta get ya some new clothes?”
“It’s a hunnert dollars mister. Fuck an’ suck till yure done.”
“Maybe next time doll baby. I’m lookin for a red head today.”
“Wanta buy some weed?”
“No thanks baby. Beer’s more my style. Later.”
Further down the street I spot her. This one’s got bright red hair done up with a pony tail. She’s wearin’ one of them red shorty cheerleader-like dresses
with a halter top to match that shows off what she’s got real good.
“Hey! Where you been honey?”
“Why mister I jus’ got into Knoxville last week. You wanna party?
“How ‘bout I get ya some new clothes sweetie?”
“I think I could use ‘bout a hunnert dollars worth okay mister?”
“Get in baby”
We cruise to one of the cheap flops I use further down Magnolia Avenue.
In the room, I tell her to strip.
“Gimme my hunnert dollars first mister,” she replies.
“Strip first cutie ‘cause I gotta know if you got a mic or sumptin’ on ya.”
She takes ‘em off and I marvel how much she looks like Doreen looked in high
school when we’d skinny dip at the blue hole on the little Doe River. Doreen would
stand on top of the rock we used to dive off, her body just a shinin’ in the sun. Made my heart ache for her. Hell, my tallywacker shore did.
I pay her and we do it. It’s always too quick. Soon I’m on the four lane headed north.
I get back to the shop with the parts—had ‘em stashed in the back of the dually from gettin’ ‘em yesterday over at the NAPA place. Mike’s workin’ on a transmission in a pick-up.
“Got the parts for the mustang boss?”
“You can start work on the mustang tomorrow boy. Why don’t ‘cha take off early ‘an go home to that cute wife of yore’s?”
“Thanks boss. I guess I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
I go in the office, shut the door, ‘an take the .38 snubbie out of the drawer. It feels warm an’ real in my hands. What the fuck. I stick it in my
mouth an’ pull the trigger.

Friday, October 5, 2007

Eye Witness


Chuck Connors

I’m just a regular guy, at least for a writer. I’ve rode a few miles, been a few
places, but I’ve never been an eye witness to a robbery; that is until now.
Most people think a robbery is pretty simple and most are. You see the closed-
circuit camera footage on the news. Some idiot comes up to the counter of a 7- Eleven or
your local bank, jumps over the ounter, grabs the cash out of the register, knocks the
clerk a couple of times on the side of the head and runs out the door. The crook gets
caught in a day or two; the cops get a confession; the prosecutor gets a conviction;
and another dumbass goes to jail; case closed. You commit the crime, you do the time.
That’s why I was surprised when an acquaintance from high school who’d been in
prison a time or two, called me up one afternoon and asked if I wanted to see how a real
rip-off went down.
The high school ‘friend’, whom I’ll call ‘Jack,’ said “hey man, how you been
“Pretty good. Been doing some writing; mostly humor columns for a local
rag,” I cautiously responded.
“Chuck, I’ve read some of what you’ve written an’ it’s pretty good. It’s mostly
made up though ain’t it?”
“Jack, the stuff I write is all true and some of it may have actually happened,”
I shot back. Then he got to the meat of the conversation.
“Do you wanna write about something that’s going to happen; something one
hundred percent factual? Do you wanna be an eye witness to a real ripoff?”
This left me speechless for a couple of seconds. “You’re bullshitting me dude.
And if you aren’t I’m not going to let you put me in some Handy Andy or worse, a bank
and watch you or who ever get their shit blown away by some “Harry Callahan” type
looking to make a name for himself.”
“No man. It’s for real. I can hook you up with some professionals who’re gonna
rip off a “big box” soon. They don’t play man. They know how to handle weapons an’
they know tactics. They’re gonna do it and it’s gonna be beautiful. Whatcha’ say?”
“Besides the obvious one, what’s the catch? What do you want? Hell, what do
‘they’ want?”
“Hey, all I want is for these dudes’ story to get out. I don’t want no money or
nothin’. So if you’re not interested, I’ll just fuckin’ hang up.”
“Wait a minute partner; didn’t say I wasn’t interested; just want to know where you’re coming from. As for whether this whole thing is on the up and up, I reserve
“Ok. These dudes have read your stuff an’ they think you can put their story
down how it really happens. They know that the government, starting with the local
yokels, all the way up to the feds, are gonna lie, ‘cause they’ve done it before. An’ they
want the real deal to get out. They’re not “Robin Hoods.” They’re just a bunch of
professionals who believe in getting’ it right the first time.
“All right. I’ll bite, at least for now. What do I have to do to meet these

Writer’s note:
Here’s where I’m going to get a little vague for obvious reasons as I don’t want
the State or Federal types seizing my computer and grilling me in some windowless room
for days on end.

“Chuck, you be at such and such a place at such an’ such a time an’ the dudes will
meet with you. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Alright Jack. If you’re not being straight up about all this, I’m going to make
sure you get a little visit from the Sheriff.”
“It’s the real thing man. If you’re not satisfied that these guys are for real, you
can go ahead an’ turn me in to the Sheriff.”
A couple of days later I was at an unnamed place in the middle of night waiting
on who knows what. I felt a little stupid. After I’d smoked a couple of cigars I walked
over behind a bush and took a leak. A stick cracked.
“Don’t turn around Mr. Connors.”
“Alright guy. Just let me do my business first and then you can get my money.”
“We’re not here for your money. Stay facing the way you are and put this blind-
fold on,” the voice commanded as some material was thrown over my shoulder. I zipped
up and put the blindfold on and stayed facing in the same direction.
Hands grabbed me roughly, turned me around and I heard the voice say. “Just had to be
sure it was you Mr. Connors. We don’t want any fuck-ups.”
“Who the hell did you think it was out here in the middle of nowhere in the
middle of the freakin’ night?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just get into the vehicle. We’re taking a little ride.”
I was pushed into a vehicle and sat in the middle of a seat with two guys sitting
on either side of me. One of them farted. The other one stank of garlic. Since I’d rea
novels and seen movies using this sort of thing I kept my mouth shut. The car moved for
what seemed like a long time (I was glad I’d taken a leak) turning and going up and down
steep curves numerous times. One time we were on a gravel road which seemed
to go up forever. Finally we stopped. I was pushed out and stood shakily on my
now asleep feet.
“Mr. Connors, we’re going to take you into a building and put you in a chair.
Bright lights will be shining in your face.
“I don’t really have much of a choice do I?”
“No. Just do what I tell you and you’ll get the story of your life; and live to tell
about it also.”
I was pushed roughly through a door into what felt like some sort of basement.
Arms set me down into a chair and a rasping voice told me to “stay put.” I was told to
remove the blindfold and just like they said, the light was bright. I really couldn’t see
“Do you have any questions Mr. Connors?”
“Yea, like what the fuck is going on?”
“Your acquaintance already told you. We’re going to rip off a “big box” soon and
we wanted you to write the story for us. We believe you’ll do an honest job. If you
don’t…well we know where you live.”
“Why a fucking “big box” and not a bank or something?”
“That’s the beauty of it Mr. Connors. There’s so many ‘Edward Abbey’ types
running around Western North Carolina that any monkey wrenching that happens will
be blamed on them. We’ll be in South America before the F.B.I. even suspects just who
it was.”
“Okay. So it’s just robbery. Why should I give a damn that your story gets out
sans the usual bullshit and lies we all get from our so called leaders.”
“Besides us, you are the only one that’s going to know exactly what’s going on.
You get the exclusive. We don’t plan on killing anybody because we’ve done stuff like
this before. Plan the ‘op'. Follow the plan. Spend the money. It’s all about precision.”
“Okay. I’m in. What’s the plan,” I asked.
“Simple, Mr. Connors. We’ll create a diversion; a little explosion i
another part of the store. Propane can get out of hand if it’s ignited improperly; if you
catch my drift.
“Gotcha. Now how do you get to the real cash; not the cash registers, but where
the store’s safe is at.
“You catch on quick Mr. Connors.” The real cash, actually well over a million
dollars, is in the money room. The room has a key punch to get into it. We grab a
supervisor, give them some encouragement to punch in the code and we’re in. We stuff a
couple of duffel bags full of cash and leave. Two minutes tops.”
“How do you get out?”
“An emergency exit is next to the money room. The sprinkler and the fire alarm
will be activated so those diversions, the smoke, plus the bad emergency lighting after the
power’s been cut will create lots of panic. It should keep people busy while we leave the
“You didn’t tell me two things; how you cut the power and how you get in.”
“We have an employee who will pull the main switch. His motivation is ten
thousand dollars and we know where his family lives. Getting in is too easy. A high
school kid could do it. I’ll let you figure it out. In the mean time all you have to do is
stand where I tell you and keep your eyes and ears open. It’s pretty likely there’ll be a
panic so you might want to watch out that customers, who’ll be trying to get out the front
doors all at once, don’t run you over.
“This almost sounds like that Peter Fonda movie, “Dirty Mary and Crazy Larry.”
I suppose you have a ‘get-away’ car?”
“Actually several. And of course we’ve got something to get us south of the
border. There’s a bunch of governments down there that could care less about the U.S.,
especially for a bribe or two.”
“Okay. What store and when?” He told me.
“One last thing Mr. Connors: I’ve told you where to be. Stay there. Don’t try to
be a ‘hero’. We’re going to have select-fire rifles and shotguns plus body armor and
other ordinance. If we have to take somebody out we will.”
“Understood.” I was blindfolded again, driven back to my vehicle and told
to wait five minutes before taking the blindfold off.
On the day and about a half hour before the time he told me, I was at the “big
box” in a dirty little southern Appalachian mill town. It wasn’t very far from where I
lived. Hollywood types had shot a couple movies in and around the town because of the
local scenery. Yea, there was plenty of it, scenery that is—lots of little Abner and Daisy
Mae types running around in jacked-up 4X4’s. “Dueling Banjos” came to mind.
I walked in and positioned myself where I was told—the camera section. I wasn’t
bothered. This “big box” chain is notorious for poor customer service. I didn’t notice
anything unusual; just another day for low prices and cheap, Chinese made junk. A
Hispanic man put a sign on the men’s restroom saying “Closed for Cleaning” and put a
mop bucket in front of the door to drive home the point.
Suddenly there was a ‘pop’ in the back of the store and a loud whooshing noise
with what looked like a fireball. The store started to fill with smoke and the sprinklers
and fire alarms went off. I saw several guys dressed in tactical gear holding rifles and
shotguns at the ready exit the men’s room. Their body armor had ‘Police’ stenciled in
big white letters across the front and back. The leader grabbed a supervisor, some kid
with a mullet and pimples, and pointed a large semi-auto pistol at his head.
“Don’t shoot mister. I’ll open it for you. Nobody who works here gives a damn
about the store’s money anyway.”
Just like “Mr. Smith” had said, the customers were screaming and running down
each other trying to be the first out of the door of this low prices now turned seeming
death trap. In a way it was almost funny.
The kid let the heavily armed gang members into the money room and it wasn’t
two minutes before they reappeared with three bulging duffels, cut left and exited the
store. I heard a couple of loud booms from outside and the roar of a big block motor with
the screeching of tires as I ran out. It wasn’t more than a couple of minutes later that
the police showed up and immediately starting herding people away from the doors.
After the heist was all over and the ‘bad guys’ had gone I saw how quickly the
B.A.T.F. guys influenced the town manager to lie; not that he didn’t have a lot of practice
telling whoppers with a straight face. The Sheriff went along because it was in his best
interest to go along—he wants to get re-elected. Of course the media regurgitated what
they were told to.
As far as the cops actually figuring out who had pulled off the heist, well all the
‘boys in blue’ zeroed in on the decoys that the gang had purposeful sent undisguised in
range of the security cameras. They’re still looking for them as “persons of interest.” It
really doesn’t take much to fool someone who doesn’t have a clue what to look for,
especially when they’re looking for some wild-eyed tree hugger type.
I went ahead and wrote up the details—took me a couple of days to go over the
notes and get it all straight. Then I posted it on my blog. Haven’t got any comments yet,
but then, I’m not really expecting any.
I did get a postcard from Brazil the other day. The picture had a couple of topless
beauties soaking up rays on a perfect white beach. On the back was printed “Thanks,
keep up the good work. Wish you were here.”
I laughed until I almost cried.
As for whether you, the reader, believes a word of what I’ve written, I could
care less. I know what I saw. I was there and an eye witness. Like I’ve said before, all
of its true and some of it may have actually happened.

Editor’s Post Script:

According to police, on Wednesday September 26, 2007, there was an incident at the Wal-Mart Superstore in Sylva, North Carolina. Reportedly there was a triggering of some kind of explosive device. Several people were injured. The store was closed until 6:00 am the next day. Persons of Interest, recorded on surveillance footage, are being sought. The Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms, along with State and local authorities, are still investigating.

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

Aunt Martha and the D.E.A.


Chuck Connors

Here lately the sheriff an’ his boys have been collectin’ some of them
“wildwood” weeds from up around Glenville. Yea, there he was in the papers, just a
smiling, surrounded by a forest of those pesky plants. Looked like he was in a jungle or something.I half expected a monkey to jump out screechin’.

Evidently it’s a BIG problem ‘cause deputies managed to round up about a
hundred or so of them loco weeds an’ save us law-abiding citizens from a life of
depravity an’ shame living under a bridge. Shoot, if they gather a few more truck
loads of ‘em it might be enough to keep that plant cooker goin’ for awhile
up at that “green” energy park just outside of Dillsboro!

Seems our mountains are good for growin’ stuff, flora or fauna; and with lots of National Forest land there’s plenty of room.Unfortunately though, certain government agencies just got to take an interest in some folks’ plantin’ habits.

Every once in awhile you see one of them helicopters flyin’ over real low, like
they’re lookin’ for somethin’. They just buzz around like skeeters for awhile an’ then they go away—I guess back to Washington D.C. maybe.

Seems like I remember one time some of them D.E.A. boys found more than they
was lookin’ for when they visited Aunt Martha an’ Uncle Gus’ place over on
John’s Creek.

Aunt Martha an’ Uncle Gus pretty much kept to themselves except when they had
to come into town for staples. One afternoon in the late summer Aunt Martha was
workin’ out in her garden and she happened to hear something like a pack of motorcycles roaring up the road. Up over the ridge came one of them big helicopters,
kinda like a big horse fly. Well it circled around for a minute and set down
in the pasture below the house. Aunt Martha just knew that somethin’ must be wrong
like maybe they was in trouble or somethin’ an’ she trotted down to see if she
could help.

Well those government boys was all dressed up in camouflage—like a lot of them
Yankees that come to play “batman in the boondocks” in these mountains of ours. They
looked like they was goin’ bear huntin’ ‘cept you generally don’t go bear huntin’ with M16 rifles. Aunt Martha come up to the D.E.A. boys an’ hollered
"ya’ll need some help?” The leader of the gang of agents put his hand to his
ear questioningly.
“I say ya’ll need some help?” Aunt Martha yelled. She was persistent if nothing
The leader shook his head ‘no’ an’ shouted at Aunt Martha, “Maam, you need to
get away from here—go on home.”

Aunt Martha kinda looked at him peculiar, like he didn’t have much sense.

“Well I thought you might of needed some help thare young man,

‘specially since you set yore 'heelocopter' down right next to our beehives.”

About then all them bees from Uncle Gus’ dozen or so hives came flyin’ out
angry and ready to go to war. Aunt Martha skedaddled back up to the house and the bees swooped down on them government fellas like there was no tomorrow.
The D.E.A. fellers commenced to jumpin’ ‘round an’ swingin’ their arms like they
was nuts. Shoot, anybody with half a brain knows you can’t fight bees like that.

Uncle Gus fell out right there on the front porch he was laughing so hard.
Just about then the sheriff and some of his deputies pulled up, saw what was
happening and joined Uncle Gus in laughing like Hyenas. Aunt Martha said some of ‘em
was laughing so hard they was cryin’.

Well the government boys spotted the fish pond at the other end of the field and
decided to make a tactical retreat. Uncle Gus’ bees chased all them government boys
into the pond and the leader of the gang was the last to dive in—clothes an’ all. It was a full scale rout!

Later on, Uncle Gus put the smoke to the bees and calmed ‘em down so the
D.E.A. boys could get a flatbed to come get their helicopter and the rescue squad had the opportunity to come an’ practice a little first aid on ‘em.

The government being what it is I imagine they’re still going to fly around
our mountains looking for the wildwood weeds. I guess next time though they’ll
be a little more careful exactly where they land.

Later, ya’ll

The Rapacious Nudist

Chuck Connors

Were I to be a rapacious nudist,
someone with an unscrupulous way of looking at things you say.
I think you might find that on my birthday,
a bit of an insane snicker to celebrate the day.

Were I to be a rapacious nudist,
it's perfectly alright you see;
as long as I'm true to my calling
and become the swinging dick I was meant to be.