Ain’t Nothin’ Says a Feller Cain’t Learn Nothin’

One Ugly Mug 2
One Ugly Mug
Thish hyar ole hillbilly aint much fer beleevin in thangs other foaks sez. Foaks’ll tell yuh, “Thish hyar sham pooh will make yore hair shannier and git ewe more wimmen then ewe kin shake a stick at.”

Ain’t no truth to it. Truss me. Bin air; dun at; got the scars on muh skalp tuh pruve it.

But sinst Ah wuz jist a liddle ole hillbilly, thaze one thang Ah had hyeerd tell thet Ah thott wuzz the God’s most honestest truth.

Ah wuz told tam an tam agin they ain’t no way a carp’s gonna take a lerr. An Ah wint an toald foaks the same thang. “Doant aiven thank about it,” Ah’d say. “Aint no carp nohwirr no tam noways evver taken no lerr.”

Well, culler thish hyar ole hillbilly a bratt shade of rong.

Yissterdy aivnin, Ah wuzz out fishin on Lake of the Als. Ah wuzz fishin with a lerr–a Rappluh Shaller Shad. Ah thoad it in cloast tuh the bank, twixt thuh bank an a mess of lily pads–an sumthin hit it.

Ah thot: at air is a natty fan bass.

Ah coulden take no lan up on the rail. Ah’d tern thuh handle, an Ah coulden git it tuh do nothin.

Purdy soon, Ah disaddid hit coulden be no bass. Hit was too big.

Fanly Ah got it up tuh the surfiss soze Ah kud see it. An hit warnt nuthin seppin a big ole carp.

Ah didden wanna brake muh rod ner bust muh lan, speshly coz Ah am rat fond of thuh Rappluh lerr Ah wuz a-yoozin. Soze Ah took muh naidle-nose plars an pluckt thuh lerr outen the ole carp’s mouth.

Ah taiken a cupple of pitchers. Thay aint suh sharp, mainly cozz thuh ole carp wuz a-moovin all thuh tam. But hittle give ewe an eye-deer. Ah wreckin thuh ole thang wood go mebbe ate er ten pownz.

Ah aint suh prowd bowt ketchin me no carp, seppin Ah cott it on a lerr. Thet’s strainj. Iffen Ah hadden had enuff mash tuh drank, Ah matter thott Ah wuz havin me sum deleeryum tree mens. In fack, Ah wuz suh consarned Ah give muhseff a blood test atter Ah let thuh ole carp go. Ah drawed off bout a teaspoon of blood and put a match to it. Shore nuff, hit burnt jiss fan, with a long blue flame. At let me no thet muh blood alkie haul content wuz jiss rat.

Laiter on, Ah ketched me a purdy nass liddle ole bass. Thuh ole carp woodah maid sicks er seven of at air liddle ole bass. Still, Ah lackt thuh ole bass a hoal sat bedder. Carp’s jiss an ugly critter. Kanly remands me of a praicher Ah yooster no, feller yooster come rown an preech tuh me bowt goin tuh church. Mebbe haze dun bin re in car naited.

Another on the Devil's Horse

Advertisements

Thankin of Fishin

Thankin of Fishin

Thish hyar ole hillbilly hez bin rat bizzy laitly, hwut with bilin up an boddlin mash, not tuh menshin drankin it two. Corse, hit wooden be rat fer me tuh sell nobawdy no mash thouten me a-knowin hwether hit wuz fit fer drankin. Soze Ah moas jinrully drank a kwart er fore a day.

Ennywaze, Ah bin plannin tuh git owt an dew moar fishin. Ah dun wint an taiken a pitcher of sum of muh lerrs. Hit hepps kaip me in mand of fishin.

Lake of the Als

SAMSUNG CSC

Yestiddy aivnin Ah drug muh liddle kayak down tuh Lake Calhoon an wint fishin. Hit wuz rat windy on Calhoon hwin Ah kummincet tuh fishin, an Ah warnt ketchin nuthin nohow. So Ah disaddid to paddle up tuh Lake of the Als, hwitch is the nex lake fum Lake Calhoon. 

Ah paddled up an startid tuh thowin muh lerrs aroun. Ah wuz moas jinrully yoozin me sum Rappluhs–sum crankbates an a gold minner bate. 

Ah fanly ketched me wun liddle ole bass. He warnt but bout twel inchiz long, but he put up kwat a fat.

Ah hed juss let at un go hwin Ah hyeerd thish hyar feller sang out, “Ewe ketchin ennythang?”

Ah lookt up, an they wuz a feller sitting on a fantsy boat. He had him wun of em air lecktrick troallin moaders soze he didden haff tuh paddle nun. They wuz ateteen er twenny fishin poals stackt on the deck an a tackle bocks thuh saz of a steemer trunk.

“Ah aint cot but wun,” Ah riplad, “an hit warnt harley wurth talkin bout.”

“Hwatchoo yoozin fer lerrs?” he axed.

“Manely Rappluhs,” Ah sed. Ah hedd up muh poal an shoad thuh feller muh gold minnerbate Rappluh. “Thish hyar is hwut Ahma yoozin now.”

Thuh feller lookt at it. “Hwah, at air’s a fan lerr. Iffen ewe aint cott yore limit awreddy, Ah wreckin ewe doant no much bout fishin.”

Ah thot a seckund bowt thuh fellers rimark. “Ah wreckin ewe got at rat,” Ah sed. Thin Ah shoad him muh flask. “Say, ewe look lack a feller hoo wooden say no tuh a drop of mash. Zat rat?”

“Mash?” the feller axed.

“Well, ewe kin cawl hit craft hwisky, iffen ewe lack. Ah distilled hit muhseff.”

Thuh feller goggled at thuh flask fer a hwal, thin raiched owt fer it. “Ah spoaz hit woant hurt me nun.”

He unscrood the cap an taiken hizzeff a liddle sip. Corse mah mash doant smell lack much a nuthin, sints hits manely alkiehaul. 

Ah wreckin hit past the sniff test, coz thuh feller tipt the flask up an taiken hizzeff a purdy good sip.

Lack Ah figgered, thuh ole boy hadden bin born an bred a-drankin moonshan. Hiz ahs kummincet rat away tuh glaze oaver, lack a kupple of Krispy Kraim doanuts. Thin he startid sladdin kanly slow-lack outen his chare.

Fore he hit the wadder, Ah raiched out an grabbed muh flask. Aint no yoose waistin good mash, an speshly aint no yoose in waistin thuh ole hillbilly’s speshul Rokkit Fule Mash.

He went in, an Ah took me a sip an thot bout it a hwal. Thin Ah disadded thet thuh ole boy wuz rat. Ah doant ratly no nuthin bout fishin. Ah aint good fer ketchin nuthin seppin skeeter bats.

So Ah fisht him owt, thoad him up on his boat, an waived muh flask under hiz noze. He kummincet tuh snortin an coffin, an he shot bowt a gallin a wadder owt of his noaze. But thin he seddled down an startid braithin reggler lack.

Ah disaddid thin tuh go on bowt muh way. An Ah aivin let thuh ole boy kaip muh gold Rappluh minner-bate. 

Corse, Ah disaddid thet after wurkin fer tin minnits tuh git the treble hooks out of his chaik. Ah warnt dewin no good at it nowaze. 

 

The ole hillbilly on brangin up yore young uns

Image

Dear Old Hillbilly,

My wife and I are expecting our first child. At the baby shower, one of our friends gave us a copy of your book Brangin Up Yore Young Uns the Hillbilly Way. I assume that the gift was made as a joke. We began reading the book, our faces growing more aghast with each page. For a time we tried to explain the book itself as nothing more than an ill-considered joke, a spoof on child-rearing manuals. We could accept that explanation–despite the absolute lack of humor in your apparently unedited text–so long as we were reading chapters with titles such as  “Yore Young Un’s Furst Coon Hound,” “Traytin Rangwurms with Mash,” “Clainin Dapper Pales with Mash,” and “Dravvin Way Em Air Noazy Chal Pertecktive Surviss Foaks with Yore Twel-Gaij.”

But then we read the chapter “Innerdoosin Yore Young Un tuh Mash,” including the advice to “kaip the young un’s mama well drunkt up soze her brest mikk is chawk full of alkiehaul. Thaddle giv thuh young un a nacherl taist fer mash.” Just what in the world were you thinking?

Please note that we are not ourselves unintelligent. We each hold advanced degrees; we are both highly paid professionals; and, as something that you can perhaps understand, we own three Audis. Thus, our comments deserve some weight.

Sincerely,

Furious

Dear Oaners of Thray Outties,

Ah am kunfyoozed. Duz aich wun uv yawl hav thray bellybuttins, or dew yawl hav thray bellybuttins twain yuh? Iffen sew, iz air wun of ewe thets got too bellybuttins, an wun thet aint got but one?  Or dew yawl aich hav wun thets kanly fixt on yuh, an then thaze anuther thet yawl swap aroun? An dew yawl hav oanly audis, or dew yawl also hav innies?

Ah doant main tuh be rood, but thish hyar ole hillbilly aint nevver herd sich lack in awl muh laff.

Ennyway, let me antser yore kwisschun. Ah wuz a trahin’ tuh shed sum lat on a vext subjickt. Thaze sum foaks thaddle jiss hand a young un a boddle of mash strate offen thuh still thouten furst gittin um yoost tuh sumthin a liddle weeker. Coarse, thaze menny thaddle put a liddle mash in thuh boddle, hwich is a kander an jentler way.

But thaze sum thet doant hold with givvin a young un mash til thuh chall iz as much as twel er thurtain yares old. Jiss lay yore ahz on the pitcher Ah am attachin. “NOT FOR BABIES”? Well, mebbee Uncle Cooter’s mash aint fit fer nobawdy nohwair. Ah wreckin that aint tripple distilled, lack thuh ole hillbilly’s Speshul Rokkit Fule Mash. 

Ennywaze, they iz jist a passle of diffurnt ahdeeyers rown bout thish hyar isshoo. An Ah wreckin muh advass is thuh best: iffen thuh mamas drunkt up awl thuh tam, thuh young un’ll git a nacherl taist fer mash. Purt soon, thuh liddle un’ll be a toddlin roun, draggin his er her oan jug an stoppin fer thuh kaizhnull sip, jiss lack thuh chal’s pappy. 

An at air is the troo hillbilly way.