We say grace, we say ma’am, if you ain’t into that, we don’t give a damn.

I’d love to spit some Beechnut in that dude’s eye, and shoot him with my old forty-five.

Trappin’ coons is an art form, truth be told. But its more fun to just shoot them.They are huge rats of the forest as far as I am concerned. You ever smelled one of their nest? Shit and vinegar mixed with fur and bones, I’m telling ya. Foul scavengers for the most part.

I know there’s a group of folks who think they are all cuddly, cute, and fun, but they are devils. Manipulative little devils.

In these parts–and many others–there’s always the story about how some homeschoolin hot mama brings home some cubs whose mother got trapped or killed off, and always the same Youtube videos “aww, how cute, he’s scrappin my house! Its draggin socks around and using them for chew toys!” and of course this one “look! he’s so cute he can open the door/open the pantry/ open bottle of Jack Daniels! Drunk raccoons, hooray!”

Its a rodent, folks.

Have you ever stood watch over your fish pond, garbage cans, or chicken coop and been stalked by a herd of them? Well, then you cannot know what devils they are! The mothers lead the packs, teaching the cubs how to spread out, and attack. If you have never seen it, you are likely luckier for it–but those little rabies carriers are very smart herd animals. They spread out just like Bronco Nagurski and use a damned V formation to hone in atcha!

God gave them thumbs to compete with our patience, no doubt. You can tell me those bastards don’t have thumbs all day and night till the cows come home, but whatever it is they have? It opens shit.

Me versus them at my chicken farm here, you see? And I always (mostly) win.

And for what its worth stewed coon is good, if you know how to do it–but with the bourbon! is the best I have eaten.I am still workin that one out.

I suppose there is likely no fancy french way to cook them up, but in these parts, we all have our own recipe. You can pull em or stew em or fry em, whatever you like. Each to their own as we say around here.

Neither here nor there per se. But if you sit at my table, you won’t go away hungry. And, you won’t regret what you ate.

>WARNING!!! N-Word usage ahead! Get your therapist, the ADL, or BLM on the phone ASAP!<

And so, that day we was out catfishin and coonin, and we come up on that fellah from the community bulletin. He’s out there like no ones business, fishing in our spot.

I told him plain as day that he wasn’t wanted around here. None of his kind are. I wasn’t tryinaberude, just factual. He has no place in our town. But thre he was anyways, tryina prove a point.

I aint the one wants to prove no points with no one.

And he wouldnt leave, said “Is this your river?”

I said sure as hell is.

And he said “no it aint. Belongs to the people.”

Well, that got my dander up. And Roy, Bobby, and Blue, they knew what was coming next–they seen it before.

I said “Listen boy: we all know wut you done, and we all know who you think you are. But Im tellin ya right now–you need to move along.”

You won’t believe it–I didn’t myself–but you know what that nigger did?

He pulls out his pecker, and starts pissing in the river! Never seen nothing like it. Like he’s in his own god damned bathroom.

He looks over his shoulder at me, square eye to eye, and he says “well, if this is your river, maybe you should come over here and clean it up.”

Mother fucker! I was near about to set on him in that moment, but Blue gives me that wink. Truth be told, Blue saved my life a time or two with that exact wink–well, maybe not my life, but certainly enough my pride.

Blue says ” well, why don’t you go over there and clean up that mess? Hell, it’s your river right?”

I wanted to smack him. Fuckin Blue a big smart ass, and watches too much Hollywood.

The nigger is just lookin’ at me–I want to jump him, dick in his hand like that, and his sloppy bug eyed face dripping sweat, like somehow he has the jump on me. But something told me to be careful. Niggers wont fight lest they always have a gun tucked around em somewhere.

“well, have at it,” he says, fuckinn homo pedophile ass nigger.

I stalled, to be truthful-these kinds don’t always talk back they usually just move along as they should.

So I got the idea to just keep it safe–for now. I called Sheriff Johnson.

It wasn’t less than three minutes Papa Johnson (that’s what we call him around here) had a squad out here.

The rest is like you saw in the papers: that nigger got locked up for indecent exposure, the dick-showin’ queer that he is.

Ain’t nobody goes flashing their privates at me without consequences around here.

And I gave Blue a piece of my mind too–niggers like Blue oughta know better than to test my patience with degenerates. But he’s always smilin, and laughs me to my damned face, thinking he has something up on me, and truth to tell, he kind of does–his deputy brother-in-law ranks my own cousin under Sheriff Johnson!

Disclaimer: this is a work of political fiction, using common vernacular from the American deep south. I hate to have to tell you that, because it kind of ruins the story–the reader can only wonder if this is fact or fiction. But truth be told, there are a lot of actual asshat degenerates out there who can’t handle “words,” and most of those are in fact racists themselves. See my posts about the Anti Defamation League and other word policing #crybullies like them whose entire existence is based on racism. Also, for context see my posts about Richard Moore in Mississippi, who is being harassed, stalked, and otherwise impeded in a lawsuit against the Union County Sheriffs department., an actual Sheriff Jim Johnson, and several named bad actors

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