Well, it looks like we’ve got our first question. It comes from a strapping young lad named Aaron. As anyone with a lick of sense will know, that’s a terrible name. You can’t have two A’s next to each other. Looks Muslim. So thanks for your question, Ron.
Ron sent this to me on the Twitter, which Tex’s grand daughter Virginia helped me set up yesterday. She’s a fine young lady, Virginia. She likes huntin’ and fishin’. She likes that new kind of music that Hank Williams fella’s son likes to do. Can’t remember his name for the life of me.
Reminds me of a time when Four Eyes and I were out looking for a flask of grain alcohol that Tex had lost behind enemy lines, just west of Korea. Four Eyes liked to tell folks he was the inspiration for that Hawkeye fella on that potato program on the television, but we all knew better. Now a couple hours before the three of us went out looking for Tex’s swish, a new CO had just touched down in the whirlybird. I couldn’t tell you his Christian name–we mostly just took to callin’ him Chopper, on account of his affinity for diced onion–but I can remember the cold look in his eye when he found out we were fixin’ on a doin’s.
Now I don’t rightly remember what we expected 3 men and a horse saddle were going to do about findin’ a flask of swish in the middle of the shit, but it wasn’t 20 minutes after leavin’ that tack shop that we found ‘er–stuck right on top of a landmind. Tex weren’t a man to let a thing like patience get in between him and a bottle. If it hadn’t’a been for Four Eyes, Tex woulda needed a whole ‘nother kinda Graves that night.
Before you could say “Monday Mornin’ Mass”, Four Eyes tied his boot to his belt and flicked it out like a lion tamer. That flask went a flyin’ and, sure as I ain’t never seen anything like it before or since, that boot lay up there right on top ‘a that mine lookin’ sweet and nervous, like a cherried call girl’s first night with John.
‘Course, nothin’ went well when we got back to camp. We got caught and got set to peelin’ onions. It was one hell of a Friday. That’s how you know no good can come from tellin’ a story on a Friday, Ron. So, sorry, but I don’t do it any more.