Howdy here, Bubba the Suthern Penguin comin' at ya again from Tennessee-land. Sorry I ain't been a'chattin' with you folks, but my ole' cat-killin' buddy Bill Frist has been keepin' me just plain tuckered out. Why, ever since he got tole that the SEC was investigatin' him fer insider tradin', he's been comin' to me, like, ever day, lookin' fer more cats. I swear, I musta done swept ever stray cat from Memphis to Johnson City, but see, I'm kinda scaret. The good doctor keeps showin' up at my door, wearin' his white coat and waving his scalpel and with them black shades dudes with the suspicious earwear right behind him, and with a glazed look in his eye he says "Cats. I need more cats. Get me cats, man!" Then he starts talkin' about how he knows where I live'n'stuff. Well, now, that thare don't surprise me since he, like, is standing on my front porch when he sez that (I mean, c'mon, I done known the good doctor since we wuz both knee-high to a grasshopper, of course he knows where I live!), but the way he eyes my Darlene, why, y'know, a woman does love a medical man, even if he is battier than a fruitcake (I mean, c'mon, wearin' a white coat with black trowsers? the man done lost it!). What if he gives Darlene that thare scalpel that he's, like, wavin' around? Why, it'd make the summer that Darlene played P.J. Harvey nonstop look like a walk in tha sheepyard!
So here I am, with my good buddy the Dr. Mengele of the cat world raggin' on me in the evenin's, and workin' all day long down thare at Joe's Garage, and I'm just plumb tuckered out and so covered with cat scratches that I look like some kinda accident victim. So my buddy Hank down at the garage, he tole' me about the White Pride Concert down at the fairgrounds last weekend, and how they had these two nubile young hotties who went by the name "Prussian Blue" playin' some good hoe-down music. So I went on down thare and caught me some tunes.
Well, now, what I got to report is this: the li'l fillies can pluck that thare gee-tar and stroke that thare fiddle right nicely, but my beloved Emmylou Harris ain't got nothin' to worry about, cuz, like, them thare girls cain't SING! I mean, I never heard such a caterwaulin' in my life (nevermind the lyrics). Then thare was all the pantin' skinheads an' stuff that wuz, like, undressin' these poor li'l girls with their eyes. Man, I ain't ever seen such a buncha losers in one place since I saw part of the Democratic National Convention on tha teevee.
I mean, c'mon. We're talkin' about folks who, like, think Hitler was this great dude an' stuff. Hah! You know why the Germans don't let ya talk 'bout Hitler when you're in Germany? It ain't cause of "hate speech" or nuthin' like that. It's pure-dee embarrassment. I mean, these here blond haired blue eyed Germans let some dark-haired brown-eyed furriner house painter from Ostria fool them into dyin' by tha millions! Why, ever time they think of the fact that they wuz dumb enuf to march to their deaths by the millions on behalf of a house painter, the shame just overcomes them.
So anyhow, that's my report from that thare concert. Gotta go now. Doorbell just rang, and my ole' buddy Bill is out thare, I see through the drapes. And he's waving two scalpels this time...
Yours from Tennessee,
Bubba the Suthern Penguin