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Macron and Violette Michelin

Louis Nutz and His Partner The Michelin Man

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An Old Cowboy Doesn’t Know When To Quit

Ol’ Jughead Thompson and me were leavin’ outta Spooner, Wisconsin heading for Eau Claire for our next rodeo. It was 11:00 pm Friday, August the fourth and we had to be in Eau Claire by 10:00 am Saturday for the draw for Saturday night’s events. We got a late start because we had to wait for Jughead to stop pissin’ blood. I been knowin’ Jughead for going on thirty years now and I was hopin’ he learnt a lesson in Spooner. At least he wouldn’t take a full finger tuck this time. He would play by the rules. Earlier that night his bronc stood quietly as he pulled his riggin’. When he nodded, I opened the gate and he got wadded up in the gate. I thought they would give him another chance to nod but before he could get settled back in, that big flathead saw the crack in the gate and he blew out of the chute. His head, neck, and everything just disappeared as he bucked and kicked. 

For a moment ol’ Jughead actually looked like a bronc rider again until that damn flathead jerked the handhold out of his hand and it wasn’t long before Jughead was flat on his back. He was out for a few seconds and didn’t remember much when he came to. He said he recalled the horse’s head almost touching the ground and then the lights went out. 

We picked him up and loaded him in my rig and then I went and got our horses and loaded them before we took off for the Spooner Hospital. The doctor there in the ER wanted Jughead to spend the night but he didn’t want to forfeit his entrance fee at Eau Claire, so we left. We no sooner hit the outskirts of town when I had to stop so he could piss out some blood. My name is Bill Toff. My friends call me Buck, or when they are jabbin’ at me, Buck Toff. When I was younger, I rode saddle broncs and bare backs, but now I'm too old for that. No way I want to put myself through that pain anymore. My body hurts just gettin' outta' bed every mornin’ We arrived in Eau Claire in the middle of a heavy rain. Jughead drew #88 name of Widow Maker. 

“I’m gettin’ on that son of a bitch,” Jughead declared. “Don’t you think it’s about time you acknowledge the corn. You just ain’t made out for riding bucking stock. You have a lot of heart, little talent, and no quit in you. Like a bull, you don’t know when to quit. That’s a recipe for a quick death, little buddy. Let’s just stick to being pick up riders and hauling rodeo stock and leave the rest of this shit to the young uns. You ain’t going to like hearing this, Jughead, but...” “Some things are better off left unsaid,” Jughead replied, glaring at me.“But you are going to say it anyway, ain’t you,Buck?” “Yep, can’t help myself. If you do this, you will be sucking blended food through a straw for the next six months. Worse case, you’re going to end up in the bone orchard.” “Hell, I still got some kick in me, Buck. I know I can ride this horse. Look at him. That horse looks dead.” “So do you Jughead. I gotta say this, you lasting eight seconds on that horse is as likely as the Pope leading a gay pride parade.” “Well, we’ll just see, won’t we?” “Yep, common sense is like deodorant. The ones that need it the most don’t use it.” “I assume you are referring to me?” “Yep, Jughead, I am. Listen, if you feel yourself losing it, just choke that horn, will ya?” “No way. Ol’ Jughead never has and never will be caught chokin’ the horn. It just ain’t happening.” 

Well, that ‘ol dead horse threw Jughead ‘bout up to heaven and when he landed, he landed on his head before a hind foot from that bronc landed down on his chest. I was looking down at Jughead in a crowd of cowboys and he gave me a warm smile as well as a thumbs up. Then I heard someone say, “Okay boys, let's get as many hands as we can under him and lift him onto the stretcher.” They put him into what I assumed was an ambulance. I crawled in after him and we took off. The driver was cursing as we hit some pot holes. “I don’t know if I’m going to survive this one, Buck Toff,” Jughead groaned. “You’re going to make it, Jughead. I remember that time in Nacogdoches, Texas, about twenty years ago, when you was in the recovery room and your spleen ended up in the operating room trash can. You walked away from that one. You’ll walk away from this too. From now on, we will spend our time spreading hay and hauling bucking stock, not trying to ride ‘em.” Jughead nodded, smiled, and closed his eyes. “You all right back there?” the driver asked, as the stretcher rolled across the floor and slammed into the side of the vehicle. The ambulance driver wasn’t actually an ambulance driver, he was tending the beer tent and he had to close it down when they asked him to drive Jughead to the hospital. Actually, it wasn’t an ambulance either, it was an old Good Humor Truck and the driver was slurring his words. “Damn, the gate is closed. Hey, girls, have them boys open that gate,” he yelled. I was sitting next to him. He turned around and was holding a can of Blatz Beer. “How’s he doing?” “Not good, he’s rolling around like a damned billiard ball,” I yelled. “God damn right it’s rolling. We’ll get him there in no time. Now don’t let him die on me. He’s pretty old to be doin’ this, ridin’ broncs, ain’t he? Them ol’ cowboys just don’t know when to quit.” “That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell him.” 

Turns out Jughead didn’t last the ride. I don’t know if it was the ride on the bronc or the ride in that Good Humor truck that done him in, but deep down in my heart, I know’d it was his stubbornness that finally did him in. He just didn't know when to quit. I think the good Lord finally did him a favor calling him home but I sure am going to miss that boy. 

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THE SUN HAS GONE INTO QUARANTINE!

By Dr. Max Fly, Private Eye, Meteorologist, Mixologist, and Misogynist

So, where have I heard all of this before? Oh yes, in the 1970’s…

Okay everyone get out your worry beads.  Apparently, according to scientists, our sun is now in a lockdown, which may cause freezing weather, earthquakes, and famine.

Wait a minute, did they say freezing weather? Someone please inform Al Gore.

As if this China Virus everyone is going crazy over hasn’t done enough damage around the world by placing the earth into an “earthly minimum,”now we have a record setting low number of sunspots that has put the sun into a “solar minimum.” According to SpaceWeather.com this solar minimum is not only underway, but has been for a couple of years. Evidently the sun has been absent about 76% of the time this year and was absent 77% of the time in 2019, rivaling the time our congress has been absent.

Dr. Woo Hoo, Chinese Virologist & Corn Hole Champion

Experts believe we are about to enter the deepest period of sunshine recession ever recorded as sunspots have virtually disappeared. I suppose this means Al Gore is out of work - hopefully. With the sun in its solar minimum phase there just can’t be global warming, can there? Whatever will he do with his carbon footprints? Are they now like the Confederate dollar?

Al Gore, Internet Inventor and Global Warming Charlatan

Now wait, before you go out and hug your favorite tree good-bye, please take heed of what the NASA scientists are saying. This is a repeat of the Dalton Minimum Little Ice Age, which happened between 1790 and 1830 and John Dalton, the English meteorologist and scientist that the Little Ice Age was named after, claims sunspots “wax and wane” about every 11 years.

Dr. John Dalton, English Meteorologist and Sunspot Guru

And if you think the Dalton Minimum was bad, the Maunder Minimum, which stretched from 1645 to 1715, was a real doozy.

So, where have I heard all of this before? Oh yes, in the 1970’s we were told that the second coming of the ice age would be on us in 10 years. You do remember that, don’t you? It was right after the 1960’s when “they” told us we were going to run out of oil in 10 years. I’m still waiting for that one.

I have decided not to tell my wife about this because she went into a deep depression when scientists came out with their report that climate change was going to wipe out the grapes that are used to make cabernet sauvignon. She was just about back to normal when this China Virus came along and I don’t think she could take another traumatic hit at this time so I’m keeping this to myself.

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Parents, how’s that home schoolin’ going?

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Missing Woman

By Crime Reporter Dee Cryption

Max Fly Private and Nefarious Investigations and Pest Control Service, is requesting help in finding this woman.

Max Fly, Private Eye, said their office received a call yesterday from a man from Burnt Corn, Alabama, named Baron Wasteland, who said his wife has been missing for eighteen months. He sent the picture below of her.

Missing woman, Mrs. Alotta Wasteland

No reward is being offered for finding Alotta Wasteland, but Mr. Baron Wasteland said the dirty dishes are piling up.

 If you know anything about her whereabouts, please contact Max Fly Private and Nefarious Investigation’s Head of Displaced Persons, Mr. Zippy Doo.

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HAPPY 40TH BIRTHDAY1111

Remember the Rubik's Cube? That 3-D combination puzzle that was the big craze in the 1980’s? It was invented in 1974 by Hungarian sculptor and professor of architecture Ernő Rubin and was originally called the Magic Cube. In 1980 the Rubik Cube won the German Game of the Year special award for Best Puzzle and since then it is estimated that between 350 - 400 million have been sold.

A Rubik's Cube has six sides, each a different color (traditionally blue, green, orange, red, white, and yellow). Each side of a traditional Rubik's Cube consisted of nine squares, in a three by three grid pattern. Of the 54 squares on the cube, 48 of them could move (the centers on each side were stationary).

There are websites you can go to that will show you how to solve the puzzle but even with that, it is estimated that less than 6% of the world’s population can solve the puzzle.

Today there are many “speed-cubers” who compete for completing the puzzle in the fastest time. A robot made of Legos solved the Rubik's Cube in 3.253 seconds.

The quickest time to solve a 3x3x3 Rubik's Cube by a human is 3.47 seconds by Yusheng Du at the Wuhu Open 2018 in Wuhu, Anhui province, China, on 24 November 2018. This is the first sub-4-second solve of a cube by a human in a World Cube Association event. Similar to Roger Bannister breaking the 4 minute mile 66 years ago, right?

Rubik Cube’s are now available with your logo imprinted on it through iadconcepts.com or by calling 404-667-7393.

Give your clients, friends and family something to do during this

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Professional Diplomat

By Max Fly, Private Eye

Max Fly, Private Eye

I grew up in the border town of Brownsville, Texas. I had me a woman and she got it on like an Easter bunny. She rocked me, swept me away. She carried me along to places I’d never been and made me strong; until one night I came home and she told me to fix my own supper and she ran off with the Fuller Brush man. That woman rode me into misery. After she left, I didn’t care about tomorrow. To me, tomorrow was just another day. I don’t understand the things I do. I was still a dumb kid who couldn’t see farther than the end of his dick. I hated my parents because of my old man. He was making every effort to drink the town dry and he left outta here like his dick was on fire. The last thing I heard him say was, “I’m going to ride the cold wind high and free and this will be the last you will see of me.” He was right. Three months later his body was found floating in the Rio Grande, the truth of his evil deeds silenced forever. I spent some time in Matamoros, a little border town in Mexico, across the Rio Grande from Brownsville, where I blew my money on a gal with big brown eyes and bigger tits who swore she loved me long enough to get me drunk and in bed. Next morning, she and the money were gone, and I was hungover and broke. So I walked back across the border into Brownsville and I joined the army. Two years later I finished my stint with Uncle Sam and, like a bad penny, I returned to Brownsville. Times got rough and cotton wasn’t selling and I figured all we get is the chance to play the game, not make the rules, so I went into business for myself. While I was away I learned how to kill and I learned it well. I could shoot the eyes out of a snake at one hundred yards. I found out there was a dark side of our society that had a need for the skills I had and I wasn’t shy about hiring myself out. I help people make peace or make war, it don’t matter which as long as the money makes it into my account. Business was good. I spent a lot of time in South America assisting our government in removing undesirables from positions of power in countries we needed to control. I didn’t know my old man had made enemies and that they were looking for something he had and they thought I had it. It wasn’t long before they found me and left me bleeding in an alley behind Lucky’s Bar. Two armed Mexicans in civilian clothes rushed around the corner, charging toward me. One was tall and thin and the other one was taller and muscular. He’s the one that hit me with his revolver. I guess I should be thrilled he didn’t shoot me. They said they would be back and I had better have their pharmaceuticals. They must have thought they worked for Merck or something. Pharmaceuticals? These beaners couldn’t even spell the word. They told me I wouldn’t be leaving Brownsville alive if I didn’t have it for them by the end of the week. They hit me two more times to make sure I got the message. That was a mistake. I wasn’t going to let these strong-arm deuces come into my town and try to play rooster and beat the crap outta me. I couldn’t let ‘em get away with it, pharmaceuticals or no pharmaceuticals. 

So, a week later I set a trap and sprung it on them. Late Thursday evening, I watched as a stolen van, the sides advertising a nonexistent plumbing company, pulled to the curb alongside Lucky’s Bar. One block away, I watched the two men who were sitting in it smoking cigarettes. They were studying the third-floor window across the street from Lucky’s as I studied them. A lone figure was visible moving around the apartment. It was my apartment, I liked to live close to where I spent most of my time, Lucky’s, and that figure belonged to Ice Malone, my long time friend. Soon, the two goons exited the van and walked across the street and into the alley that ran behind my apartment. I took a deep breath and vaulted through the door into the alley. Crouching I looked up and down the thin strip of dirt and saw them near the rear entrance. There was a commotion at the north end, the river side of town. A figure emerged like a phantom from the dark enclosure and took two quick steps behind them, and swung his club with everything he had. The blow knocked the big guy forward, sending him crashing into the sidewalk with a large gash on the back of his skull. It turned out he was the lucky one that night because we caught up with the second fecal stain before he could make it back to the van. He lost a couple of teeth and a lot of memory, and from the beating he took, his own mother wouldn’t a recognized him. Ice and I hogtied them and threw them into the back of the plumbing van and drove them over the border, south of Matamoros. We gagged them and pinned notes on each one of them, in case they weren’t given a chance to talk. The notes said the next time they showed up in Brownsville, we would send them back in a body bag, cut up into little pieces. I also left my card in case they might be in need of my services at a later date.

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Gromavirus And Is Foreplay Necessary?

By Max Fly, Professor Emeritus, Burnt Corn U

Professor Fly here folks. Thank you for your enquiry and I'm glad you brought this up Fat Cat. Of course foreplay is very important and this Gromavirus is serious shit and I mean that literally. It first surfaced in Australia back in the mid '60's believed to have originated from a subculture that cohabitated with tasmanian devils, a marsupial found on the island of Tasmania off the coast of Australia. It appeared to be eradicated around 1968 as all outbreaks stopped and no documented cases were found. It seemed the Gromavirus was wiped out by sexual diseases as it cannot coexist with herpes, gonorrhea, crabs, and other venereal diseases. Now that it has resurfaced is alarming and Dr's Fauci and Birx should be notified immediately.Now, back to the important question, "Is foreplay important?" Here in the laboratory in Burnt Corn U's School of Slam Bam Thank You M'am, Science and Advanced Research (Limited enrollment opportunities are still available along with our home study version of our curriculum). Slam Bam Thank You M'am is headed by renowned researcher and Poultry Prize recipient, for his advanced research on sexual deviancy in roosters, Dr. H. J. Hoehandle. Dr. Hoehandle is also known for finding the cure for hysteria and the vapors in women, both leading causes of PMS, a syndrome commonly found in most women from their early teens until late in their 50's - in some even longer. Below is an excerpt from the paper he submitted to the AMA's Journal of Medicine. The paper has been reviewed by his peers many times and is highly regarded as ground breaking in dealing with hysterical women.It was not uncommon for Victorian doctors to encounter female patients with hysteria. Symptoms included ongoing anxiety, irritability, and a bloated stomach. (This bloated stomach symptom seems to be quite common in men over fifty as well) Blame for this condition, which is no longer recognized by medical professionals, was attributed to the woman's womb. The prescribed treatment was a "pelvic massage" to induce "hysterical paroxysm" -- basically, an orgasm, which would supposedly restore the woman to full health. Providing pelvic massages was a routine part of most Victorian doctors work, as it had been for centuries before. But, as accounts in contemporary medical journals attest, it was tedious, boring and physically demanding work. Drs. H. J. Hoehandle and his assistant, Dr. J. Mortimer Granville, pioneered the labor-saving vibrator in the 1880s, when his electromechanical invention was patented. Originally used purely as a medical instrument, its immense generator restricted the vibrator to permanent installation in the doctor's surgery. However, it became very popular with Victorian and Edwardian women, who sought to acquire personal devices and transport it from the surgery to the room of their choice. The benefits of handheld electric current carried out of the doctor's office and into the world of beauty and pleasure are many. Submitted by the Honorable Dr. H. J. Hoehandle, MD OBGYN, Eyes, Ears, Nose, Throat, Hands and Feet.

Now available exclusively at the Max Fly Medical Supply  and Auto Repair Shop, now located in downtown Ankle Scratch Alabama on the shores of the lovely Bumpass River.

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MYSTERY LAKE

The man was alone with his thoughts, thoughts about the girl. The girl he met at the lake where they talked for hours while the gentle winds pressed her translucent dress against her slender frame.The first time he saw her she struck him as being vulnerable. She had long, dark hair. He couldn’t recall the color of her eyes. Brown, he thought. A dark brown. She was just - pretty. Yes, pretty. She had pleasing features, clear skin. She wore makeup. Lots of eye makeup. That’s all he remembered. He wasn’t particularly fond of heavy makeup. They sat by the edge of the lake and talked for hours. When she said she had to go he was surprised at how late it had become. He told her he wanted to see her again. She reached into her purse, a clutch, really, and pulled out an elegant gold inlaid vellum card. It said her name was Prudence. There was no other information inscribed. He looked up and her lips lightly brushed his cheek before she turned and walked away. She looked back over her shoulder and purred, “If you like, I will be here again tomorrow," and she disappeared into the night. “Jake, my name is Jake,” he called after her. He didn’t know if she heard him or not. He dreamt of her that night. She was floating in the lake. The water was aphasic and her body was floating face up with her long dark hair spreading like fronds of dark seaweed, washing up on shore like frayed ropes. Her eyes were bloated from the water and were opened wide like they were surprised at what they saw. Her clothes, that alluring gossamer dress, was ripped by the jagged rocks and had disintegrated into rags. He woke with a heavy dread. It took him a moment to realize where he was. The t-shirt he wore was damp with sweat. He had to go back to the lake to find her. To make sure she was safe, protected.

The sound of the wind and the night creatures gave tongues to the forest as he walked with a sense of urgency he had not felt before. The shadows from the trees lining the trail danced across the small dirt pathway leading to the lake. He saw a slight movement far away through the damp mist and then the roar of a car approaching. Soon a ray of light knifed through the dark, illuminating the area around him. He stepped deeper into the woods the pitch of his heart rising. A cool breeze caressed his cheek. He hoped they hadn’t noticed him. He was pretty much exposed. His only chance was for them to pass him by. The car drove on and, with a sigh of relief, he continued to walk. About fifty yards to his left was the clearing and the lake where he and Prudence met the night before. A sadness and foreboding fell upon him. He shivered slightly and pulled his overcoat closer to his neck, attempting to keep the chill away. There is no point in turning back now, he thought. Two dark shadows appeared in front of him, wearing hats and hunkering down in their overcoats. They were preparing to get into a boat tied to the dock. Soon he heard the oar-locks groan as the oars dipped into the water. He ran as fast as he could. The lake was bordered by rocks and shaded by trees. The only boat left when he arrived was a small skiff. The shallow water, rippled against its side, rocking it gently back and forth. He looked inside and was relieved to see that there was a set of oars lying across the seat. The boat with the two men was a good distance ahead of him by the time he started rowing, only a fading shadow in the evening mist. Occasionally, he would see a beam from the flashlight one of the men used to guide their way across the water. It appeared they were heading straight to the island Prudence was telling him about, where young kids would go to drink and party. He saw their boat tied to a tree and silently rowed about fifty yards away before going ashore. The darkness on the island surprised him and it was difficult walking through the trees and brush. He heard a thud off to the left. He grabbed onto a small sapling and braced himself. Then he heard a snapping of a twig, It was close. He tried to muffle his raspy breathing by placing his hand over his mouth. He crouched against the tree, hunched over with his knees to his chest. He listened to the sounds of footsteps as they approached. A beam of light struck his face, blinding him. A set of shining eyes locked onto his. “What are you doing here?” A gruff voice called out from behind the light. “Why I,I,I, I'm looking for a friend. Who are you?” “Don’t come any closer. This is a secured area.” The man lowered the light and replied. “I’m Sheriff Welsey. What’s your name?” “It’s Jake, Jake Martin.” “Well, who is this friend you are looking, Mr. Martin?” “ I don’t know for sure. Just Prudence.” “Just Prudence?” “Yes, that’s all I know. You said this is a secured area. What happened?” “There has been a murder out here and we are still gathering evidence.” "A murder?" "A local girl, Prudence Vanderbloom. Floated to shore last week. She was pretty bloated by the time her body was found. It is evident that she drowned.” “Prudence? That can’t be.” “What do you know about this girl?” the Sheriff asked, showing him a picture of an attractive young girl whose features closely resembled the girl he met. For a long moment, he stood frozen, holding his hand to his face. He was unable to speak. He wanted to run home, fall back in bed and stuff his head under his pillow and wish this all away. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. I just met her last night and she said she would be here again tonight and I should too if I wished.” “When did you meet her?” “Last night. Right over there,” he said pointing across the lake from where he came. “Listen, pal, I don’t know what you are trying to prove or what you are doing out here, but Prudence drowned last week.” “Why, that can’t be! I was with her last night,” he shouted. Blood drained from his head and his fingers shook. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. What is going on? He couldn’t move. He just stood there, shaking in his damp clothes. Then he saw something in the Sheriff’s hands. Handcuffs. “I want you to turn around and put your hands behind your back,” “No…,” he said, but he didn’t get to finish. He was slammed to the ground, hitting his cheek and splitting his lip. The Sheriff was straddling him and grabbed his left wrist and clamped a steel cuff tightly around it. “You have the right to remain silent…”

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“Heaven’s Closed and Hell’s Overcrowded” Paul English is Dead

By Max Fly Private Eye and Famous Music Critic

The Devil or Paul English? Yes

“I told Lana we could do something,” Paul was saying. “We could break his legs. We have to do something to him. We cain’t go and leave him walking. We’d of done that to him. That’s nothing.”

He was discussing the shoot-out at Ridgetop back in 1970, just outside of Nashville, when Willie Nelson and Paul English defended a house full of family against Willie’s daughter’s husband and his gun-toting brothers, one of many larger-than-life incidents that have been burnished into legend over the course of the career of Paul English’s boss and best friend, Willie Nelson. Except from Willie Nelson: An Epic Life, By Joe Nick Patoski

Years ago, well maybe not years ago, but some time ago,  I rode horses with the former drummer of David Allen Coe’s band. His name is Lawson Hunt. He lives in Canton Georgia. He said he quit the band because of the life style and because he was tired of getting in fights almost every night. I guess David Allen Coe liked to mix it up a bit with his heckling fans. David Allen Coe is a country singer, one of the “Outlaws” of country music. I never was a big fan of country music - that is until I received a job transfer from Jacksonville Florida to Atlanta Georgia back in ’73. After one year, I realized the job wasn’t what I thought it would be and I left and went to work for a company out of New Haven Conneticut selling folding cartons to the rapidly disappearing textile industry in the rural south. I hit every small city in the south, from Balls Ferry Georgia to Nankipoo Tennessee. I traveled between 85,000 to 100,000 miles a year by automobile and it would be safe to say, I knew the geography of those states better than most residents who lived their entire life there. It was while traveling down the highways and byways of the rural south that I acquired an appreciation for country music. I didn’t have much of a choice. All the radio stations either played gospel or country music. Two country singers became my favorites, Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings - who, back in 1973, became the original “Outlaws” of country music. What I like are the stories they tell about their lives, from lost loves to the trouble they would get into while out raising hell in the bars in the towns they were performing in. Of course they weren’t really outlaws in the sense of the old wild west outlaws robbing banks and trains. It was a term coined for them by a record producer back in 1973. But more than one of these characters spent time in prison. Merl Haggard and David Allen Coe come to mind, and so did Paul English, Willie’s longtime drummer, bodyguard, and best friend. I was informed he passed away a couple of days ago at age 87. Many people in the music business say if it wasn’t for Paul English there wouldn’t be any outlaws. I read where Paul met Willie in 1955 when Willie was playing live on a radio station and his drummer didn’t show up. So, he asked Paul to fill in for him. Paul told Willie he didn’t know how to play the drums. Willie told him that was okay, just beat on that cardboard box and tap your feet. Paul said he has been tapping his feet for Willie ever since. Paul English had a glass eye and carried two guns and wasn’t afraid to use them and was also a former pimp and leader of the Peroxide Gang before he became Willie’s big drummer boy. They were namedPeroxide Gang because they died their hair with peroxide - not quite as menacing as MS 13. He made Fort Worth’s 10 Most Unwanted List five years in a row. Something he was always proud of. It has been said that if it wasn’t for Paul, Willie would be living under a bridge. Paul said, “If it wasn’t for Willie, I would either be dead or in a penitentiary.” Evidently it wasn’t uncommon for club owners to try to stiff bands of the money they were supposed to get. In one of their songs, Waylon and Willie talk about sending the big guy for the money. That big guy was Paul English. While performing on stage Paul would dress in all black including a black cape and black hat and got the nickname The Devil. Willie wrote a couple of songs about Paul. One is “Devil In a Sleeping Bag” and one of my favorites, “Me and Paul” that includes a line about them not being allowed to board a plane in Milwaukee, my hometown.  https://youtu.be/AMJhc7p6lvI

The outlaws are/were rough characters, with an emphasis on “characters.” Most of them started with nothing and worked hard many times sacrificing their health and families to achieve the money and fame they wanted so badly. Sometimes I look at these singers and wish I could have made it big time like many of them did. But then I think back thank my lucky stars that I lived a pristine life and did nothing to defile this bodily temple of mine

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WHAT ARE THEY DOING WITH OUR NUTS?

By Jacques Strap Sports Editor

I have a confession to make - I didn't watch the Super Bowl. I'm tired of the NFL and I am now a big fan of the new XFL which is supposed to be starting real soon. You can place bets on the XFL, legally so I read, and they will show the current point spreads during the game. Just the fact that Vince McMahon of WWE fame, and not Pete Rozelle, is heading this enterprise is enough to get me interested. Paul Hornung, the former Green Bay Packer Golden Boy, who was suspended by Rozelle in 1963 for gambling, would be the perfect choice for color commentator.

Paul Hornung - Golden Boy

Oh yeah, I forgot. What are they doing with our nuts?

I was reading where Samantha Hess, not to be confused with my niece, Samantha Hesse, Planters brand manager at Kraft Heinz, said in a statement. Mr. Peanut will be remembered as the legume who always brought people together for nutty adventures and a good time." I guess Planters killed off Mr. Peanut in an ad airing during the NFL. Or they were going to until Kobe Bryant died and then they thought better of it. A Canadian artist posted a picture of Mr. Peanut eating his young and she received flak from that. Kraft Heinz should know better than to mess with our nuts.  

Mr. Peanut Eating Baby Nut (Artist Nina Matsumoto) Did you know that Mr. Peanut is a WWII hero? He is and here's his picture to prove it. 

War Hero

...and in a quarter mile drag which one would you pick to win

...how many peanuts long and how many peanuts high is the Peanut mobile? 

I was afraid you would never ask - 415-peanuts-long-by-180-peanuts-high.

The good news is that the Kansas City Chiefs won, making my prediction come true and Mr. Peanut is still among the living. However, not so Baby nut. R.I.P.

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Good Bye Cabernet Sauvignon, Good Bye!

By Al Coholic Staff Writer

That global warming shill, Al Gore is in the news again. It seems he has cashed in on more than his carbon footprints. He took advantage of his Apple stock options as a board member when he purchased over 30,000 shares for less than 1/10th of its current market value, netting the large globalist a cool 10 mil.

Mr. Al Gore after a 30 year carbon diet ( I suggest you stick with Weight Watchers) AP Photo Credit Mike Rotch

It always makes me happy when I read that one of our public servants, both current and former, who seem to find ways to do so well financially.

And speaking of global warming. We were speaking of global warming, weren’t we? I met a young lady from North Miami Beach last year who said that Large Al spoke to her first grade class 30 years ago. He told the little 6 year olds that if they didn’t do something about their use of fossil fuels, Miami along with Venice, Italy, would be under water in 30 years. She just returned from visiting her folks in Miami and it is still above water. In fact, the water level is up an inch. Unfortunately for her parents, they believed Large Al and sold their house and purchased a houseboat which they live on - but not on the beach - in downtown Miami. To the best of my knowledge the only city that went under water in the past 30 years was New Orleans. But it started out under sea level to begin with. Of course possessing a sophistocated intellect, I never fell for any of the Government funded science hoaxes. They go back at least 50 years. In the 60’s we were told we were going to run out of oil. In the ’70’s it was an ice age, in the 80’s they said it was acid rain eating holes in the ozone, and then in the 90’s they said the ozone layer would be gone by the new Millennium and now I think they are warning us about those ice caps disappearing in 10 years. You know, the ones that developed from the ice age back in the ’70’s. I scoffed at all of them going back to the ’60’s. First by driving my mustangs at break neck speeds down the highways, burning up high test gasoline, cursing the sun. Then in the ’70’s, I did my part by traveling over 100,000 miles a year in my automobile. In the ’80’s I really went off the rail. I defied the Peanut Farmer and set my thermostate at 78 degrees in the winter and 68 in the summer. In the ’80’s and ’90’s I went through a can of hair spray a day busting holes in the ozone showing 1000 pound meteorites the way to Washington D C and I’m still doing my part to defy this crazy government of ours by refusing to buy carbon foot prints. I recall when we were to stop using paper bags and go to plastic to save our trees. Now we are told to use paper and stop using plastic to save our planet. Even highly acclaimed scientist and American singer, Sheryl Crow, is concerned. She came out and said to protect our trees everyone should only use 1 sheet of toilet paper when you go #2, I went berserk. I went through a case of 2 ply a week. I even walked around with toilet paper stuck to my shoe and on my chin after shaving just like my grandpa did. All along the way, my lovely wife, Jacqui. has been by my side, until recently that is.; I made the mistake of reading to her a new report that was released by some scientists in Spain regarding the state of the grape. How certain wines are headed for extinction. I guess the computer models the scientists use show that if we do nothing, global warming of 2 degrees Celsius would wipe out 56 percent of current wine-growing land; increase that to 4 degrees and an estimated 85 percent of grapes won’t be viable. Now this is serious. I turned our thermostat down to 68 degrees, just in case. I don’t know what we would do without our Two Buck Chuck! Then I thought, “Are these the same computer models that are predicting our daily weather patterns? I can do better picking winners at the dog tracks. So, I had to remind Jacqui the people who are promoting this hoax are the same ones who told us if you like your doctor, you can keep him. Ask the Apaches, Sioux, and other native tribes, what happens when you trust government.

The opinions in this article are the writer’s and not necessarily of this newspaper.

[davidhesseauthor-blog]

Max Fly Private & Nefarious Investigations Announces Expansion Plans

By Rush Mountmore Business Editor

Max Fly, President and Chief Executive Officer, of Max Fly’s Private & Nefarious Investigations, a world leader in nefarious investigations with it’s international headquarters located in downtown Burnt Corn, has announced plans to open up a satellite office in Buford, Wyoming in January 2020. After a year long search, The Firm, as it is known as in the international intelligence world, chose Buford over nearly twenty other cities in the running. Besides Buford, The Firm was considering, New York City, Pee Pee Township Ohio, and Humptulips Washington. The Firm currently has offices in Climax, Georgia, Intercourse Pennsylvania, Loveladies, New Jersey, and Anus France.

When asked why The Firm chose Buford over the other applicants, Mr. Fly replied, “They have been experiencing an unusually high increase in crime over the past few years and the Buford Police Department has been overwhelmed. This is just something we had to step into and stop.”

Buford, Wyoming was established in 1865 by pioneer and frontiersman, Al Coholic, originally from LaCrosse, Wisconsin, where he was one of the proprietors of a highly successful drinking establishment named The Oxford Pub.

[davidhesseauthor-blog]

Famous Alumnus Returns - Again

International Reporter Pat McCrotch

Jefferson High School, “a place where everyone matters,” was all a-buzz yesterday after receiving a surprise visit by a famous Eagle alumnus and 1963 senior class president, John A. Miller. Mr. Miller arrived in Jefferson yesterday morning to a cheering crowd of admirers after riding his bicycle from his current home in LaCrescent Minnesota to the front steps of his alma mater. 

Cheering Crowd of Admirers

Mr. Miller who was mostly known during his years while matriculating at Jefferson High for his blocking expertise on the football field when he would lay down blocks for his teammate, All-Conference running back, Ross Gordon, was in town for his 55th class reunion, where he was the keynote speaker. 

Spellbound Jefferson High School Class of 1963 Listening To Mr. Miller’s Keynote Speech

Mr. Miller told this reporter that he also planned to promote his new book, “How To Lose Weight And Keep It Off By Riding A Bike 150 Miles A Day.” Autographed 8” x 10” glossy prints of Mr. Miller on his bicycle were handed out with the hope that people would put money in the donation boxes that were attached the rear fender of Mr. Miller’s Western Flyer Bike.

Mr. Miller getting assistance, on his bicycle after a brief stop in Portage Wisconsin, from friend and associate, William Steckel. (AP Photo compliments of Helen Bedd)

Mr. Miller’s next planned adventure is to float down the Mississippi River in his new Chevrolet Silverado High Country truck from his home in LaCrescent to Oak Alley, Louisiana. He plans on embarking on this journey by the end of April and hopes to arrive in time to celebrate Mardi Gras in New Orleans in 2020. Mr. Miller said anyone who wanted to help him would be excused from classes until they returned from their journey.

Mr. Miller taking his Chevy to the Levee.

Reporter Ida Dunherr also contributed to this article

[davidhesseauthor-blog]

Cowboy Up

Sometimes there are two rodeos, one inside the arena and one outside. No buckles are awarded for the one outside.

When the sun goes down the west Texas heat lets up a bit making it tolerable to sit outside at night and enjoy the quiet of the evening.

Beanie Franklin and Ike Stovall were sittin’ on the rail watching the stock eat the hay they had just thrown out. Ike watched Beanie as he took his time filling a blanket. He twisted both ends and licked the entire stick with his tongue before placing it in the corner of his mouth. He struck a match against his leather chaps, lighting the freshly rolled cigarette. He squinted as the smoke rolled out of the side of his mouth and drifted up into his eyes.

“That little one is fine as cream gravy,” Beanie said, as he exhaled a stream of blue smoke.

“Yep, but you don’t want to get by that boy's ears,” Ike replied. “That gray one over there the horse you rode today?” Ike asked, pointing in the direction of a dapple gray gelding.

“Yep, he just didn’t seem to have it. He is just plum fagged out. Four years ago he bucked me off and hung me up and dragged me for a few trips around the arena before I learned saddle broncs and I don’t mix too well. Then I went bareback. That was ‘bout three years ago. He’s been around a long time. These damn small rodeos ain’t got the cash to bring in good stock like they should.”

“How’d that bareback work out for ya’?”

“Not much better. I got jerked down in the well and stomped on a few times. Now I do a little roping’ and ride pick up whenever I can land a gig. When you’re younger you live like the road goes on forever and the party never ends. But it ain’t long before you begin to see the bend in the road and you begin to fear what’s around that bend, the unknown.”

They both sat and let the quiet of the evening settle in while listening to the stock quietly chomp on the hay.

“Well,” Beanie said while standing and slapping his thighs, “if that sun don’t come up tomorrow, you’ll know I at least had a good ride. You hungry?”

“Yeah, how’s the food at that joint, the Crystal Cactus?”

“Purty good and so are the drinks. It’s a right nice place. They even give you eaten’ irons but it’s the afterclaps you gotta look out for. I was on the shitter all night the last time I ate there.”

They heard a gunshot, then another before the telltale crash of panels and a cry, “Get the horses saddled.” It was the night watchman, Felix Dunn.

“Who fired them shots, Felix?”

“A couple of ol’ drunks came ridin’ through here yellin’ and a cussin’ and firing their dadgum pistols."

They looked up and watched as a corral full of bulls came running past, led by none other than Dirty Sam, one of the meanest bulls neither of them never rode and never wanted to.

“Did you see that? It was Dirty Sam. He lit out of town like his dick was on fire.”

“Well, let’s go git him.”

They grabbed their saddles and tacked up their horses and took off after a half dozen crazy-ass bulls as they left the fairgrounds toward the stockyards that ran parallel to the tracks of the Santa Fe Railroad.

Beanie and Ike were just about to catch up with the rest of the cowboys when someone yelled out, “There they are,” pointing in the direction of the levee road that snakes its way east toward Pumpkin Vine Creek.

They all turned and headed out at full gallop, the steel shoes of the horses throwing sparks off the asphalt as they rode in pursuit of the bulls.

As they got closer, one cowboy tossed his rope around Dirty Sam’s big old horns and proceeded to dally it around the saddle horn when Dirty Sam busted free, taking the rope with him while he headed back for the train tracks and a platform loaded with boxes with the rest of the bulls following him. As they passed the startled cowboys one of the horses reared, tossing its rider in the tall grass lining the road. The riderless horse took off in the direction of the bulls with the rest of the Cowboys in close pursuit.

When they arrived at the platform, Dirty Sam proceeded to hook the boxes and toss them all over the yard while the other bulls stomped on the contents that spilled out on the ground.

A train whistle and the clanging of metal on metal startled old Dirty Sam and he turned and ran off across the tracks and dropped down. His left front leg got stuck under the rail and was broken and twisted grotesquely in an oblique and unnatural angle to the rest of his body. He was snorting and bellowing in obvious pain while the rest of the bulls, not knowing what to do or where to go, just stood there milling around.

“Well, one of us has gotta fix his flint," Beanie said. "You been know’d to always carry an equalizer, Ike. You got a rifle in that scabbard?”

“Ya, I got one. Damn!”

“Just put it between his eyes and git it over with.”

“I can’t do it Beanie.”

Dirty Sam let out a deep moan and whipped his head back and forth slinging snot over Beanie and Ike’s legs and both their horses. His eyes were red and still filled with hate.

“Aw hell,” Beanie said, dismounting from his horse. “Gimmie your gun.”

The crack of the rifle echoed in the night. Ol’ Beanie’s eyes filled with tears.

“It ain’t right, Beanie. Dirty Sam shouldn’t have ta go this way. He was one of the best there ever was.”

About this time a couple of railroad dicks drove up in a white pickup truck with blue lights flashing on the top of the cab.

They saw the carnage and what was left of Dirty Sam and asked, “What in the cornbread hell is goin’ on?” the bigger of the two dicks asked.

“A little rodeo,” Ike replied.

“Well, who’s going to clean up this mess?”

“I reckon you should call the owner of the fairgrounds back there. We’ll take the rest of these bulls back and put ‘em away. They played enough for one day.”

“That’s it boys, the monkey’s dead and the shows over. Let’s throw a rope around Dirty Sam and get him off the track and get the rest of these boys back so we can go eat.”

[davidhesseauthor-blog]

For over 100 years now a battle has raged between these two schools as to which school originated the war eagle cry. But they are both out in left field because it was in Wisconsin where the true War Eagle originated. One that actually saw combat, albeit, he showed some of his chicken heritage as he feared artillery fire and took off whenever the big guns began to fire. But then, who doesn't? In fact, he was actually wounded in battle, well, maybe not in battle, but he did injure his leg during a hurricane.

My Auburn University friends say they are the originators of the “war eagle” yell, but I know this isn’t true. I have read that there are three or four different theories on how the Auburn Tigers seized the War Eagle sobriquet and a couple of them have ties to football games against the University of Georgia. My favorite one is when the bird takes off in flight and screams, igniting the fans to scream, 'war eagle,' and the Auburn offense to score the winning touchdown. Immediately after the score, the eagle performs a kamikaze act, taking a nose dive onto the football field where it dies. Can you believe that? I can’t. In fact, some of the stories claim Auburn actually stole the war eagle cry from Georgia. Another one claims a Carlisle player was named War Eagle and they would call out his name during a game. But, listen, I’m here to put this silly argument to rest. Whatever side you support on the War Eagle debate, you are wrong. The cry “War Eagle” originated in Wisconsin. In fact, many cries originate in Wisconsin it’s so damn cold up there, plus Lutefisk and bratwurst both produce a case of indigestion that can cause any man to whimper in pain.

The true story of War Eagle began many years ago, a Wisconsin Ojibwe, Chief Sky, one of five sons of Thunder of Bees, Chief of the Flambeau band of Chippewa Indians, part of the Anishinaabe tribe, called the first people, during sugar making time about 125 miles outside the city of Eau Claire, chopped down a pine tree containing an eagle’s nest with two eaglet’s nestled inside. One died. Chief Sky, gathered up the other one and, evidently, not learning from the 1626 bead transaction his brothers conducted with the Dutch for selling Manhattan, sold the eaglet to a Dan McCann from Eagle Point, Wisconsin, for a bushel of corn. Actually, the bead transaction story is also a farce. The Canarsie Indians sold Manhattan to Dutch settlers, but not for some worthless glass beads, but for iron kettles, axes, knives, and cloth. The kicker to the story is that the land that they took payment for didn’t even belong to them. But, I don’t think all the kettles and other gadgets involved in that transaction come close to the $2100.00 per square foot that vacant land is currently selling for in Manhattan.

Now back to Wisconsin’s War Eagle. Dan McCann eventually sold the little eaglet to the commanding officer of the Eau Claire Badgers militia company. Typical of Wisconsin, a tavern was involved in this purchase when tavern owner, S.M. Jeffers, pitched in to help defray the exorbitant selling price of $2.50.

When the eagle was sworn into service, he was adorned with a breast rosette (rose shaped ornament) and a red, white and blue ribbon around his neck.

While in Madison, a dog joined the regiment. Abe and the dog, Frank, tolerated one another because Frank provided rabbits and other small mammals for Abe to eat. Unfortunately for Frank, one day he ventured a bit too close to Abe's meal, bringing an end of their relationship.

During "Old Abe's" service, the 8th Wisconsin militia participated in many battles, expeditions, and pursuits of Confederate forces during his namesake's Mr. Abe Lincoln's war. Among these were the battles of  Corinth; Island Number 10; Big Black; Champion's Hill; the Red River and Meridian expeditions; and the Battle of Nashville. "Old Abe" was there every step of the way. In many battles, he would circle the smoky battlefield as the enemy would be closing in and the bullets flew. He would rise high in the sky, all the while screaming at his assailants. After the battle, upon seeing his bearer, he would descend like a shot and fly into his arms. "Go War Eagle!"

Old Abe so infuriated Confederate General Sterling Price he was said to declare that he would rather "capture that bird than a whole brigade."

Old Abe entered his last battle in the Great Rebellion, also referred to as the Civil War, as well as many other names, at Hurricane Creek, MS. The war eagle's shrieks could be heard clearly and distinctly above the victorious shouts of the Eau Claire Badgers militia. Abe seemed to have protected his bearers and dodged the bullets of rebel sharpshooters who had failed to kill him.

Old Abe died on March 26, 1881, of smoke inhalation in the loving arms of his handler when it has been said, he was reminiscing with his old militia pals while smoking a fine cigar and sipping brandy. I might be distorting the truth here a bit but it was reported that one time he did get drunk on some peach brandy that was left unattended in his presence. "Go War Eagle!"

Today, a likeness of Old Abe, the original War Eagle, can be found at the main entrance to University of Wisconsin's Camp Randall Stadium.

And that my friend, is the true story of the one and only War Eagle!

Go Badgers!

[davidhesseauthor-blog]

The Melon Farm

Finally The Conclusion To - The Goat-Man And Why Some People Shouldn’t Be Allowed To Spawn

Otis Melon was bent over a rabbit hutch, feeding about one hundred rabbits. He stood up and turned as Zippy Doo and Max Fly approached. He was a bulky, barrel-chested man of about 30 years of age, hunched over with a broad forehead and pallid chalk-like pitted skin. Red blotches on his cheeks contrasted with the patchwork of blue colored veins that crisscrossed along the length of his orbicular nose. His close-set eyes were shaded by thick bristling eyebrows. Protruding out of his long, stringy, nut-brown hair over each ear, were what appeared to be two huge bumps that easily could be mistaken for horns especially at a distance.

Otis “Melonhead” Melon - An Alabama Savant

His hair was plastered against his face by rivulets of muddy sweat that ran down his cheeks. He was wearing a filthy pair of blue jeans and his brown shoes were coated in fresh cow biscuits. His white sweat stained t-shirt had an Auburn University logo printed in navy and orange on the pocket where a half-empty package of RedMan Chewing Tobacco poked out. Next to him stood an attractive, elderly woman with long gray hair braided in one long braid that trailed down the center of her back to the middle of her posterior. She was wearing a light blue cotton dress, a blue and white apron, and a pair of pink muck boots adorned with pictures of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck.

Otis nodded and grinned as Max and Zippy Doo approached, exposing brown stained teeth.

Zippy turned to Max and whispered, “He does have kind of a putrid essence to him, doesn’t he? He smells like the outhouse door on a shrimp boat.”

“What can I do for you boys?” Otis asked as he picked at his nose and wiped his hand on the leg of his filthy coveralls.

“Are you Otis Melon?” Max asked.

“That’s right. And this is my mama, Bernice Melon.”

Bernice “Mama” Melom

“I’m Max Fly and this is my partner, Zippy Doo. We are private investigators looking into alleged sightings of a monster that some believe to be the long sought-after Goat-Man. May we ask you a few questions?”

“Go right ahead just so long as you don’t wake my rabbits.”

“Okay, Max replied, looking at the herd of rabbits milling around inside the hutch.“A couple of boys said they saw someone that resembled you climbing up the mountain to play with a herd of goats. By any chance, could that have been you?”

“You must be referring to that Cooter Johnson and Fim Fudge. I saw ol’ Cooter and Fim up there watching me. What I do is none of their business. I stared back until those ol’ boys disappeared like a cork on a fishin’ line.”

“Don’t you pay no attention to what those two boys say. They are so dumb, they don’t know sheep shit from cottonseed,” Bernice Melon interjected. “They dropped out of the eighth grade and have been sittin’ around like a couple of bumps on a log ever since. If stupid could fly, both those boys would be jets.”

“I see,” Max replied, shaking his head. “Otis, by any chance, do you own a goat suit?” 

“I do. My mama made me one, didn’t you, mama? If y’all wanna see it, you’ll have to ask Shirley Smelley over in Slap Ankle. She lives on Watermelon Road, ‘bout 5 miles from here across the Black Gnat River jist ‘fore you git to Hog Jaw. She’s slightly burned out, but still smokin’ hot,” Otis said with what could pass as a leer. “I lent it to her to wear for the fall Yell-Off in Lick Lizard next week.”

“What’s a Yell-Off?” Zippy asked as he picked a wet piece of cow biscuit off his pant cuff.

“That’s where all them folks with a big mouth try to yell-off louder than Chief Shinbone the old Creek Indian Chief did back in the day. Stella Blitzki won it last year. Shirley thought it was rigged ‘cause ol’ Hayward Connor was doin’ the judgin’ and everyone knows Hayward is sweet on Shirley; has been since they was attending Lick Lizard Elementary School. Haywood won’t be doin’ no judgin’ this year. He’s holed up in the Farquhar Cattle Ranch on a work-release program. He don’t get released until next year so Shirley thinks she has the best chance of winning that trophy from Stella this year plus the grand prize, a $10 gift certificate from the Lord of The Fries Restaurant over in Devil’s Holler.”

“Chief Shinbone?” Zippy asked. He was beginning to find it difficult to follow Otis’s train of thought.

“The Chief was a Creek Indian back in the 1800’s,” Bernice interjected. “He lived in what folks now call Shinbone Valley. They claim he could yell so loud folks all the way in Fort Payne could hear him. Claim he had one brown eye and blue eye.”

“Yeah, he weren’t no cigar store Indian, that’s for sure,” Otis said, between bites of his sandwich.

“What do you have in that sandwich, Otis?” Zippy asked.

“Oh, it’s somethin’ my mama makes special for me. It’s goat cheese and coyote meat covered in coon fat gravy.”

“Otis here ain’t no Goat-Man,” Bernice continued, “If anything he’s a Rabbit-Man.

Otis has a photographic memory and in some incomprehensible way he must have picked up the secrets of sequential numbering all by hisself. It’s so beautiful, so precise. His mind shines with a light from another world.”

“What shines from another world?” Zippy asked while scraping more fresh cow biscuit from the bottom of his Cole Hahn loafer while still eyeing Otis’ sandwich.

“His mind. He’s been studying the Fibonacci sequence. That’s where every number is the sum of the preceding two. Somewhere he got his hands on Leonardo Pisano Fibonacci’s book, who is also known as Leonard of Pisa, by Papa John and Luigi Petrocelli, the proprietor of Luigi’s Pizza Parlor and Disco over in Slap Ankle. The name of the book is Liber Abaci. Have you read it? It is a fascinating read, by the way.

Otis watches his rabbits breed. It appeals to his sense of mathematical order. He even has an understanding of axonometry.”

“Axo…? Zippy stuttered.

Max lifted his hand and said, “Never mind Zip.”

Bernice pointed at Otis who sat with a concentrated expression next to the rabbit hutch still eating his sandwich and said, “See? He’s about to say something grown-up wise. Go ahead, Otis, say something.”

“Did you know that rabbits are naturally social and live in groups, Mr. Fly?” Otis said.

“No I don’t. I guess that one slipped by me.”

“They are and rabbits reach sexual maturity after one month and their gestation period is one month. After reaching sexual maturity, female rabbits give birth every month. I know’d ‘cause I watched them.

A female rabbit gives birth to one male rabbit and one female rabbit.

If you put a male and female rabbit in a hutch, how many pairs of rabbits can be produced from that pair in a year if each month each pair begets a new pair and the rabbits don’t die?”

“I don’t know, but that’s fascinating, Otis,” Zippy replied, flicking more fresh cow biscuit from his pant cuff.

“Otis surely isn’t this Goat-Man or monster you are looking for,” Bernice continued. “Otis is a savant, a genius! When he finishes his chores which consist of shoveling cow biscuits and milking goats, he documents these rabbits breeding and using the Fibonacci sequence, he predicts how many rabbits he will have by the end of the year. Every year now for the last ten years he has been exactly right, ‘cept the time a couple of coyotes got into the hutch and ate half the herd. That were a bad year, weren’t it, Otis?”

“It was mama, but I got them coyotes, didn’t I?”

“You sure did son.

How many farmers in rural Alabama know of the Fibonacci sequence, Mr. Fly? Not many. In fact, not many people in the United States know of Leonardo Pisano Fibonacci.”

Leonardo Fibonacci A.K.A. Leonardo D’Pisa - Famous Mathematician

“I think we should be going now,” Max replied, grabbing Zippy Doo by the arm and dragging him away from the rabbit hutch. Thank you for your time.”

“Did you see that black and white rabbit, Max? She is real cute.”

“How do you know it’s a she, Zip.”

Otis accompanied them around the barn to their car, only Otis didn’t bother to navigate around the piles of cow biscuits.

“That’s mighty nice,” Otis said pointing in the direction of the Flymobile and Max’s rifle. “Where’d you get that thing?”

“It’s a Pre-64 Model 1970 Winchester. A collector’s item.”

“I was talking about your car. It sure is ugly What kind is it?”

“It’s a 1958 Oldsmobile 98 Jetaway with Hydra-Matic drive and a 394 cubic inch engine. It’s got electric windows.”

“Nice. Does it have air?”

“Only in the tires,” Zippy replied. “Let’s go, Max. It’s getting late.”

Otis waved as they drove down the dirt road back to highway 24 heading back to Burnt Corn. They heard Cletus yell out, “Y’all drive safe now, ya yeah?” Francis the coon dog didn’t move. He was either sleeping or passed out.

“How much did you pay for that Winchester Rifle, Max?” Zippy asked.

“A little over two grand. As I said, it’s a collector’s gun. Every year it has gone up in price.”

“Where do you store an expensive rifle like that when you aren’t using it?”

“I keep it in a Kade Realtree double-sided foam padded rifle case made of a durable 1200D waterproof material that protects it against rain and wet conditions.  The case is specifically designed for scoped rifles.

CX901RC Kade Realtree Xtra Scoped Rifle Case

“Sweet, man, I might have to get one,” Zippy replied.

“You don’t have a rifle, Zip, but they do have a nice case that would fit your .357 Smith and Wesson revolver. Check it out at iadconcepts.com. They have a complete line of ammo bags as well.”

As they pulled onto highway 84 a few miles out of Burnt Corn, Zippy said, “We did it, Max, we solved that Goat-Man mystery, didn’t we?”

“Not so fast, Zippy. We solved this sighting of what was thought to be the Goat-Man. There very well could be a real Goat-Man out there someplace terrorizing innocent people; people just like the folks in Devil’s Holler and Burnt Corn Alabama. We don’t know. We just don’t know. We will have to continue to stay alert for any sightings reported from around the world and periodically check in with Liz Tureen, the Daily Gazette’s investigative reporter. She’s connected to all the news services. But this is what we do, Zip, we are here to protect the good people of Burnt Corn and the neighboring towns here in Alabama.

“I’m hungry,” Zippy said. “Let’s stop at that new eatin’ place that opened in Ankle Scratch. Its called the Smut Eye Grocery, Bait and Fine Dining place. They were advertising on the inside wall of that porta-potty that’s located alongside the highway at the new Burnt Corn Mall and Auto Auction. Wanda said she stopped in one day when nature gave her a call and she couldn’t make it to the office. She said they make a shrimp flavored crack at the Smut Eye that’s to die for.”

Shrimp Flavored Crack - Smut Eye Grocery, Bait & Fine Dining’s Weekly Special