Earl’s Diary: Entries From The Open Range
Dear Die-ree,
Yep... The sun’s a-comin’ up mighty high this mornin’. Me’n the boys’re out lookin’ for them cattle that got away. It’s high time we good-footed it on in’t town, supplies is runnin’ low. It’s a sure peaceful feelin’ wakin’ up with the sun, knowin’ the only thing between you’n miles o’ beautiful Mississippi countryside’s just yer imagination an-a-mighty powerful hunger that’s got’cha somethin’ fierce. Lonely days on the wide open range with yer rifle’n’some dead conies hangin’ from yer saddle are made all the easier when y’ve got friends with ya. I reckon that’s what life’s all about, y’see. Friends and where yer soul wants t’take ya that day.
Our tents’r still moist with the mornin’ dew, just like the grass all ‘round us. It all kinda glimmers an’ shines like a mountain fulla fresh gold ore just stickin’ up from the rocky surface. Y’can see the snow capped peaks miles out yonder an it makes ya feel all the more in touch with yer feminine side. S’why I wear ladies nylons while I’m ridin’ muh horse. Sure gives ya a serious, awful love o’ the outdoors when silk’s slidin’ across your sun whipped ass with that swishy sound that only silk c’n make. Sometimes I rub on some of that lip-n-stick, n’ do my eyelashes real long.
Got some of that extender stuff from the local beauty parlor. Reckon I make a damn purdy cowboy. Some cowpokes think me’n my ridin’ buddies are all nuts for wearin’ sports bras under our dangly, show-cow shirts, n’ I just laugh ‘em off. They got no idea what life on the range is like- likely never will. I tie up my stirrups, strap up my horse’n rub some rouge on his white cheeks, think about the days when I was a youngin’ an my pappy used to smear me up real purdy and I can’t help but sigh. It’s a good feelin’, it really is. T’ain’t nothin’ else like.
We spit-grittle s’m eggs, chow down on some dried, salted beef and make some of that good ol’ sweet, kettle pop’n’corn in a great big pot o’ Fred’s jizzum. Kinda tickles goin’ down, specially after we add the sugar’n buffalo turds that make that kettle corn good’n tasty. Sometimes ya catch a seed or a lump-r-two in there, but I just spit 'em out n’keep a-chawin’. Mm-mm. Sure’n if that ain’t a wonderful sight; five greasy cowboys in sweat-stained buckskins ridin’ hard’n smilin’ with buffalo shit drippin’ from our chops like sludge off a drain pipe. Makes me glad I do what I do.
I like t’sing me a song sometimes. Jimmy breaks out the harmonicorn an I go t’town:
Home, home on the range.
Where buttplugs are made of cocaine.
An’ seldom is heard a disparagin’ word,
When we tie eachother in chains.
Home, home on the range.
Where the deer and the dogs all have mange.
An’ sometimes you cry,
Cus there’s shit in your eye,
And you bathe with a handful of grains.
Boy-howdy. Song makes me teary eyed ever’time I sing it... S’pose we might just be gettin’-on-t-gettin’-on now. Nothin’ left to write in this here die-ree t’day. S’ceptin’ maybe the fact that I wish I had me a mirror. Sure wouldn’t mind gettin’ these chiggers outta muh beard. Damn they itch. Just like the fleas in muh crotch...
But then I guess they couldn’t call me Cracklin’ Crotch: The Saddest, Badest, Maddest, Mustiest, Crustiest an’ all around Dustiest Cowboy Tht’s Ever Screwed a Sheep, iffin I did.
Earl ‘Cracklin’ Crotch’ McGimble ph’n’D (Pretty Highfalutin’ Dude).
Yep... The sun’s a-comin’ up mighty high this mornin’. Me’n the boys’re out lookin’ for them cattle that got away. It’s high time we good-footed it on in’t town, supplies is runnin’ low. It’s a sure peaceful feelin’ wakin’ up with the sun, knowin’ the only thing between you’n miles o’ beautiful Mississippi countryside’s just yer imagination an-a-mighty powerful hunger that’s got’cha somethin’ fierce. Lonely days on the wide open range with yer rifle’n’some dead conies hangin’ from yer saddle are made all the easier when y’ve got friends with ya. I reckon that’s what life’s all about, y’see. Friends and where yer soul wants t’take ya that day.
Our tents’r still moist with the mornin’ dew, just like the grass all ‘round us. It all kinda glimmers an’ shines like a mountain fulla fresh gold ore just stickin’ up from the rocky surface. Y’can see the snow capped peaks miles out yonder an it makes ya feel all the more in touch with yer feminine side. S’why I wear ladies nylons while I’m ridin’ muh horse. Sure gives ya a serious, awful love o’ the outdoors when silk’s slidin’ across your sun whipped ass with that swishy sound that only silk c’n make. Sometimes I rub on some of that lip-n-stick, n’ do my eyelashes real long.
Got some of that extender stuff from the local beauty parlor. Reckon I make a damn purdy cowboy. Some cowpokes think me’n my ridin’ buddies are all nuts for wearin’ sports bras under our dangly, show-cow shirts, n’ I just laugh ‘em off. They got no idea what life on the range is like- likely never will. I tie up my stirrups, strap up my horse’n rub some rouge on his white cheeks, think about the days when I was a youngin’ an my pappy used to smear me up real purdy and I can’t help but sigh. It’s a good feelin’, it really is. T’ain’t nothin’ else like.
We spit-grittle s’m eggs, chow down on some dried, salted beef and make some of that good ol’ sweet, kettle pop’n’corn in a great big pot o’ Fred’s jizzum. Kinda tickles goin’ down, specially after we add the sugar’n buffalo turds that make that kettle corn good’n tasty. Sometimes ya catch a seed or a lump-r-two in there, but I just spit 'em out n’keep a-chawin’. Mm-mm. Sure’n if that ain’t a wonderful sight; five greasy cowboys in sweat-stained buckskins ridin’ hard’n smilin’ with buffalo shit drippin’ from our chops like sludge off a drain pipe. Makes me glad I do what I do.
I like t’sing me a song sometimes. Jimmy breaks out the harmonicorn an I go t’town:
Home, home on the range.
Where buttplugs are made of cocaine.
An’ seldom is heard a disparagin’ word,
When we tie eachother in chains.
Home, home on the range.
Where the deer and the dogs all have mange.
An’ sometimes you cry,
Cus there’s shit in your eye,
And you bathe with a handful of grains.
Boy-howdy. Song makes me teary eyed ever’time I sing it... S’pose we might just be gettin’-on-t-gettin’-on now. Nothin’ left to write in this here die-ree t’day. S’ceptin’ maybe the fact that I wish I had me a mirror. Sure wouldn’t mind gettin’ these chiggers outta muh beard. Damn they itch. Just like the fleas in muh crotch...
But then I guess they couldn’t call me Cracklin’ Crotch: The Saddest, Badest, Maddest, Mustiest, Crustiest an’ all around Dustiest Cowboy Tht’s Ever Screwed a Sheep, iffin I did.
Earl ‘Cracklin’ Crotch’ McGimble ph’n’D (Pretty Highfalutin’ Dude).