It was a perfect Sunday morning for a selfie. The old-town streets were covered in fake horse-drawn carriages, and everyone was so hot they couldn’t sweat.
I arrived somewhere around 12 (the clocks were not synchronized, so I do not know), and was immediately greeted by an old farmer, whose name was Hank Hunter. We sat down for lunch at a local pub - I brought a soda to replace the local whiskey, but they thought it was a sign of the devil, so I ended up drinking out of a horse trough. I don’t know what was in that stuff that Farmer Hunter drank, but it got him talking quickly - or perhaps that’s just how southerners talk. Here is the edited version of our conversation, which is edited to remove all of the swearing he did (constantly), and to revise his manner of speech to make it mostly readable.
“Hello, Mr. Hunter. How a–”
“Whirsky! Wert are you doin’ here?”
“What?”
“Whirsky! Now tell me wert yer doin’ here, or ahll call up that there Sheriff!”
“What???”
“Whirsky! Dontcha ernderstarnd thar?”
“Of course I know what whiskey is, but why do you keep saying it?”
“Yer drinkin’ horse-poop in that there water! Yer sheld drink whirsky”
(It is important to note that he did not use the word “poop”)
“What! Do you not drink water here?”
I at that point realized that the particles floating in my water were not dirt, as I had originally imagined.
“Oh, crap. Now I probably have an infection! Do you have a docter here?”
“Sher we got a docter! He’s the best docter in the werld! He gerts ye nice and boozed up before he amputates!”
“I don’t need an amputation, I just need some antibiotics.”
“Anti bio whertchas?”
“Anti-bi-otics. They help with E. Coli infections”
“Er collie? Werd you gert a collie?”
“Erm… Never mind.”
“Didernt you say yer gonna interver me? Yer sed that on the telerpone”
“Ok, fine.”
“First question: What is life like on your farm?”
“I gart beer and larts of grains”
“Where do you get the beer?”
“Derneld J. Tremp”
“What?”
“Derneld J. Tremp. Are you hard of hearing?”
“How does Donald J. Trump give you beer?”
“He pees it out”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I mern Derneld J. Tremp pees out beer!”
“Who… What… is Donald J. Trump?”
“He’s a big berrel in meh yerd”
“So why did you call it Donald J. Trump?”
“Becerze he’s the real persident! Nart this Joseph R. Berden! He’s harted his son fererver and he stole ‘Merica”
“Ummm… Ok… Anyways, ummm… How do you get the grains?”
[This section is redacted because it does not comply with my blog’s content policy]
“Oh! Well…. Ok….”
At this point, I gave it up for a lost cause, but he had already gone through some 30 dollars worth of strong pub whiskey and was going full steam.
“Ser, have you ever tried deer bumhole”
“Deer what?”
“Deer bumhole. Meh cursin susan makes the werlds best fried deer bumhole”
“Oh-kay then. What is… Erm… Deer bumhole like?”
“My cersun susan, she takes a deer and curts out the bumhole, then marinerts it in whersky and all her sperces, den she cooks it up good with some hydro-cal-oric arcid so it melts in yer mouth. My brother billy died that way.”
“How… Should I ask how he died?”
“It melted through his merth”
“WHAT!”
“He died dering wert he lerved! We sherdent have to die doin’ respon-si-bilites!”
“He loved… eating deer bumhole?”
“My entire family lerves cursin susans werld famous deer bumhole!”
“You still haven’t told me what deer bumhole tastes like!”
“Ah alredy told ya! My cersun susan, she takes a deer and curts out the bumhole, then marinerts it in whersky and all her sperces, den she cerks it up good with some hydro-cal-oric arcid so it melts in yer mouth.”
It was just about now that I realized that not only was I wasting my own time, I was wasting my reader’s time, and decided to cut it off here.
I intend to release the full text as soon as I can find a hosting service that won’t ban me for life - for now, just imagine. You won’t be far off!