[A down home message for Dan Rather in the colorful Texas idiom he so loves]
Y'all know what we all been thinkin' out here in Texas, Dan, since you started all this foolishness? We think y'all been whizzin' down our necks an' tellin' us it's rain for so long that you boys done got to believin' it yourselves. Heck, we think maybe you been back East so long you got yourself thinkin' us folks out here couldn't hit sand if we fell off our horses; couldn't hit water if we fell outta the boat. Danged if you ain't been treatin' us like you think we got squirrels swimmin' in our gene pools or sumthin.' You need to remind yourself that a tree don't ever get too big for a short dog to lift his leg on, Dan.
Bout them documents bein' genuine; well, hells—bells, Danny Boy, Grannie's glasses are so thick, when she looks at a bare wall she sees folks wavin' at her, an' even she can tell them memos are bout as phony as hips on a rattlesnake. We're startin' to think your brain done got harder than a woodpecker's lips if you can't see that. As far as that story 'bout George an' his National Guard duty, looks to us like you're tryin' to put wheels on a cow an' call it a dairy truck. Then you go pokin' up her butt hopin' you're gonna find ice cream. Besides, ever time you durn fools put that picture of young George in his flyboy outfit on the TeeVee, ol' Jane Fonda loses another herd of her Vagina Voters. Hell, Charlene says that sweet boy's purtier than my new tangerine metalflake bass boat.
Well, Danny, you still ain't lost all your redneck habits; you boys took one pickup load to the dump an' come back with two. Dadgummit, Dan, where you gittin' all this stuff? You been callin' some kinda mystery numbers that ol' boy, whatsisname, Kenneth, is bringin' you offa bathroom walls at truck stops? Somethin' you oughta be worryin' about, Danny Boy: you know how the boys say when you go on a hunt always make sure to save a round for your huntin' guide? Like if he don't find nuthin' else for you to shoot? You suppose any a them rich, fancy—shmancy, New York dudes you work for ever been on a hunt and heard that, Dan, hmmm?
You know how you always been fond a sayin' you feel like a long tailed cat in a room full a rockin' chairs? Well, seems to us like you're startin' to look more like the ground floor tenant in a two—story outhouse. Yeah, for sure you ain't lookin' like the tallest hog at the trough no more. Why, we bet you got yourself wired so tight right now that if we stuck a chunk a coal up your butt it'd come out a diamond in about five minutes. Last time we seen you on TeeVee your smile looked like Charlene's little ol' chihuahua dog that time he bit down on one a them ol' yeller—jacket wasps; you know, kinda like that look a feller gets when he squats with his spurs on.
An' about your boss, that city slicker fella, Johnnie Klein, the one said somethin' bout all us sittin' out here in our long johns? Well we're gonna give him some advice so good he can take it out back an' bury it in a Mason jar. You see, the fact is, Danny Boy, now that all us earthworms is gittin' guns, you big birds is gonna have to be more careful bout where you're peckin.' Somebody needs to tell that dude, Klein, that his cage may still be turnin' but his squirrel's done died. Course, maybe the boy can't help hisself; it might run in the family, you know, generic. We heard tell when he was born his ol' momma carried the little feller around upside down for a whole year wonderin' why he only had one eye.
Yeah them ol' boys up there at Power Line done gone an' slapped you dudes nekkid an' hid your clothes. Them blogger cats watched you fellers jump in that ol' litter box an' they just flat covered you up, quicker 'n slicker than WD 40 on a doorknob. Yeah you boys done gone skinny dippin' in a pond full a snappin' turtles. Looks like them broadcastin' geniuses at CBS done let them yeller—dog Democrats talk you inta sellin' your mule so you could buy a plow. When you crawled into the sack with little Miss McCauliffe you done got yourself a real ugly bed partner there, Dan, like a real three—bagger, I mean. You know the drill: one bag over her head, one over yours and one over the dog's so's at least he'll have some respect for you come mornin.'
Before all y'all up there at CBS go tryin' to saddle up another hog for a quarter horse race, you need to think about this: us ol' boys out here know a keyboard ain't where you hang the pickup keys and a byte ain't what Bubba's pit bull did to Cousin Billy; we know modem ain't what we did when the weeds got up to the porch and digital ain't countin' on our fingers, least not any more. Yeah, we done got ourselves a dog in this fight, a bloggin' pit bull, Dan Boy, an' he's justa slobberin' for another big ol' bite of Liberal blubber butt. Didn't your ol' daddy ever tell you that you ain't never gonna be the brightest bulb on the tree if you go huntin' bobcats with a BB gun?
But cheer up, Dan, maybe one a these days all you pointy—headed, liberal, media fellers will see the light. Course, seein's where y'all seem to be keepin' them pointy heads, it'll prob'ly be one a them there things the doctors use.
Whatcha call 'em, proctoscopes?
P.S. Charlene says to tell you don't even think about comin' back to Texas. Way folks out here feel, you'd have to tie a pork chop around your neck just to get a dog to play with you. Well, and maybe Mollie Ivins.
Russ Vaughn is a Vietnam veteran, Texan, and Poet Laureate of The American Thinker