Jeeee-haaawwwd!

My faithful friends, I am Bubba bin Bubba Al-Bubbá and I have finally hacked into innominatus' blogger.  I can now post freely.  OK, I didn't really hack it.  I'm not exactly the sharpest card in the deck.  No way I could figger out any of that hackery stuff.  He just walked away without logging out so I figgered I should be able to post here real quickety like before he comes back...

Anyways, how's things with you?  As you can see, my beard is pretty scraggly from that incident on the 4th of Jooo-lie.  Since none y'all have seen me in a while, lemme tell ya how it went down...

I went to the Wal-Martyr and bought the largest pack of farworks I could git, a 3-pack of tennis balls and a bunch of them strike-anywhar matches.  First off, I got to whittlin' the strikey parts off the matches.  I was partsway done when an ember off my Marlboro landed right in the middlin' part of 'em and foosh! my beard is on far.  Dang.  Had to go down to the 7-11 and buy some more matches from that dang polytheist Apu guy.  So after a good long afternoon of whittlin' and beer tippin', I had me a pretty goodly amount of matchheads.

Then I used my Buck knife to gouge a hole in the tennis balls, into which I perceeded to cram the matchheads.  The plan was two-fold: have me some farworks fun and also maybe set the synagogue on fire from a safe distance.  Then I started takin' all them fireworks apart.  I was fixin' to use the guts of 'em as a propellant for my home-brew mortar, 'cuz Larry at the sportin' goods store won't sell me no more gunpowder.  I needed to borrow a piece of tennis-ball sized pipe from cousin Abdul, so he brought it over.  But then allvasudden Abdul's goin' on about Joooos in NASCAR.  I told him there ain't no Jooos in NASCAR, 'cept maybe some car owners.  And he says what about the Joe Nemechek guy.  "Y'all tryin' to tell me that 'Nemechek' ain't no Jooosh name?"  I tell him "Naw, I'm purdy sure he's just from, like, Korea or somethin'. 

We spent most of the day arguing 'bout Jooos takin' over NASCAR.  There just ain't no convincin' him.  Time I coulda spent unravelin' farcrackers to get the powder out 'em got wasted bickerin' with Abdul.  Aller willin' and the seas don't rise, someday I will talk some sense into that boy.

Anyways, I ended up missing the whole 4th 'cuz that pack o' farworks was so dang big.  But by the evenin' of the 5th, though, I had 'em all dissected and the powder extracted and it was finally time for some fun.  I drove down the road a ways and parked a couple blocks from the synagogue.  I figgered I was just about in range.  As I was settin' up my mortar, along come some car with gubmint plates.  Out step some guy dressed like the Men in Black.  He yells at me "DHS!  DHS!  Drop the mortar!"

And I said "I ain't no terrorist.  I'm a faithful pracktishner of the religion of peace."

"Hmmm....  You're a peaceful muslim, but you're also one of those dangerous rednecks" the agent mumbled.  Then he stood there lookin' all confused, like a smallmouth that just swallered a rubber worm.  He dint know what to do.  "Don't move while I call my supervisor."

I sprung inta action.  I aimed my mortar at his junk drawer and yelled "Glory to Aller!"  Then I pulled the trigger.  Unfortunately, I acted kinda rashly there.  See, the mortar didn't have a breechblock to speak of.  The butt end was s'posed to be just stuck in the ground.  Without the butt in the ground, well, the backfire from it hit me right in my toolbox.  Then my dang beard caught far.  Again.  Dang.  And the tennis ball just kinda rolled harmlessly out the muzzle.  But in the midst of all that confusion I was able to jump in my F-250 and get away.

Aw, crap.  Here comes that innominatus guy.  Better go...