Pumping Life Back Into A Corpse
With Bubba fully recovered from the boil popping pliars incident, he now laments that he must take his annual full spring bath. No longer can he proclaim that soap and water will ruin the six stitches required to close the wound left when those pliars forced that boil from his rear the hard way. That thread has long since dissolved or been ‘wiped’ away.
Once accomplished, he has promised himself a four chili dog supper at Ruths if Bill promises to have a beer with him afterwards. They’ll likely end up at Mac’s to educate those Coker kids about the ‘real life’ instead of that reality stuff on TV. Ain’t it funny how beer makes grown men dumber than they really are?
This Friday he’ll take his oversized wash tub over to the artesian well with a bar of whatever soap is in the house along with a wire brush normally used to clean tractor engines. There he’ll strip down to his long handle underwear, hold his breath, and fall in. Six to seven minutes later when he’s back in possession of his breath, his wife will toss him a wash cloth and start a fire for the clothes he has discarded.
He’ll attempt to exit the tub at least four or five times only to be rebuked by his better half to continue scrubbing else he walks home naked. Finally, when he is allowed to exit those long handles are long gone and when standing he bears a strange resemblance to a half shaved boar hog standing on his hind legs. At five foot nine inches tall and some two hundred eighty-five pounds, he epitomizes the American Coonhunting, tobacco chewing, beer drinking, country boy. Darlington County deputies are relieved that he no longer uses the wells along public roadways thereby reducing the number of serious wrecks by women seeking to get a cheap thrill.
Clean clothes, left over English Leather after shave, and a new gold tooth, he’s coming home.