Goldurn, Newt Gingrich, you lyin’ bag of bloat, quit tryin’ to make me like you. So fur yur efforts are a durn sight too near successful. Dad blast it, furst a cussed Democrat talked sense and now even yur doin’ it, it ain’t right.

I reckon there’s a lick to the loco. Yee-haw!

Yee-haw!

Though I’m a mite troubled at the thought of flyin’ over an aurora display. Seems unhealthful to risk bein’ radioactivated that way.

America, yeehah!

This hyere may not seem like much to a passel o’ uneddicated papercollar easterners. Thems as know, howsomever, is baying at the moon like a sure-nuff kiyote. (more…)

That’s more loaded than Ol’ Widowmaker on a Friday night before a three-day weekend.

And has more straw men than Iowa on Halloween.

I tried and answer truthfully anyways, but all I got was low-down dirty insults:

You are a liberal airhead.

Though I reckon there ain’t a right answer to questions like Number 2.

This sort of thing gits my dander up:

The assistant scout leader, Arthur L. Anderson, had stopped to identify a tree on the Nickel Plate Trail in Bunker Hill Sunday afternoon when an attacker approached him from behind and stabbed him in the neck, Indiana State Police said in a statement. Witnesses told police the attack was unprovoked.

Anderson, of Kokomo, Ind., “was doing probably the most innocent thing he could do, leading a group of Boy Scouts,” Indiana State Police Sgt. Tony Slocum said. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Beggin’ the lawman’s pardon, but Mr. Anderson was right where he should be, doin’ what he ought. It were the murderin’ varmint who weren’t were he ought to be.

Don’t repeat what he’s been been told in confidence.

But then I reckon the Senate ain’t a gentleman’s club no more.

I may be a tough ole hombre, but that don’t mean I like my steaks that way.

I reckon it’s better than lettin’ flesh go to waste, or sufferin’ from the Mexican Quick Step, though.

And when to run. (more…)

I never before seed a feller bring the tar to his own mobbin’.

Terminates it with extreme prejudice, actually, as my city slicker relations might likely chose to put it.

I’m finding myself a mite puzzled over the ornery Englishman’s feelings about firearms, though. And liquor ain’t all the painkiller it’s sometimes made out to be. Messes up your aim, too. I’m thinking this feller is lucky he can still call himself a man, if you’re gettin’ my drift.

Mah friends say mah 12 arguments to the Supreme Court in this hyar case were mighty persuasive. I cain’t gainsay it. But I allow as how mah law pardner Colonel Colt deserves most o’ the credit. That’s right, yer durn, hornswoggling cayuses, come to Bill and Colt, LLC, fer all yer legal needs. You should know as how we don’t do divorces, howsomever. We do widowin’s.

I reckon I should git git ahold of some of this forchlorfenuron, and see just what all it will do to a field of fine Hatch chili peppers.

After all, though I’ve always been able to count on Ol’ Widowmaker for home defense, a man’s got to be open to new ideas.

I kin count on one hand the number a times I had a shootout in the shower. It’s a durn unusual tactical sitchieation. Plinkin’ away with a .22 ain’t a bad choice.