Seasonal tidings y'all. That darn Santa emptied his sack all over my front porch this year. Li'l cousin Marla gave me a darn 200 dollar voucher to spend down at the All-U-can-eat buffet bar at the Grand Ole Texas Beef Jerky Steakhouse; guess she forgot I own the franchise, momma! Yes sirree bob.
Anyhoo, shoot fire, pardners, and let's turn our attention to the darn Bury franchise. What in tarnation is goin' on over there? Our instructions to Abram and Dmitri were explicit - remove the boss and the backup man, but what's this I'm a hearin? The barrowboy is holding the reins and the whole hog is going belly up faster than a stranded heifer in a mudswamp of rattlers. Hot Damn!
As my pappa (God bless him) used to say: "I strongly suggest you not be licking your fingers then wiping them there boots of yours, son. People from these parts don't wanna be tasting where they've been stepping". When we build the new enormodome allstar indoor training center down at Lower Gigg, that'll be the stadium motto. Seems quite opportune right now, don't it, y'hear?
Whatever the near future might being, one thing is darn tootin' for sure gonna be happenin'. Those tired-ass shakers will be gettin' a rocket under them courtesy of my attornees. As my buddy Arne is fond of sayin', no-one in our group will be letting grass grow under our rootin-tootin asses. Holler if ya hear what I'm sayin!
Until next time, this is Del Starbuck signing out; I've got Pete and Abram coming in for a satellite conference call now, which just might spark off something mighty interestin'. My associates think that if we can marry one of our strikers off to Britney Spears they might just start scoring again. Yes sirree!