Rancho Relaxo

The fine art of white trashin', deep fryin', and slow smokin'

Individuals with Nutt Sacks,

As I so fondly enjoy, I want to paint a picture that only a man can appreciate:

Scene 12:    It's 3:13 in the morning. You're sitting in the back seat of the Tahoe cruising across the Louisiana-Texas border. You feel the gentle bumps of the one million concrete expansion joints of the Louisiana-side of Interstate 20. It creates that rhythmic thump you've come to expect from Cajun roadways. Your coming back from a night at the boats. You cleaned them out for $350 on the blackjack table. On the stereo, Bob Segar and the Silver Bullet Band is singing the famous late-night road song, 'Turn the Page'. During the remorseful chorus ,"Here I am, on the road again, Here I am, up on the stage..." you reach back and grab the sheep skin blanket from the rear of the rig. It's cold tonight. 28 degrees, if you go by the thermometer in the rearview mirror. Choate has the windows down, but you don't really feel it, cause you're a man. That and the fact that you haven't felt your toes in the past 5 hours. You're simply grabbing the big blanket to use as a pillow. You figure, 20 minutes of 'shut-eye' ought to take care of you until the morning.

Scene 27:    You give the waitress an 'eat shit and die' look as she places a heapin' basket of jalapeño hushpuppies at the other end of the table. What is her dysfunction? Looking around you see row after row of picnic tables dimly lit by the fluorescent lights above. The Polish Nightmare (Paul for the uninitiated) is standing by the front counter buying a six-pack of Buds and a box of .22 caliber ammo.  He's planning on picking-off a nuisance coyote back at the lodge with Don Gaines' old varmint rifle. Thelma, your slow-minded waitress, finally understands your posture and heads back to the kitchen for another basket.

It's 7:35 in the evening. Out the side windows of 'Big Pines Lodge' you see a game warden cruisin' down the river looking for trouble. You're a little achy this evening. Two nights of drinking until sunrise is taking its toll on a body out of practice. No worries, you've just finished your third bottle of beer for the evening. Any sensation of pain is about to become as distant as rush hour traffic. You're in the land of the sportsman.  You're eating catfish, slaw, and hushpuppies.  

                     with large amounts of testosterone,

                                   Choate Bergstrom

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