Conversation Pieces I
By: Wayne Brown
What’s zat ya say? Ya can’t figure that in yore head? Why hell nawh you can’t. You’s dumber than a sack full of hammers all the way through school. Now maybe you’ll see where it woulda paid off if you’d put yore mind to it, boy. Ya getting’ ya come uppance, I reckon. If ya don’t put anything in that head, how you gonna get anything out?
Do what? Listen heh, boy, you don’t talk to me like that. I ain’t kissin’ nothin’ anywhere on your body. Now, if you want yore ass kicked, I spec’d I’m just the man for it. Now, you shut yore smart-ass mouth or get on down the road. You only comes around here when you lookin’ for money anyway. You don’t care a lick for ya mama and me. We’s just a damn bank for you. But that’s a fixin’ to stop. Yore gonna get off your ass and go to work.
Can’t find a job, my ass! You don’t wanna work, boy. You think someone is gonna make you some kind of big executive and buy you a Cadillac or somethin’. Hell, you got to work if you gonna make it in this world. A little hard work never hurt nobody but you run from it like you gonna catch somethin’. Work ain’t no disease, boy, it’s an opportunity. Get out thar and do some of it and pull ya damn weight in the world.
Back when I’s your age, I could work four or five good men in the ground and then come back and do it again the next day. We took pride in gettin’ a little sweat on our brow back then, son. That’s why real men carry a handkerchief in their back pocket so’s they can wipe the sweat from their face and head. Hell, the only thing you ever sweated was the small stuff. What a waste of damn time!
I’ll tell ya what happened. That mama of yourn done let you go soft. I told her and told her and told her to put your ass out there workin’ when you was young so’s you’d know. So’s you’d grow into it. But, no, she coddled your ass and let you sit up here in the shade while we busted our humps to feed ya all these years. Now look at ya, you’s full of dreams and bullshit and ain’t none got nothin’ to do with makin’ a livin’.
What’s that? Aw, don’t start with all that goin’ to Nashville crap to get on the Grand Ol’ Opry. Ya damn fool! Ya don’t know nobody up thar. You’s just sittin’ here blowin’ smoke up your own ass. Well, I’m here to tell right now, you ain’t blowin’ none up my breeches. You need to be sellin’ that stuff to those dumb-ass friends of yourn down at the tavern. Maybe they’ll let you sang ‘em a song too!
That damn ol’ guitar of yourn’ is about half-ass out of tune most of the time that you is playin’ it. You ain’t got no ear for music. Hell, you can’t whistle Dixie, that’d be too much work. Dreamin’, dreamin’, dreamin’. You’s a dreamin and we’s a tryin’ to scratch out a livin’. Well you keep a dreamin’ boy, Ya dream in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up the fastest.
I already told you not to talk to me like that. I’ll kick yore ass to Nashville if you say one more damn word. And don’t look at me like that. You just get that cowboy hat of yourn and get the hell out of my house. Don’t come back, we don’t need no guitar pickin’ dreamer with his feet under the table. Me and ya mama don’t need it. Now go on, get the hell out!