The Second Voice of the Fly
I's in my trailer, watchin' my news about this “Obummer” clown they got in the White House, with my dog Skeeter by my rockin' chair. I ain't got work to go to, thanks to Obummer, but it's Skeeter's birthday an' I figgered tha's worth celebratin', so I was strummin' on my banjo while I watched. About three or four hours in I was red in the ears an' nice an' ticked, when I start to hearin' this buzzin'. A damn fly starts Well I'm fumin' out the ears and he ain't helpin' none, so I tell Skeeter to get 'im. I said “sic 'im, boy!” Skeeter's an older dog, though, and he ain't as fast as he useta be. Aw, hell, Skeeter deserves a break on his birthday, and he weren't gonna get the fly anytime soon. A Southern man don't need 'im around anyhow.
Now, I ain't got none of them fancy bug sprays, or those swanky fly swatters, or nothin' of the sort, nosiree I do not. What I do got, though, is ten an' a half pounds of point-two-five-six inch caliber Second Amendment Rights. I got up from my rockin' chair and went on up to my attic. Getting' up the stairs were a pain in the rear like they always are, but I made it. I looked through my valuables and found it: M'daddy's old M1-Garand from the war. It never had the chance to tag a Commie, but it sure as hell tagged a Nazi, and if you can get a Kraut, you can get a fly. I started down the stairs, made sure my rifle was loaded, and went on after the fly. Now I been huntin' before. You gotta learn ta think like the thing yer huntin'. Really git in their minds. An' if I were a fly, I know I'da gone to the kitchen. So I did, and sure 'nuff, there it was. I aimed down my rifle at it and fired. The gun bucked in my arms like a pig at the butcher, threw me back against the cabinet. I fell to the ground and the damned thing fell on top of me. Skeeter starts a yelpin' and hollerin' and I hear him headin' for the kitchen, but I musta hit my head or somethin', 'cause before he gets here I'm out like a light.