A Recipe For A Beat-Down

Here's a little taste of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's life.

Farmer H: "I tried to call you this afternoon. Did you get my message?"

Hillbilly Mom: "No...nobody called. Wait! I turned off my phone after duty, because of the battery. Let me turn it on and check."

Farmer H: "Well, I'm here now. I can just tell you."

Hillbilly Mom: "But I want to see if I got your message. My phone is searching for a bar. Okay. It's loading. Huh. That's not very nice. Or very coherent."

Farmer H: "Why? I just left you a simple message."

Hillbilly Mom: "Listen to this: 

'Heavy it's me. I'm just now leaving Saint Mary's, so I should be home about 4:30. I don't remember what you told me tonight. My Number One Son mostly go eat supper for my birthday wants extra proper there, so I'll talk to you that stretch it out. Bye.'

Yeah. That's what they all say."


Farmer H: "That is not what I said. I don't know where they get that. You know what I meant."

Hillbilly Mom: "Well, I think you meant that you're going out to eat for your birthday. But there was no need to call me that name."

Farmer H: "I DIDN'T! I swear! I don't know why it came out like that!"

I know he didn't say my name as Heavy. I know that darn message app garbles our hillbilly way of speaking. You should see the messages I get about school being called off. It's like that dastardly auto-correct on texting. But it never hurts to store up favor-worthy evidence against Farmer H.