A 20-acre utopia smack dab in the middle of Hillmomba, where Hillbilly Mom posts her cold-hearted opinions, petty grievances, and self-proclaimed wisdom in spite of being a technology simpleton.
Yet another room/building I missed out on my tour. I'm sorry I came back, after saying farewell just yesterday.When you retire, don't even expect a box of muffin stumps, if this is the treatment your followers get. I mean, taunting us with cameras and a blue hardhat, a possible couple of salt and pepper shakers (an old man and an old woman?) and other indescribable goodies.It's not fair!
Sioux,I knew you would return. Farmer H is like a drug. Not one that cures things. One that you might find under a big mushroom, in a bottle with a label that says, "Drink Me."The Hillbillies don't want your muffin stumps! Or your chicken skins and lobster shells, either.Silly me. I thought the focus of that photo would be the GIANT DEAD RAM'S HEAD, not the minutia on the shelves. I only regret that I showed you Thomas Jefferson sitting on a boot taking a crap. I should have charged extra for that.
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