Grackle Nation (1)

   
   "Grackle Nation (1)"
   
   Slim Jim Grackle lived out yonder, in them Tennessee backwoods, haunted by Dollywood, and knowing specifically why it was dubbed such, having a bit of a brain, and a pecker head too.  He loved the Volunteers, and had a Peyton Manning pseudo-shrine at his double-wide trailer, though he knew Tom Brady was better, but he wouldn't admit it to himself.
   Slim Jim Grackle was a wiry Norwegian mix, his other Native relatives coming from Minnesota, before the Vikings conquered it back in the days of Eric the Red--something they don't teach you in public school, or so the ENQUIRER pointed out to him, way on back during his adolescent reverie.
   So, his hair was dark, his eyes a green/blue/gold/brown hue, was a wiry scrapper, not as tough as a sailor eating spinach, had negative blood, and voted for the residing Chief in the shimmering platinum palace.  He wasn't fond of his State's leadership, them having bounced a shifty frog, but still manhandled by a troll under the bridge of freedom, and if casino man would only kick out the pollution, the sincere pollution from the platinum palace; next, know his bloodline, well, in Slim Jim's mind, it would be a soft disclosure, and the chimps and lizards would go back in the cage--a few crickets too.
   Slim Jim was mowing lawns and dipping peach chaw; plus, liked a cold beer with sea salt, and any hot little number that wasn't brunette or artificially blonde.  Worse than encountering the unwanted surprise of a camouflaged tranny, is an artificial blonde--hell, in his mind, an artificial blonde is the biggest cheater, for she's not really dumb at all. 
   Too, Slim Jim Grackle liked to let it out and have his harmony, as every flying Grackle knows to do, being chirpy and chatting with the locals at the water tavern, where beer is for horses, and the ladies like to ride mustangs.  But don't get Mr. Grackle wrong.  He wouldn't play the flute for any floozy--she had to be well-groomed and love Jesus.  Hell, it's America!  Gotta love Jesus, watch football, drive a truck, and never, ever, ever, ever, wear a baseball hat backwards.  
   Pretty soon boy, we're gonna untangle Slim Jim Grackle's mystical yarn.