A final diagnosis
Thought I'd let my doctor check me,
'Cause I didn't feel quite right. . .
All those aches and pains annoyed me
And I couldn't sleep at night.

He could find no real disorder
But he wouldn't let it rest.
What with Medicare and Blue Cross,
We would do a couple tests.

To the hospital he sent me
Though I didn't feel that bad.
He arranged for them to give me
Every test that could be had.

I was fluoroscoped and cystoscoped,
My aging frame displayed.
Stripped, on an ice cold table,
While my gizzards were x-rayed.

I was checked for worms and parasites,
For fungus and the crud,
While they pierced me with long needles
Taking samples of my blood.

Doctors came to check me over,
Probed and pushed and poked around,
And to make sure I was living
They then wired me for sound.

They have finally concluded,
Their results have filled a page.
What I have will someday kill me;
My affliction is old age.

A Redneck Christmas
A Redneck Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the trailer
Not a creature was stirrin’ ‘cept a redneck named Taylor.
His first name was Bubba, Joe was his middle,
And a-runnin’ down his chin was a trickle of spittle.

His socks, they were hung by the chimney with care,
And therefore there was a foul stench in the air.
From out in the yard there came such a noise
That Bubba got scared and rousted the boys.

There was Rufus, 12; Jim Bob was 11;
Dud goin’ on 10; Otis was 7.
John, George and Chucky were 5,4, and 3:
The twins were both girls so they just let them be.

They jumped in their overalls, no need for a shirt,
Threw a hat on each head, then turned with a jerk.
They ran to the gun rack that hung on the wall.
There were 17 shotguns; they grabbed them all.

Bubba said to the young’uns, “Now hesh up ya’ll!
The last thing we wanna do is wake up yer Maw.”
Maw was expecting and needed her sleep,
So out they crept out the door without making a peep.

They all looked around, and then they all spit.
The young’uns asked Bubba, “Paw, what is it?”
Bubba just stared; he could not say a word.
This was just like all of the stories he’d heard.

It was Santy Claus up on the roof, darn tootin’
But the boys didn’t know; they was about to start shootin’!
They aimed their shotguns and nearly made a mistake
That would have resulted in venison steak.

Bubba hollered out, “Don’t shoot, boys!”
That’s Santy Claus and he’s brought us some toys.
The dogs were a-barkin’ and a-raisin’ cain,
And Bubba whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.

“Down, Spot! Shut up Bullet! Quiet, Pete and Roscoe!
Git, Turnip and Tater and Sam and old Joe!”
“Git down from that porch! Git down off that wall!
Quit shakin the trailer, or you’ll make Santy fall!”

The dogs kept a-barkin’ and wouldn’t shut up,
And they trampled poor Pete who was only a pup.
Santy opened his bag, and threw out some toys.
Bubba got most, but left a few for the boys.

From up on the roof Santa heaved a great sigh.
Since the guns had been dropped he just might not die.
He jumped in his sleigh, told his reindeer to hurry.
The trailer started to wobble Santa started to worry.

Just as the reindeer got into the air,
The trailer collapsed, but Bubba didn’t care.
He was busy lookin’ at all his new toys.
Then a thought hit him, and he said to the boys:

“Go check on yer Maw, make sure she’s all right.
That roof fallin’ on her could-a hurt just a might.”
But Maw was OK, and the girls were too.
They fixed up the trailer; it looked good as new.

And as for Bubba, he liked Old St. Nick,
But Santa thought Bubba was a pure-in-tee hick!
Bubba had a nice Christmas, and the boys did, too.
And the Taylors wish a Merry Christmas to you!