An Old Redneck’s Letter to the Credit Company


Dear Sir/Madam:


I have just received your heated letter in regard to the bill I owe you.  You said the bill should have been paid long ago, and you don’t understand why it wasn’t.  Well, I’ll enlighten you.


In 1937, I bought a sawmill on credit.  In 1939, I bought an ox team, a timber cart, two ponies, a shotgun, a wine tester, a Colt revolver, and five razor-back hogs – all on credit.


In 1940, the sawmill burned down and didn’t leave a damned thing; one of my ponies died, and the other I loaned to a son-of-a-bitch who starved him to death.  In 1944, my father died and my mother was hanged for horse-stealing.  A mechanic named Joe knocked up my daughter and I had to pay the doctor $38.52 to keep the little bastard from becoming a relative of mine.


In 1954, my son had the mumps and, when they went down on him, the doctor had to castrate him to save his life.  That summer, I went fishing and the boat toppled over and I lost the biggest catfish you ever saw and one of my sons drowned (not the castrated one).


In 1955, my wife ran away with some slob and left me with three small children as a souvenir.  I married the “hired girl” to keep expenses down.  I had trouble getting her off, so the doctor told me to try creating some excitement just as she was beginning to come.  That night, I took the shotgun to bed with me and, just as she was beginning to come, I pointed it out the window and pulled the trigger.  Well, she shit in the bed, I ruptured myself, and killed the best damned milk cow I ever had.


In 1960, I took to drinking and didn’t stop until all I had left was my Waterbury watch and kidney trouble.  Then, all I did was wind up my watch and piss.


The next year, the trouble really started.  My wife caught the clap from the ice man, my son wiped his ass on a corn cob with rat poison on it, and somebody denutted my best bull.


In 1968, I decided to go into another business of my own.  I ordered six beehives from Sears and Roebuck.  I bought a swarm of bees and a Queen bee, all on the installment plan.  The Queen bee died and I ordered another one.  She turned out to be a whore and started running around with a horse-fly and the honey tasted like horse-shit, and I couldn’t sell it.


So now, gentlemen, you say if I don’t pay you, you will cause trouble.  Right now, if it cost two cents to shit, I would have to puke.  Getting money out of me would be like trying to poke butter up a wildcat’s ass with a hot trowel, but you are welcome to try.


Yours For More Credit,


Red Neck