I’m crossing the country, headed back to the comforts of the Great State of Texas in a 1989 Mercury Grand Marquis. Right now, I’m huddled in a corner sending out this distress signal – if you don’t hear from me in a few days, it will mean that I was overrun.
See, I’m in Crossville, Tennessee right now. Somehow over the continuous strum of the banjo and the overwhelming stench of pan-fried Sudafed – I was able to eek out a few minutes of Internet access. I will be passing through Nashville tomorrow. I figure I’ll hit a Tradin’ Post somewhere before the city limits, as I’ll need to swap out my American currency for beef jerky and mason jars in case I need to barter for some gasoline.
After that, it’s open season. I figure them thar hillbillies probably owe me a good beatin’ for all the horrible things I’ve said. We’ll see how it turns out. I’ve slingshot-proofed the Mercury, but I’m not sure how she’ll hold up against musket and/or cannon fire.
You probably won’t yet hear from me until Friday or Saturday, so until then – I hope all is well.
Uh oh – I hear footsteps… I gotta shut down. CRAP those are definitely bare feet! I’m screwed! I gotta–