A Tough Life

I was born the son of a hillbilly in the Ozark Mountains. My mother, while not as hillbillish as her husband, was mentally more unstable then my father. But when he hit the bottle, which was most every night, his mental stability became as off kilter as hers. Ah yeah, I think fondly of them ever time I hear anybody fightin'. But nobody can hold a candle to them on a Saturday night when 3 jugs were empty and dad was rarin' to go!

In true hillbilly fashion, I attended my own shotgun wedding with my six months pregnant sweetheart at the ripe old age of 16. And no, she wasn't my cousin. Naively, I was filled with marital bliss.

Thinking my hillbilly home life was pretty rotten, and those bad times were now behind me, it wasn't until feeling the yoke of my martial bonds that I truly understood the meaning of a tough life. From the honeymoon on I never enjoyed another moment's peace and my soul could find no comfort.

Seeing as how I got my spouse pregnant, she was more than a bit reluctant to have that happen to her again. Guess the 39 hours of labor affected her a might. So I suppose it was understandable that sexual relations were not on top of her "honey do" list which was quite extensive indeed. Well sir, she proved wise beyond her 13 years, cause the dadgum very next time we made whoopie she turned up pregnant again. Now life truly has no joy, as I am the target of hellfire retribution beyond what Satan himself could produce. Proud as I was of my 5-year-old son and one month old daughter, I had to find some solace in life. And being as how I am the son of a drunkard son of a drunkard, I took to the bottle as natural as a baby to its momma's teat.

Now, you might be thinking this a story of the cycle of generational abuse, and you might have been right had it not been for that fateful night. I was out trying to see how many bottles of booze I could get to the bottom of, when I was laid upon by a knife wielding city slicker in a three-piece suit. Now I'm a country boy, and country boys can fight. I'm no different there, so I set into tearing that dude clean outta that suit and his skin if I could. One thing's for sure, if money were black and blue that man would be a millionaire. But not being too familiar with low down dirty no good cheating city folk, I made the mistake of thinking he could take his beatin' like a man and turned my back to leave him licking his wounds. It should have been the last mistake I made. The jackass of a man buried his knife as deep into my chest as he could shove it and then smiled like it was the end of me. Now I won't go into the details of what I did to him and his buddy after removing that knife from its precarious place just a dog hair away from my rapidly beating heart. Suffice it to say, he got the worst of it. At least that's what the Sheriff said. As for me...well, Satan might have been waitin' at home in the form my petite little Mrs., but God was there with me that night. Hallelujah I saw the light! Thankfully it saw me too and I was yanked from the depths of despair and set upon the rock of the good life.

Now I've resided myself to my fate just trying to do the best I can for my six children, three cats and a hell bent little gal that's made it her mission to steal all the life outta me. I drink no more. Just hanging on is tough enough for me. So says I, and who are you to judge until you've looked the devil in the eye and seen what I've seen.

This is the true and accurate account of the tough life of Cooter McGee submitted this day, May 5, 2007. Thank you.

(Dictated but not read)