“That was one of the funniest stories I ever read! Are you Billy Bob Riggs? … I guess we can all relate to Leon … he’s what Pinto and I call ‘our guy.'” — Baxter Black
“After about a year of owning Billy Bob’s Book, I took it with me on a trip to Orlando last week. OMG what a great book! I’m sure that others on the plane were wondering what I was drinking because I couldn’t stop laughing as I was reading the book. What a pleasurable and humorous read! Thanks!” — Paul D.
When a guy shows up at your party wearing a diaper and swinging a scythe, you’re either in some kind of assisted living hell, or at a Billy Bob Riggs’ New Year’s Party. Throw in a few log trucks, some Harley Davidsons, the county sheriff, balloons and handcuffs and then you have Billy Bob’s house for sure. Here’s a short section:
Then, somebody comes out with my shotgun and decides to celebrate midnight a little early, something about it’s already next year where his sister lives. He fires both barrels into the air. Unfortunately, he doesn’t see the power lines overhead and blows the wire in two. The stereo fizzles out, the house goes dark, the rain turns into a downpour and wets the fire down. Somebody says the beer’s gone, so everybody gets on their bikes and takes off. It’s not even 10 o’clock.
There I am, standing in the front yard in the rain, lawn burned down to bedrock, no power, mud tracked up the steps onto the porch and into the house, only about three pickets left in my fence. I can’t help it, I just feel good.
Then my wife comes out all pleased, said she finished fixing the dinner before the power went out, she’s got it all set up with candles. Then she looks around and the smile leaves her face as she sees there’s nobody there. Just a bunch of tire tracks across her garden plot. She gets kind of quiet. We go inside, shoo the cats off the turkey and start to eat. I make a pig of myself to show her how good I think it is.
After dinner, my wife is wrapping the leftovers in tin foil, so I go out to take a look around and smoke a cigar. I step out on the porch right onto the garden rake. Pokes me in the foot, whacks me in the eye, I slip in the mud and fall off the porch. Breaks my cigar. I don’t feel as good as I did a minute earlier, but I still feel OK.
