I, personally, love the "I grew up in Mississippi" trump card he pulls in these weirdly non-sequitur ways
So my question is...
does John realize he's perpetuating the gun-a-totin' shine-o-drinkin' inbred-bumpkin stereotype of the American south?
I kind of wonder if it's like his dick, he hates his past so much that, even while using it as a power play, he has to denegrate it
[Well, Lookit here folks. I was just a whittlin' a wedding dress for my sister outta this old barrel. Boy. its been a minute since I done see ya'll friendly faces around. I guess due to all that socialist distancing. But you have picked a most floatudious time to be stopping the old story shack. Getting ready for a big event, and reading about that Elon Musk guy buying Mars just makes me think about Miss'ippi John and all the times he had to use his business sense to get things done.
And with weather getting warmer than a playground slide at noontime, why don't you stay here in the shade, pull up a chair, have yourself a thick slice of Miss'ippi John's special recipe gumbo, and sit back while I tell you the tale of the Economic Skunk.
Now, as you all sure to be rememberifying, Miss'ippi John was as amazing at being a child as he was at everything else he does with other people's money, so he grew up not once but twice in Mississippi: once time as a computing pioneer, gearhead, and paragon of NASA's space camp program, and another time as a poor queer black girl who suffered weekly lynching by the local Klu Klux Clan and their cantankerous leader, the Imperious Grand Thrikeen Paladin (It was still the Klu Klux Klan as John had not yet stolen their 'L', which is a rivetatious tale any true admirer of Miss'ippi John has already heard many times).
Now, both times John grew up in Miss'ippi in the 80s, and as any true Yankee who has never been to the south will tell you, the state had not changed one lick in the great depression at the time. The state had outlawed running water in 1964 after seg'ration was shot down - rather than letting colored people use the whites-only water fountains, the Honorable Eustace Pickens Horacious-Tyrone "Scooter" Picklebilly IV who was governor decided to just do away with running water completely - You worry a little less about a black man using the whites-only wash room when its just a hole in the floor and bucket with a rag. Why the legal statue that required all State Senators to attend legislative session in their full formal parade KKK robes hadn't even yet been repealed.
Miss'ippi John went down the river to play as both of his childhoods to see just how differential things were between them. Now, as we have dictatuluded on the previous, running water had been banned in the state since 1964, but people weren't quite sure if that only meant pipes or if streams and rivers were affected to. Some even suspected the rain of being illegal now. But every time the men in the state capital got to debating, they'd start sippin' shine out of their jugs with the three X's on them, and ain't no work would get done, so the Mississippi river was in a legal grey area till they could decide about damming it. John was down on the river, and he decided the no better way to see just how differagious his childhoods would be than by breaking his femurs.
Now breaking one's femur is a very painful experience, and whether John was a destitute black girl recovering from last nights lynching and dealing with questioning her sexuality, or whether he was the whizkid pro-tee-gee of his economically powerful adopted father father's business empire that could afford to buy him an SNES in 1987 along with all the games but not the electricity to power it on, John would meet adversity the same way: By telling it he was blocking it and accusing it of sexism. And this worked better than annesticaton that they could do at the hospital for sure.
Well, of course John's original childhood went to the hospital, while the him who was being raised a poor blackgirl was simply mercy-lynched by the KKK. So John was resting in the hospital - and not to be clear here, it was not the injury that was making him rest, understand. It was the fact he had to keep correctifying the doctor who was treating him that him all tuckerd out - John was sitting there dreaming up new business ideas to make his family's business even more of a success, when a skunk wandered into his room. Now, wildlife just appearing in a hospital isn't no special occurrence in Mississippi mind you. Sometimes the chef just wasn't watching close enough and the possum for that night's stew would scamper off, sometimes they came in off the street to have a look around. What made this Skunk special was he talked.
"You have to help me." Said the skunk. "There are a bunch of trappers after me and they want my hide. If they catch me they're sure to skin me and take my pelt."
Now, John couldn't be sure if it was all the Blocking and Sexism accusations he'd done when he'd broken his femur making him hear things, or if that skunk was actually talking to him.
"Well" Said Miss'ippi John to the skunk. "I can't very well hide you since everyone in Mississippi knows what a skunk smells like. Have you tried challenging them to a game of pinball?" John asked, since competitions in Pin ball, darts, drinking, wrestling a gator, verbally degrading then sexually assaulting women, and a hanging a nigger were all accepted ways of resolving a dispute in the South.
"I thought about it, but I'm too short to reach the flippers." Said the skunk. John was about to offer his services, for in addition to being able to fix british sports cars and hack Gibson computers, he was also a top-tier pin ball player and would have been national champion except the tourney rules forbid anyone who was growing up multiple times simulitiously, but then he remembered his broken leg would prvent him from playing.
John also knew that the skunk didn't have any chance of beating a deep south good ol' boy at any of the other competitions, except maybe nigger hanging.
"Well." Said Miss'ippi John, "Its a simple matter then. We'll beat them with economics. You just sell your pelt to the highest bidder. I'm a respected jurylist, I'll show them my press credentials and they'll have to listen. Just leave everything to me."
Sure nuff a group of three rotten-mouth unshaven and drunk trappers with shot guns came into John's hotel room.
"Now listen here, boy." The burliest trapper said. "We followed the smell of a skunk we got every rightsa be taken and skinning so best be giving up ya'll now ya hear?" The other two trappers nodded.
"Well, I can't say that's a very fair way to do things" Miss'ippi John said. Now, an adult Miss'ippi John would have been able to simply deal with the trappers by launching into one of his famous filibusters that would make him a legend in the US House of Representatives, but as he was just a boy with a broken leg, he was gonna have to use his wits and cunning. He showed the trappers his press crendentials, and they were all mighty impressed and willing to listen to what John said, as everyone knows a journalist can't lie.
"This here skunk is the owner of his pelt, and thus by rights he's got the right to sell that pelt to the highest bidder. Let's start the bidding low, should we say one dollar?"
"Well, I say we just kills him right now." The tallest trapper said, leveling his shot gun, only to have it batted away by the burly trapper.
"You can'ts do that you maran. You shoot that skunk with that shotgun that pelt's gonna be worthless. Put them things away." The burly hunter said. "We've got that skunk cornered, he ain't going no wheres."
"Its a trick." The smartest looking hunter, the one with a lazy eye said. "If none of ya'll bid, he's gotta let us have that pelt for free."
"How you know you aren't tricking us?" The tall trapper said. "I bet you're in cahoots with that skunk. You're gonna muscle us out so you only have to split the money from selling that pelt two ways with the skunk instead of three ways with us!"
"I never did like the way you talk down to us." The burly trapper said, and punched the smart-looking trapper.
"You don't getta punch my brother like that!" The tall trapper said, and sure enough, soon all the trappers were fighting with each other and fight spilled out into the street. The hospital room was empty except for John and the skunk.
"Well thank you, stranger!" The Skunk said, seeing he'd been saved from the trappers "You sure save my hide! I don't know how to thank you. I thought I was goner for sure." The skunk hopped down from John's hospital bed and headed to the door, setting out to get back to his business of being skunk that had been interrupted by the trappers.
"Hold on just a second." Miss'ippi John said. He reached into his pants that were folded on a nearby chair and produced a crisp, green note. "Auction isn't over yet. And I bid a dollar. You can just out bid me, and you'll get to keep your pelt, fair and square."
"I'm a skunk! I don't have any money!" The skunk pleaded.
"Well, I guess I only need to pay a dollar for your pelt." Miss'ippi John said, reaching for his Bowie knife.
And so having upheld the intergrity of the journalist profession and his own morals, Miss'ippi John skinned that skunk, and sold its pelt at a nice profit, money he used help disadvantaged black children in 1987 by buying a new game for his Sony Playstation and whining to parents to buy him another porsche.
And folks, that's the story of how John learned a dollar was more than enough enough to pay someone once you'd gotten all you can out of them.
Well, looks like the sun's a-dropping and its getting cooler out, so ya'll best be git on gitting before it gets dark. But come back again another time, there is always a new tale of Miss'ippi John's history - the best ones haven't been made up yet.
sorry that is too long for a austistic stupid tall tale.
SLICE OF GUMBO
