by Pop Feral in space #68

What the hell happened while I was in prison? More specifically, what the hell was my wife doing with that creepy pervert named Willy? And what is she doing with that nuthatch escapee named Carl? A lot of weird shit's went on here in Tinbox Acres since I got locked up back in '02.

First of all, I heard about that stunt my younger boy Darrell pulled at juvie. The little idiot just had to squiggle under the fence and escape. If he'd just kept his ass right there in low-security pamper camp, he never would have got his ass punked by huge hairy sasquatches in high-security juvie bootcamp. Darrell said some of the bigger ones was nearly as apelike as me.

After I got back to Tinbox Acres, I seen that my family's trailer done melted to the ground. Not only that, but it turns out my old lady hadda shack up with some disgusting fucking pervert named Willy just to have a roof over her head and a bottle in her mouth. That ain't the worst of it. Willy done cheated on poor scrawny little Ma Feral, and now she's shacked up with -- of all things -- some guy who up and escaped from the nuthatch.  I need something for the pounding headache this all done give me.

That ain't even all of it. Not only do I have no place to live, but even if I did have a trailer, I couldn't flush the toilet or shower or nothing anyways. It seems my older boy Arliss done went and tore up the whole fucking sewer by flushing his meth chemicals down his toilet. Goddamn, I'm about ready to go mooch some of old lady Beadle's tranks offa her.

You know, a lot of folks here in the trailer park figure the only reason I pounded that pervert Willy to a pulp is because he fucked my old lady. That was only half of the reason, if I'm gonna be honest with myself. The other reason was because of Beulah.

There's this totally gorgeous woman that moved into the trailer park after I got hauled to prison, in case you all didn't notice. She's curvy, buxom, Rubenesque, all them good things that means lotsa flesh to roll around in. My kinda woman. I mean, Ma Feral's stuck with me over the years and she borne me two -- well, I can't say GREAT -- semi-decent boys and raised 'em both with me. She's a scrappy little gal, a real fighter. I got nothing against her. But she's only like a third my size.

I hafta be blunt here. Jumping Ma Feral's bones has always been a chore, to say the least. She only weighs about as much as a sack of cement mix, and I'm a 6'7", 275-pound pile of muscle and hair.   The top of her head reaches my bellybutton. Back when me and Ma Feral was dating, my brothers used to say, "When you're nose-to-nose, your toes is in it. And when you're toes-to-toes, your nose is in it," and shit like that, joking about our height difference.

It ain't so much the height difference that concerns me as the weight difference. I'm always afraid I'll smoosh the old gal flat one of these days. What if I drink myself unconscious some day and roll over onto Ma Feral and suffocate her and smash her flat as a pancake all at the same time? It ain't easy sleeping on eggshells like that.

I'd give my two front teeth to not have to be all careful like that no more. It'd be great to just grab some chick and fuck her lights out and not have to worry the whole time about cracking her bones or suffocating her or having to scrape her up off the floor with a spatula afterward. Somebody I could leave great big dents in the kitchen counter with, yeah. Someone like Beulah.

I just looked out my front window and seen Beulah headed over to that asshole Willy's place with a huge soup pot, no doubt full to the tippity-top with steaming chicken soup. Maybe she thinks chicken soup heals up severe hematomas and lacerations and massive tissue trauma -- haha -- 'cause that's what I put all over Willy out there in the driveway last week.

You know, my old lady and that nuthatch escapee actually make a cute couple. They look a lot like Jesus and, uh, and, well they look just like Jesus and Jesus' girlfriend if he had one. And Carl don't look like he's capable of cracking any of Ma Feral's little bird bones. That's the important thing, I guess. That, and I can't take my eyes offa Beulah. So Carl the nuthatch escapee gets a pass. He ain't gonna get a ass-whooping from me. He can have Ma Feral with my blessings. I got my sights on bigger game.

I made a deal with Andy the security guy. He wanted to get rid of that huge quintuple-wide trailer-palace in space #68 just because a toilet boiled sewage all over the bathroom floor and half the hallway. He ended up giving it to  me for nothing, just in exchange for me cleaning it up. I admit, it was a hairy job, but it only took a week and I lived through it, and now I got a place to live. I even got a place to shower, now that the sewage lines is all replaced.

Andy is still staying with Maddog, and his old lady is still staying across the street from me in space #61 with all them chicks and the two babies. My younger boy Darrell is staying in the quintuple-wide with me, and Arliss is still up there with Eddie in space #62. Neither one of them little fools better EVER try cooking meth here again. They better take that shit down to the shore of the duckpond and not tear up our sewer lines no more.

I'm gonna go use my newly refurbished shower and get me all cleaned up and put on some nice duds. Beulah ought to be heading down the driveway with a armload of soup shortly. I think I'll intercept that soup pot and that big buxom beauty carrying it.

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