Yielding flesh in his hands, hot with fear, sticky with sweat and blood and already smelling of heaven. Helpless bones his to crack, helpless skin his to rip open, sweet red river his to drink from. He had to do it. He had to know. With his eyes and his hands, with all his body, he had to see.

To be 49 years old now and still be called The Kid, that&#39;s kind of special.

Everything was a test. Or a lesson. Or a punishment from which he was supposed to learn a lesson, on which he would be tested later, and punished if he hadn't learned it.

I used to say that whenever people heard my Southern accent, they always wanted to deduct 100 IQ points.

Written By Jeff Foxworthy

About us

Featured posts

Featured Topics

Quick Links