That's right. "JIMINY CRICKET!" You'll hear as you look across the lawn and maybe see me fall beneath the citrus tree and into a foul pie of dog manure. "JIMINY CRICKET!" I declare as I catch my leg in the rusty blades of the power mower or get my head caught for a while under that-there new garage door. "JIMINY CRICKET!" I shout at Pastor Dickens, whenever I hear him use the Lord's Name. Even when my wife slams my cock in the Chrysler door -though it may smart like a motherfucker- you'll get no cursing from me, you bitch! Some folks go to a therapist when they find themselves in a real hootenanny-gone-AWOL. But me? I says Jiminy Cricket. Yes sir.

You may not believe me. You may be thinkin' to yourself, "Gee, I bet there's something that'll get old Grandpa's spurs a-jinglin'." Well let me tell you now that you couldn't be more wrong even if you was tied up tight in a burlap sack, pounded thoroughly with a fine ham and set adrift downstream.

You know something? Come to think of it, I hear suckers fronting all the way down to SoCal. And ain't none of them the wiser for choking down a few 40s of "Olde E," and then belting out all those curse words, like they were singing our National Anthem. It's not like there's a scarcity of harsh words or something; you'd think they were trying to use them up like there wasn't gonna be a tomorrow. Don't they know anything? No they don't. All they need is a little help from Jiminy. They would do good to spread themselves a little thinner, if you ask me, instead of getting so bunched up like grandma's panties on a particularly humid hour in rural Florida. Or my socks after the dog sucked on'em for a while. But no sir, they lose and I win. I'm a winner. Me and J.C. You bet.