Well howdy there, stranger. Pull up a stump by the fire, mind the cat—she’s got opinions and she ain’t afraid to use ’em. Name’s Jimmy. Most folks just call me Crazy Uncle Jimbo and leave it at that. Suits me fine. Folks’ve been slippin’ that “Jimbo” on me since the mullet days—back when it was still legal to own more than three guns without fillin’ out a novel and the CBC hadn’t yet decided every rural fella with a beard was a domestic terror risk. “Crazy Uncle Jimbo” just stuck like pine sap on a flannel shirt. Can’t scrape it off, might as well wear it proud. Truth is, I answer to damn near anything that ain’t “sir” or “hey you in the conspiracy tin-foil hat.” Jimbo, Jimmy, that weird old coot with the woodstove that smokes like a smudge ceremony—long as the coffee’s hot and the conversation’s strange, I’m good. Born the summer Jimi was still walkin’ this plane, back when the sky still felt wide open and the government hadn’t quite figured out how to wire every last one ...
Comments
Post a Comment