Dunno why this popped into my head today of all days, but my dad was a Tennessee boy when he was young. That was before he moved here, to my home state. He and his five brothers used to like to get drunk a lot.
Well, one night, my dad and his brothers, Wayne, decided to go out to a local bar--off the beaten track, of course--and get drunk. So, they did. During the course of the night, they got into a drunken brawl with some of the patrons of the pub. It was a two against twelve fight. My dad and Uncle Wayne were holding their own, even with the odds being six to one, when the bartender decided to interfere.
He shot at my dad and my uncle with a double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun. Even though they were the ones outnumbered. So, of course, my relatives turned tail.
They went outside the bar, a crochety little thing--held up by four wooden posts about ten feet in the air and overlooking a cliff that emptied into a ravine.
They all got even drunker, raiding the local ABC store. Then, they drove back and stopped in front of the bar where they had been shot at.
I don't know where on earth they got it, but Wayne and my dad had found a chainsaw. Actually, I don't even want to know where they got it.
So, they cranked it up at about one in the morning, after all of the patrons had left, and got to work. They cut off all four posts from under the tavern and ran.
And watched as the bar rolled over the edge of the cliff and tumbled into the ravine.
The funny thing is that the bartender and owner of the bar didn't have any insurance.
Moral: Don't shoot at drunk hillbillies who look like they might keep a grudge. Also, buy yourself some freakin' insurance.
Note: This is a TRUE STORY. Do you honestly think I could make this $#|+ up?
