Ken Vickers

Ken Vickers 

Cracklin’ Bread

Bugs Forever
Having been drug to church every Wednesday night, Sunday morning, and again that Sunday night, I am fairly well versed in the Scriptures and know all too well the predictions of the end times and one of those predictions is pestilence. 
No, I am not talking about politicians although they ‘pest’ me sorely at times with some of their idiotic laws and decrees. I am talking about a scourge of truly Biblical proportion, whiteflies on my collards. 
Every year for the last 33 years (Since me and Miss Texas got hitched) I have grown Georgia collards, the kind you let frost fall on so they sweeten up and then crop like we used to crop tobacco. 
They possess an aphrodisiac quality for both myself and my mate. I hate to let that little secret out as it may cause a run on Georgia collards, and it is for this reason that for a man to lose this precious resource is ruination, damnation, and all the other nations I can’t think of right now put together, and the whiteflies were winning in spite of me using every poison now available to man.
I tried dish washing liquid but got it too strong evidently. You know how it goes, if one tablespoon is what is needed, it won’t hurt to put several extra spoonfuls just to make sure you kill the little buggers. I killed the whiteflies alright but I burned my collards to the ground. The old adage ‘throw the baby out with the bath’ water comes to mind.        
Miss Texas gave me the evil eye when she perused the collard patch. “You better get to replanting, Paw, or else it’s looking mighty lonesome for you this winter.”
At this threat from the ‘Keeper of the Flame’, I hurriedly replanted knowing the window of success was closing rapidly as Georgia collards won’t make if planted too late.           
Here came the whiteflies again and I knew that if I did not get rid of them then I would be condemned to a winter of discontent.
Then I remembered the old pack house where all old chemicals are put to die. 
Upon opening the wooden door and stepping into the dark and dank interior, I searched until I found what I was looking for, a rotting pile of paper bags whose contents were slowly running out onto the floor. 
Cotton Dust, vintage 1954!
I know this stuff was banned for general use but desperate times call for desperate measures. I rebagged both of the 50 pound bags and carried a small quantity to the collard patch.
I won’t go into details here but I am no longer worried about being lonesome this winter.
I am somewhat concerned, however, about BFORE complaining to the UN of the decimation of whiteflie numbers in a certain quadrant of South East Georgia.
I am sure you have heard of PETA. Well, now we have Bugs Forever. I gave it the acronym BFORE, as in BFORE our government went completely mad! Ludicrous, you say! The President says it is alright for an older man to go into a little girl’s bathroom. If you want ludicrous, there it is! 
I promised not to say anything bad about the President’s black half and just give whitey the devil, but in the case mentioned above, both halves of Obama won’t make a whole.
           Bugs Forever!
 
See page 4A in the Wednesday, September 21, 2016 edition of The Douglas Enterprise.

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