He calls me drunk from the Tampa, Florida airport. He has drank 26 dollars worth of whiskey since his flight to New York city has been pushed to midnight. He is drinking coffee and feels jacked off jittery. He hates the band he is in. He calls it a No-Wave band. He is a fool standing in bullshit. He is the Florida bluesman. I met him in Atlanta in an abandoned railroad tunnel.

We feverishly discuss Ernst Tubb and George Jones. Of course, the banter includes a statement (hyperbole cliché clutch), “George Jones is the best country music singer of all time.” I disagree, sometimes and I keep devil advocacy to the devil. This Florida blues man wavers upon a self congratulatory thin electrified wire of despondency. Yes, of course old George Jones is one of the best singers of all time of any genre. What about Johnny Paycheck? Johnny Paycheck is always twitching my aortic valve.

Simplification is shit and yes wildly fertile. No one is right. Always be ready to tear someone a new asshole. We are all slop corpse in the radioactive trough.

We talk about Ernst Tubb. Mr. Bluesman is in love with the sounds created by Ernest Tubb’s guitar dick slinger. Personally, I have never thought or reflected upon this. I am told Mr. Tubb’s sideman style was playing single string musical melody lines up and down that greasy fret board. The Florid blues man slurs out romanticized notions (paraphrased) like that man must have been inflected with the madness of soul rabies, been on “drugs,” or must have been some kinda angel.

The Florida blues man sho is damn brother in trouble. I slouch jostle a prayer for him as well as myself. His life refracts a country music song. He was once a drifter who settled in the dirty Atlanta, which is witched and truly an unforgiving city. He had drifted there after making pilgrimages through Mississippi. He washed his dirty salty hands in that dirty Mississippi river. He once got stuck for weeks in a motel in Kentucky, cause this woman lover of his put a mean dupe and wallop upon him. His dick almost got severed in the cunt.

Atlanta burns down every day and works for no one except evil hearted business men and women hooligan hucksters sucking on the tits and modifying mutating genitals personifying the God of suck money suck. Only Ronnie Milsap and Joe South truly weathered the dirty A-town fraught with danger. Rest in peace ole Joe South, whose heart was mortally wounded when his brother, Tommy South, committed suicide.

Florida bluesman left the Atlanta for New York City. He should’ve understood the warnings of Hank Williams Jr., yet we is all frailty upon occasions dwindling and dawdling in tha smoke house meat of life. In New York City, he got duped and walloped by woman after woman. Besides linguistic traits, treacherous trouble awaits southern boys in Yankee land. Fucking a Yankee will absolutely lead to a smashed mason jar full of fetid pickled pigs feet.

One more thang bout the George Jones. Tammy Wynette was already bat shit crazy before Jonesy boy. She was a God damned handsome Holy Ghost fried hair dresser anointed. The Florida Bluesman, by the way, is a catholic atheist mystic. Pony is still the cluck eyed one scratching in the chicken shit. Country music is a brotherhood sisterhood of losers.

The Florida bluesman is learning the evil art of business and is now truly an asshole. We both can’t get drunk enough ever! It don’t matter if it be south or the north.

I don’t spare myself. We’re all a bunch of God damn losers in this life. Winters always happen even in the summer, then winter busts up more good things in the winter. Everything is paraphrased and seems to have flat effect. I know for sure we are all made up. I better call up Keith Whitley on the telephone.