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Crankin' up some memories
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I was drivin’ around town this morning, twistin’ the knob around to different radio stations ’til I got one that was playing something decent.

I cranked up the volume and, in between laughing my big fat beehonkus off, sang along to “When You’re Hot, You’re Hot” by Jerry Reed.

“You can tell it all, down at city hall...!” When ya hot ya when ya not, ya not.

I hadn’t heard that song in a very long time, and I was surprised how well I remembered the lyrics.

“Who’s gonna sign my welfare checks? Pay for my Cadillac? What do mean ‘contempt of court’?”

Right up there with “Gitarzan,” “The Streak,” “My Girl Bill,” “Spiders and Snakes” ... and of course, “Along Came Jones” (the Ray Stevens version) and “Little Egypt.”

I used to play that “Little Egypt” 45 endlessly ’til my mother had enough of the screechy ‘yiii-iii-ing yang.” It was the first time “hip hop” was created, my mother with pink foam rollers in her hair draggin’ the needle back over that record. If she’d done it a couple more times, she’d have been running Def Jam Records. Not bad for a middle aged white woman who couldn’t dance to save her life.

Never mind. I still have the lyrics tucked up in this cauliflower brain of mine.

Anyway, Jerry Reed singing that song this morning got me to thinking of how innocent a crime he’d committed. Shootin’ craps back of the alley. He gets hauled off to the judge, who is an old fishin’ buddy (“Hey ol’ buddy, ol pal ... I’ll pay ya that hundred I owe ya if you get me outta this mess...”) and the friends get rapped with a small fine and poor ol’ Jerry gets 90 days...when you hot ... you hot (and I said thanks a lot!) ... I mean, that is so danged funny.

My, my. How times have changed.

I don’t believe anyone gets 90 days for anything anymore. An innocent little game like shootin’ craps? Piece of cake.

Cookin’ up a pot of meth?

Yeah ... probably 90 days.

Growing a marijuana forest in your living room?

Hmm. Yeah, 90 days. Maybe longer if they catch you with a fresh doobie in your mouth. Dummy. You’re only supposed to grow it — not smoke it!

What about the fools who break into your house or business and get tapped with the goods? Ninety days, and then they’re out — fresh as a daisy.

Hey — why bother going to work for a living? Just commit a crime! You get a little bed and breakfast treatment and nobody looks at you twice as long as you don’t kill anyone. Even then, you might be out on the street in a couple of hours if you find yourself a silver-tongued devil to represent you in court. I don’t think any judge is gonna let you slide on a murder rap just cause y’all been fishin’ together off the Chattahoochee bridge, though.

La la la la la la ... when ya hot, ya hot ....

And then there are those hooligans over in Hooterville shootin’ up the shopping center outside Big Lots. Shootin’ up in some parking lot at an apartment complex. Burglarizing various businesses and stealing whatever will come out of the ground without a lot of force. I mean, just how much will a pawn shop give you for a five-year-old Mr. Coffee machine?

And a call girl ring? Whaddup with that? In Hinesville? Squeaky ol’ Hinesville? Say it ain’t so, Andy.

I read that there were a couple of hoochiemamas hangin’ out at a local no-tell and the cops were on it like flies on stink.

The no-tell owner graciously said he would try to curb the activity going on at his establishment, but at the same time he was probably cursing the loss of business. And steady business, from all accounts. Like a revolving door on that tired little room those young ladies were campin’ out in, and apparently the marijuana farmer had stopped by and dropped off a fresh batch. Oops! Guess they weren’t so hot that night.

Reminds me of an incident that happened two summers ago. Couple of young guys stopped at my house early in the morning asking if they could cut the grass and I said, “What are you, like 25 or something? Why aren’t you working?”

They looked at each other sheepishly and said they’d rather cut lawns.

Yeah. Right. It’s a 120 degrees out here with 98 percent humidity and y’all would rather be cutting grass. To smoke, I’m sure.

I said, “Well, Hubs usually cuts the lawn, but come back later and I’ll let you know.”

I gave them cold drinks and sent them on their way. They did come back the next evening with that rickety old lawn mower and Hubs let them cut, but he made them cut the neighbors grass as well. I supplied them with drinks cause it was Jerry Reed hot outside.

They finished up in the dark, and Hubs paid them, then loaded up their rickety old lawn mower and drove those two fools home.

A week later we saw their mug shots in the newspaper. They were robbing everyone they cut grass for. Except us.
They must’ve known I’d have said the same thing to them ... “You can tell it all, down at city hall!”

La la la la lala ... la la lalala!