Unrepentant Chevy Nova weaponizer and veteran of some ouchy hazing at South Carolina’s Backwoods Bellhop Academy*, Mr. Kyle Puryear, has collided with a telephone pole on Depot street again, lurched out of the passenger side door, fallen down, vomited down his shirt, passed out, woke up agin and started to ramble about the visions a .13 blood alcohol level can produce in a boy what won’t grow the fuck up.

$213,629.00 is the amount of tax dollars lost when the county sued the City of Roxboro over the recreation center to be located at Huck Sansbury Park, along with design fees, all of which I voted against.

Course I voted against it cause people what votes for me don’t want to swim with nigras. Next thing you know there’d be fornications and miscegenations dilutung the fine bloodlines of Person County what produced specimens like me and Leigh Woodall. There’s only one genetic pool to swim in, folks, and she’s your cousin.

That may seem like a drop in the bucket to some officials, but to me it sounds more like Niagara Falls.

P.J. Gentry phoned me this joke on my i-pad and I thought it had to be funny cause it had the N-word in it but I must have been shitfaced or having the dyspepsica without my glasses.

$213,629.00 was truly wasted and our county government has nothing to show for it.

ED. Like those “convenience sites” Kyle ran on, or his promised opposition to the landfill, or his emails which can’t be accessed under the NC public information act because his skank crooked ass has deleted them. The editor’s request for Puryear’s emails was answered with a demand that I provide drunken shitsack Kyle Puryear my email address. This is opening the door to an identity theft grift, as well as being in direct contravention to NC law.  Ahem:

Anyone can request public records and no statement of purpose is required. There are no restrictions placed on the use of records and there is no time limit for a response. Section § 132-6 of the North Carolina Public Records Lawstates that a custodian of public records shall make them available “at reasonable times and under reasonable supervision by any person, and shall, as promptly as possible, furnish copies thereof upon payment of any fees as may be prescribed by law.”

This is just one of many examples that would have been buried deep in the black hole of closed session minutes, never to see the light of day, If I had not been persistent in making the public aware of the financial loss.

ED.Is that the same black hole you’ve had the District Attorney, your attorney, and your party try and sweep your multiple DWI arrests into? Cause it’s blacker than a recreation center swimming pool!

Over the last 8 years, I have opposed wasteful county spending, after all these are your tax dollars and should be treated as such. I ask for your support on Nov. 4th so I can continue to keep watch over your tax dollars.

After I knock back a couple them little pitchers of Coors’ at Dalton’s sports bar with my good friend, shiftless Larry “Swamp Tater” Yarborough. Thankee.

*The Citadel.  HaHa.

Kyle Puryear. Urrrp.

Not to be outdone by his racist drinking buddy, Larry Yarborough wrings the liquor out of his button down shirt, crawls up on the bar, stands up, pitches off the bar, hits his head on the terrazzo floor, gets back up, rolls his eyes into the back of his head and farts this stream of gibberish:

How can Ray Jeffers represent the “working people” if he doesn’t have a job?

ED.The quotation marks are a nice touch, Larry. Are those scare quotes, or is that just Louisianish for Blacks?

What has he done over the last 5 years except be a politician?

ED.He’s President of the North Carolina Association of County Commissioners, and the Chairman of the National Association of Counties’ Rural Action Caucus. You’ve been nothing but an attempted politician the entire time I’ve had to look at your bloated face in the Courier-Times. Ray’s also been busy putting a boot in your ass at every election, partly because you are an equal opportunity asshole when it comes to alienating voters of every political stripe.

Larry Yarborough has been growing business and creating Jobs.

ED. Being bought out of your wife’s business because, as the purchaser noted “Either that schmuck goes or I do” is only growing jobs in the sense that you, Larry “Swamp Tater” Yarborough, took the money and headed over to Dalton’s Sports Bar to pour liquor down your shirt:

By the time they’re thirty or so, most drunks will recognize they’re not going anywhere much besides the ass-end of obscurity, particularly if they have no discernible talent or ability to fend for themselves outside the nucleus of some dog pack or other-a frat, a community of skank brokers looking for a patsy to front them, or even a bunch of toothless, white robed losers looking to spill some blood.

You got as far as you were going to get. You did it through marriage, and you did it through an overgenerous portion of luck and the apparent desperation of your party. And the people of this county voted you out.

That’s why your party’s purse strings are so tight when it comes to you. Even at a time when they’re flush with cash and flooding this state with it to get some of their white hoods up to DC to drool on the House and Senate floors. They’re cutting you out, Larry.

That’s why you started styling yourself as a white power candidate so early, playing that hand your party usually saves for the last few days of October. That’s why the flyers you sent out last week are nothing but shit paper in more ways than will ever elicit your dim comprehension.

I understand the Jaycees want to host a debate between you and Mr. Jeffers- a debate hosted by your friends and erstwhile political allies, on the friendliest ground- friendlier even than a shitfaced dance party at a Hyco lake Crayfish boil.

And they’ll have to scrape your ass off the floor because there isn’t enough meth, or valium, or bourbon or whatever it is you were hopped up on at the last forum to help you get through this impending ass-beating.

PJ Gentry will not be able to text you answers in real time to overcome your memory deficiencies, and Kyle Puryear won’t be able to appear on stage with you to make you look a shade smarter or more sober by comparison. Ray’s going to tear you a new asshole and you know it. Your party knows it.

The Democrats are already shopping for the popcorn.

Ja jah Larry Yarborough
With his spilly drank
Say:”Ima dance in the Raleigh
where my shit don’t stank”


Ima dance at the parties
and the legislature
Nobody nowhere will denature my nature.


I will let my mind wander
to the break of day
till they scrape my butt up
and cart me away


Back home PJ Gentry
in her leopard pants
will be frosting her tips
for her cooga dance.


Eena leopard print Babylon

Eena leopard print Babylon

By the lake Hyco.

In a Moebius strip of Republican mole rat arse chewing, Larry “Swamp Tater” Yarborough has had “The Committee To Elect Larry Yarborough” fund his latest jello wrestling match with the English language right there on page A9 of the Courier Times.

I don’t know about you, but when I hear “The Committee To Elect Larry Yarborough” I get a mental image of

a) The guys in the psych ward playing matchstick poker for cigarettes.
b) Larry Yarborough.

Once again, Larry’s selected target is the NAACP, or the president of its county chapter. This is consistent with the “post racialist” racism that knits together various elements of the current Republican party, those elements being the folks who pretty much own everything, and the people delusional enough to think they’ll be able to suck their own fortune out of that rich ass.

It’s frequently said of Larry that he must negotiate the thin line between ignorance and arrogance, and it’s a tough one to walk after half a dozen Coors. It gets even tougher for him when he’s got to nail a couple of sentences together, which is probably why he seemingly hearkens back to his fratboy days every time he’s compelled to make an utterance. Well, let’s see what he’s got, now that the “Committee to Elect Larry Yarborough” has slapped his torpid shagging corpus with the oar from a gator boat, or whatever the frats use down there in skeeter country.

While Mr. Lester’s editorial on Wednesday was mostly full of distorted Democratic talking points, he did bring up some issues that we need to work on together.

While Mr. Lester is black, and represents the interests of black people, the working poor, and people who have not inherited their money or married it, I will condescend to him in epic Tory fashion, because I am the product of a couple of centuries of inbreeding from the dank hell of Lousiana’s gulf coast, and I can not help my peckerwood self.

Public safety is the most important government role.

That bullshit about”protecting the weak from the strong” would never have flown during pledge week. I still have the cigarette burns on my ass to prove it.

I will work with both sides to support our sheriffs, deputies and police officers. I want to support and improve our courts. I believe we can work together to improve our schools.

I will support a jurisprudence system that incarcerates young black males for the same offences me and my sons and grandsons and Kyle Puryear will skate on forever and ever, amen. I will also do my Louisiana best to deny equal access to education to low income and black children

I wish that there was money available to do all that he wishes for but until the economy improves significantly we will just have to work hard with what we have.

We have done give all the money to the people what fucked up the economy, and we want a chance to give them some more of what little you have left. Because the economy works so much better when you shovel every dime to people who have never, and will never, have to spend a significant portion of that money to hire some hick flunky like me to whore for them.

That is just common sense.

The sense common to every aspiring crooked bastard who is virtually choking on his own arrogance.

That is why I am running to represent you in Raleigh.

That, and the abundant liquor that flows when the lobbyists show up for the big circle jerks.

Larry “Swamp Tater” Yarborough.
Paid for by the Committee to elect Larry Yarborough and the money left over from the Hyco Lake FREE GEORGE ZIMMERMAN fireworks, shag-a-thon and pig-pickin’.

We done got us a headquarters before the Republicans around here could wash the dookie out their morning shorts.

It’s a big ol’ thang what used to be a hair salon and tattoo parlor and when people come in they sit down and talk like it was the most natural electric blue walled place you would sit and talk about the drunks on the other side careening into political obscurity.

I’m not denying we have our drunks. I’m one of our drunks. It gives my life a particular shape. But I’m a social drunk, who believes that climbing into the driver’s seat of a car while drunk is a crime.

I would like the Democrats to have a permanent headquarters in Roxboro, but as it stands, we can’t really afford one. It would be nice to have a place where we could present slideshows on the history of the labor movement in a place you didn’t have to rent, or a place where people could sign up to get their kid’s teeth fixed.

I dream.

The Republicans in this town closed ranks and denied us our first couple of picks for headquarters. The names and the motives bubbled up as they’re wont to do in a little town slightly beyond the reach of liberal prosperity and its concomitant symptoms of good food, music and fun. It was no surprise to those of us who’ve had to look into the dull eyes of Leigh Woodall at an early voting location, asking us where we’re from, who’s paying us, who’s giving us the endless salad bar at some place other than Dave Newell’s failed country club.

But nobody’s paying us anything except us. We get money for work sometimes. I know it’s a fucking miracle, but if you shift your ass you can shake some dollars out of the people who are naturally inclined to strangle you, and you can funnel those same dollars into defeating the people who seem to be committed, heart and soul, to restricting the flow of cash to a bunch of fuckers whose children spend their days driving speedboats into immovable objects under the supervision of the Duke University Athletics Department.

Let me just say that I, personally, have looked into the eyes of Leigh Woodall. It was in the 2008 election, and it was finally dawning on Republicans that they’d fucked their last dog for a while.

Leigh must have started to equate the stream of black voters coming to the Person County Library to cast their vote with the demons who have been haunting his brain since the implementation of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. He walked up to me and gave me his best rendition of an old white guy trying to be frightening-

Where ya from, boy?

He needed work. A few more improv classes, a little less Sansabelt.

A soul would have helped.

In a way, it’s too bad many of these people will be dead within this decade. Oral histories will suffer the greatest loss.

One day, children will ask me “What was it like to grow up among so much stupid, so much hatred?” And I will be forced to disappoint them, saying “God is all in the forgetting, darling. May we all be forgotten.”

Between October 1966 and June 1969, 246,000 soldiers were recruited through Project 100,000, of which 41% were black, while blacks only made up about 11% of the population of the US.[56] Of the 27 million draft-age men between 1964 and 1973, 40% were drafted into military service, and only 10% were actually sent to Vietnam. This group was made up almost entirely of either work-class or rural youth. College students who did not avoid the draft were generally sent to non-combat and service roles or made officers, while high school drop-outs and the working class were sent into combat roles. Blacks often made up a disproportionate 25% or more of combat units, while constituting only 12% of the military.[54][58] (Wiki)

The chickens are older than us, and wiser to nature. But they’re also stupid. My dear friend Skinnerbox has gone to feed the Foxes.
I will miss her because when I was drunk or hungover and I stretched myself out on a blanket in the garden while my wife dug potatoes, Skinnerbox would visit me and ask me to comb the mites from her wattles.
I can’t describe the phenomenon of an intelligent chicken to a layman.
She was both aggressive and loving, in a sort of sine wave pattern you had to watch for, or she’d make you bleed.

When I was recovering from an arm injury, she’d jump in my lap and straddle that injured arm. ( It was warm. Still, you need a chicken.)

She likely went to feed the same fox that ate her mother lo these many years ago, or one of that fox’s kits.

I have been watching our most recently donated pet push his weight in grass ahead of him today, and it’s all thanks to my fucking “humanity”. I had a fond hope we were done with pigs, but this world offers only oddly familiar surprises, and if you have had pigs, it seems your ass must only suffer more.

It is because god is committed to fuck with his spawn we must contend with hogs and their enablers. You pork eaters started this shit and I blame you. If you’re going to eat these fuckers you really need to be more ravenous. Hike up your britches and comb the woods. Clear the American wilderness of these interlopers.

I’ll give you one reason to stop the proliferation of these creatures. It has nothing to do with me being a vegetarian who thinks the whole of humanity is a lost cause- one who would torch the lot, including vegetarians. It’s because when you are alone and enfeebled in he dark and cold of a Mid-Atlantic evening, they will rove from their home base and make you the template for their meal of something and goddamn acorns.

Ask some pathetic fucker from the Civil War who found himself wounded and being eaten by hogs at nightfall. He would ask you why he was fighting Yankees instead of hogs. He would look into the eyes of God as some feral hogs dragged his guts across the field at Shiloh and say “You’re in it for the pigs, you bastard!”

He’s almost there. Not cutting yet.


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