The Yazoo Blues by John Pritchard

Author:John Pritchard [Pritchard, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Yazoo Blues, John Pritchard, Junior Ray, Mississippi, Mississippi Delta life, Yazoo Pass, comedy
ISBN: 9781603061230
Publisher: NewSouth Books
Published: 2008-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

That Sherman was a tough sonavabich. And I kinda like him. Except that he was better educated than me, I believe we woulda hit it off just fine. Plus, except that he’s somewhat thinner, he even looks like me, and he didn’t like them fukkin planters no better’n I do. Of course, unlike me, he didn’t just come right out and call em a bunch of ass’oles, and, too, I realize, from readin’ the letter, that he didn’t much care for my ancestors, neither, or really fukkin much at all, but I can forgive him for that because I happen to agree with him and know that he was right about em. Truth is fukkin truth, and I sure as hell ain’t one to dodge it, unless of course I just have to.

The fact is, if I’da been livin’ back then and been fightin’ for the South, with no shoes on and nothin’ to eat, takin’ orders from some silly sumbich ridin’ a horse while I’da been rollin’ in the gotdam dirt, I’da actually been fightin’ for a buncha coksukkas that hated everything about me and who I come from. Fukkum. I might not have gone over to the Yankees—I wouldna wanted none of them foreign muthafukkas tellin’ me what to do neither—but I’da somehow figured out a way to split the difference. I guaranfukkintee you.

Anyway, me and Voyd done a lot of ridin’ around down at the Pass and along the Coldwater and ever’thin’. Hell, we’d get in Voyd’s big old fart-soaked Ohzmobile—which, as you recall, that worthless nigga Ezell—as well as my friend Run-Low, who was a nigga too and not worthless a bit, up at the City Barber Shop, which ain’t there no more—used to call a Ohzee-Moh. I’ll tell you a little bit about Run-Low at another time. He fell asleep one Sad’dy night with his legs partially over one rail of the train tracks, and that’s how he got his name, cause from then on he had to walk around on his shins with a pair of special Goodyear knee pads. He made his livin’ shinin’ shoes, but he’s dead now. Anyway, one thing I will say about a nigga is that if you give him a fukkin word, that sumbich will improve it.

I have often thought that, in a way, down here, they really had a separate language. Way back, when out of twenty thousand people in the town and county combined, only two thousand was more or less white, a buncha Scotchmen came through St. Leo on a visit, and Sheriff Holston had me show em around. It was a Saturday, and I took em downtown, if you could call it that, and them Scotchmen was busy takin’ notes and whippin’ out recording devices, sayin’ they was fascinated with what appeared to them to be an entirely different language from any they had ever come across. And I said, “Shoot, it’s just plain ol’ English,” and them sumbiches looked at me like I was outta my fukkin mind.

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