I was never a fan of Jerry Reed's country crooning. Even before he murdered my sister, and got away with it, I hated him.
That muggy stare on each of his albums, like some kind of phony baloney trying to swoon the women with a face only his father could love.
When I get out of here--and I come up for consideration again in six months, according to the notches on my bedpost--I'm going to exact some revenge, and that's just between you and I, you hear.
Johnson,…
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