Don't Text On Me
The Mailrider is driving his big rig up in Connecticut right now and has nothing better to do (since he works for the Post Office) than text me every five minutes. "How're the Rebels? Where you going to hunt? Are the fields ready? When yo going to camp? Where you going to hunt?
Hey! I'm working over here, trying to earn a living.
I'm not telling him jack-squat. Every time I do, he begs to hunt there and then shoots a big ten-point.
I text back an old line from the 70's "SUFFER"