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RIP, George Jones.

April 29, 2013

gj

 

Once, when I had been drunk for several days, [then-wife] Shirley decided she would make it physically impossible for me to buy liquor. I lived about 8 miles from Beaumont and the nearest liquor store. She knew I wouldn’t walk that far to get booze, so she hid the keys to every car we owned and left. But she forgot about the lawn mower.

I can vaguely remember my anger at not being able to find keys to anything that moved and looking longingly out a window at a light that shone over our property. There, gleaming in the glow, was that 10-horsepower rotary engine under a seat. A key glistening in the ignition.

I imagine the top speed for that old mower was five miles per hour. It might have taken an hour and a half or more for me to get to the liquor store, but get there I did.

 

Best story ever.  You can almost smell the whiskey breath.  RIP, George.

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