[AT&T Samsung Galaxy S II Skyrocket SGH-I727] Uncle Irish:
This is your warning... read only if you dare

Ole Roscoe comes home after a long day fertilizing the sheep and hops in the shower to wash the funk off his Johnson. Billy Jo yells out to dear old Roscoe that the vittles are done and to get his ass on the porch for beer and gizzards. His favorite meal. Like a veteran crack whore, Roscoe skedaddles out to that termite and roach infested porch to gorge himself on week old innards and warm Schlitz before he heads off to his part time job. By night, Roscoe wears a secret identity. He’s the hillbilly handjobber.

Vittles and funk beer lining his enormous, gelatinous gut, he gathers his things for a night of excitement. His bag filled with vicks vapo rub, old cracked leather gloves, and a fly swatter, he hits the road. Client list in hand, he makes his first stop at Mayor Billy Bob’s house. Creeping in ever so silently, fly swatter in hand, he enters the mayor’s bedroom. Gloved and vapo rubbed, he’s ready to roll. With a mighty sweep, he blasts ole Billy’s ass with the fly swatter with a splintering crack. No sooner than ole Billy rolled over in total fear that Roscoe pounded that crusty old glove against Billy’s johnson and started cranking like a meth head bugging after way too big a hit. Seconds go by as ole Billy flops around like a flounder on a dock somewhere in a sloppy little town on the bayou. Load be gone. “Ma work here’s done” said Rosco as he yanked down his overalls and lays a huge runny turd on the mayor’s chest. Gone in a flash, ole Billy just lays there with a smile on his face as the essence of vicks and poo fill the air.

One down, one to go, thinks Roscoe in his head. Around the bend lies good old Reverend Willie’s shanty. With cat like stealth, Roscoe slips in and enters yet another unsuspecting jack victim. Already gloved and covered with the mayor’s goop, he raises his mighty fly swatter like a royal knight about to smite the enemy. He comes crashing down with furious vengeance upon the ass of ole Reverend Willie. Grabbing that meat like a vice, he yanks at it like a group of muscle men at a tug of war competition. With a ***** like whimper, the good Reverend lets another sermon of hick snot fly. No sooner did Roscoe cover Willie with his offering of brown funk than the reverend falls asleep with a gentle smile upon his face.

Walking home, Roscoe smiles to himself at another nights work well done. Tired and weary, he crawls in bed and passes out. His head filling with dreams of tomorrow’s sheep and the next eve’s adventures. Dreaming of the day when he can afford new gloves. Dreaming of the day when he gets some female sheep from all his hard work fertilizing. Dreaming of the day when he can get the 3 inch splinter removed from his ass crack. Dreaming of the day when he can move out of this little hick town and into the big city with his shiny new gloves and a supersized bottle of vicks. Dreaming of the day when the Hillbilly Handjobber will finally become the superhero he yearns to be.

Keep dreaming Roscoe, keep dreaming. You’re really just some sick ass, weirdo hillbilly who bangs guy sheep and yanks off the townfolk. Superhero? Try Superqueero.