Gram Johnson says the following about herself:
I’m a modest Baptist lady an I truly lyke my men. I have senses as ta what’s-what, an you can bank um. My best boyfriend is in prison so my dance card has a few blank spots. I ain’t lookin fer a relatin-ship but I kin show ya a mighty fine time.
Mooner has promised me he’d be sellin my potions here ta his spider web an boogie man. Mooner is always fair when he divvies-out tha money an he’ll give you a fair shake. An he’s got him a right cute little tushie too.
He asked me if it was OK to be sellin my stuff an I said to him, “Who gives a shit Mooner, a sale’s a sale. You jist make damn sure I git my share.”
Mother, that’s Mooner’s mother, is a wimpy little thing an spared too much rod raisin-up my grandson. I’fn I’d a had my way, that boy ud still be goin ta church.
Leave me a message if you’d like to take a ride in my Fer Rarie.
And now a few words from Mooner:
First let me say that I love my Gram and I know that she enriches my life. As the central topic in my thirty years of psycho therapy, I have come to realize her role in twisting my brain into the tangled mess that it is. But she does drive me crazy.
She also drives a 550-horse power bright red Ferrari like it’s a bumper car to the State Fair. I have made enough repairs to that car to build a dozen more, and the costs to keep her on the road would make a decent budget for Wyoming.
Her senses about things are legendary and her psychedelic mushroom potions are more popular than any central Texas moonshine. But a wise word to my male readers- my Gram is a sexual dynamo and you will never be the same if you go out with her.
In summary- love-hate, love-hate, love-hate.