BTB Would Hammer in the Morning.

So if and The Man is comin’ down on you, well, remember son: if The Man has himself a kneecap and you got a hammer you’re halfway to figuring it out yerself.

BTB Is a Friendly Sort

Son, if you’re startin’ to feel like you’re being played for a sucker, well then chances are you passed that done off-ramp aways-and-some back. Probably gonna take a LOT of unsuckage jess to get yourself back to the county line of Sucktown, population you plus all the other suckers. That’s where friends come in: specifically, friends with tanks, say. Bald Tire Bob, he’s a friendly sort. Here to help, man, here to help.

Success Has Many Roadways

The road to success is dotted with many tempting parking places. ~Author Unknown

Also:

The road to success has no carpool lane. ~Author Unknown

The road to success has many gas stations, but only some of the gas stations sell hot dogs. ~Author Unknown

The road to success has no speed limit, but watch out for the highway patrol, anyway. They can always ticket you for something. ~Author Unknown

The road to success has the occasional crosswalk: thus, pedestrians are obstacles on the road to success. Drive accordingly, and watch out, grandma. ~Author Unknown

The road to success goes by that place, that sells that stuff, that that guy on TV yells about, in that commercial. Yeah, that one. ~Author Unknown

The road to success has no Yield signs, as slowing down for others is for suckers: suck on that, Mr. Failure in the mini-van. ~Author Unknown

Bag, Box, Flute….

A bag is but a box without the fluting. A stick is but a flute without the holes. Foo Fighters are but Jethro Tull without the flute.

Flute = past-tense plural of fly: he flew, they flute.

BTB, He Knows What About What

Bald Tire Bob, he eased himself nice & slow out of hiding, being that he was reasonably sure the Feds had given on up and moved themselves to harassing other Americans who ain’t as much on the ready like Bob: like Bob says, when the black sedans pull up in front of the house is not the time to be figuring yourself out where the flashlight batteries are. Bob, he keeps a generator in the woods disguised like a dead cow, even the flies fall for it.

Heck, sometimes it does a man good to go all off the radar a bit and live low and steady, gives himself a chance to brush up on the slippy skills: for instance, Bob he only paid for his cases of Colt .45 with rolls of nickels, no way the Feds were gonna trace him by the spy strips in their paper money, it’s a fact.

Now, Bob he knows not all Feds are trouble, some are just doin’ their job to pay for the Mrs’ minivan, but if you set yourself up as a hand-puppet of the government you best can’t complain about their fingers all stickin’ up your glove, if you know what about what.

BTB, He Gives Because He Cares

Bald Tire Bob, he likes himself to stay on the good side of the street, spirit-wise. Son, it’s not enough to have enough, you have to give some back. The Man Upstairs, he knows ungrateful when he sees it, and he sees just about everything, except maybe down in Bob’s command post in the compound, it’s lined with lead to keep the Feds guessing. Still, He probably can see in there, too, Bob he doesn’t think the Big Guy could make himself something he couldn’t see himself through, but that’s part of the Big Mystery – you could go yourself crazy trying to think too much about it.

Anyway, The Man Upstairs he knows ungrateful – he made the Belgians, only He knows himself why – so Bob, he likes to give back to the community all upstanding-like. Just last year he gave the College Woman’s Volleyball all new uniforms, with only a modest Bald Tire Bob Automotive logo on the back by the spaghetti straps, tasteful.

Still, you give of yourself and son you find out who the haters are: they say themselves things like “Bob, those are inappropriate” or “Bob, there ain’t no way I’m letting my daughter jump herself up-and-down in that”, the jealous ones always find themselves with something to complain themselves about.

So Bob, he don’t let it get himself down, he’s got a LeBaron so the Man Upstairs, he and Bob are square. Heck, this year Bob he thinks it’s time to help the College Woman’s Swim Team some, keep them aerodynamic or whatever it is when you go through the water real fast.

BTB Knows About Moon Cheese.

So Big Chuck was all talkin’ about maybe selling himself some grass lobster jams and jellies on the eBay, sayin’ how he could make the kind of money that lets a man own shoes ’cause he wants to, not ’cause he has to.

Well, Bald Tire Bob, he asked Big Chuck if he even had himself a computer, and Big Chuck, well he looked like someone asked a dog to done recite Shakespeare.

Bob, he just shook is head. It ain’t enough to have an idea, you gotta have a plan: just ’cause you tie rockets to a monkey don’t mean he’s gonna be able to gather you no moon cheese, son.

BTB Holds the Zen Like a Baby Bird.

Bald Tire Bob, he was watching Matlock and sipping the ‘45, just letting the day slide a bit, and he got to thinkin’ that you can go crazy sometimes, thinkin’ you can control those things you just can’t control — it’s like being in the backseat of a car that ain’t no LeBaron and Big Chuck is driving with his salt all high.
Anyway, Bob, he thought that — even though a man can’t control everything — son, if he can control his temper an’ his bowels then he’s still doin’ fine, things considered.