Last week, I spent some time with SweaterGal and FlatulenceKing (my parents). It's always a blast from the past to head to Hoosier Land and try to carry on a conversation over the cranked-up-so-Dad-doesn't-have-to-wear-his-hearing-aids soundtrack of RFD-TV:
"Hey, Dad," says I, "don't you kinda think Marty Stuart's hair makes him look more like an 80's rocker wannabe than a country legend?"
"Huh?" grunts FlatulenceKing.
"Marty Stuart's hair...that's pretty wild stuff!"
FK's face screws itself into a question mark as he replies, "Oh, I doubt he even uses snuff, no matter how mild it is. But I'll tell you one thing...he needs a haircut."
I laugh out loud.
"What...you don't think he needs a haircut?"
"Yes, I do," I snicker in reply.
"No I don't...I just cut mine last week."
Now I'm confused: "What?"
"You said I need a haircut, too, and I said I don't because I just got one last week. You wanna borrow my ears?"
"No, that's okay."
"They're right there on the table."
"I said, 'No'."
"Not so...I said, 'No'!"
With a resigned sigh, I answer, "Branson...are you going to go to Branson?"