The recent haints in the turnip patches, rumored to be poultrygeist chickens, zombified. Possessed with a fetish for mooning late-night diners at the A&W. Frightening the bejesus out of local crawdads eaters. It just so happen, that last night, Jimmy Swaggart was there, putting the make on a bowl of grits.
  
I am the local sheriff, and I take pride in enforcing this town's ordinances. I gave Swaggart a ticket for parking in a spot reserved for Conway Twitty. He threatened to have me excommunicated from the massage parlor where my mom dabbles with her fingers as if Jerry Lee Lewis. "He is now doin' a whole lot of shakin' for Mr. Big. up yonder."          
   
They ain't vampires. so don't get all rambunctious and tear down a wood shed for stakes. Granny tried it and she is in the outhouse now. They give honest corpses a bad reputation. Especially granny who just backed up the septic tank, screaming, "Lawd hav' mercy! I reckon."    
   
The local posse comitatus, is now stationed at the local tattoo and used Harley Davidson shop. I heard all about it while getting a tattoo of Gomer Pyle. Some idiots claimed they were mummified, but mum id soaking in the manure.