Let this post serve as notice to the world that I have Hank Williams, Jr. in a safe house at an undetermined location and am holding him for ransom. That's right, people — your
"irreverent, rambunctious, fun, boisterous, rowdy, reckless, exuberant" country rocker has been singing the blues in my custody since last Friday. And he'll stay in his cage until his friends, family, fan clubs, and the good people with ABC's Monday Night Football can muster a sum sufficiently large to warrant his release.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking,
I love you, Phutatorius, but you're full of crap. Hank just played a stock-car and tobacco tribute show tonight in North Carolina. I saw him there. Well, look closer, good reader: that wasn't the Real Hank. That was nothing but a body double — a creation of the plastic surgeons on my staff, sent out into the field to make Hank's public appearances. I do it to remind you what you've been missing this past week, while the Real Hank languishes inside my designer replica of the Hanoi Hilton on a meager diet of kippers and cottage cheese.
Oh, you should hear your great swaggering honky-tonker wail and moan, now that the tide has turned against him. Did you think your streak of good fortune would last forever, Mr. Hank? Bluto! Jackal! Get the hose! What goes up must come down, Williams . . .
So pony up, folks. The more generous the donation, the quicker you will have your beloved American icon restored to you. I am accepting contributions via Paypal or personal check (please make a "for Hank" notation on the Memo line, as your Phutatorius has a number of irons in the fire these days).
