Mr. Billy the Bug Man and other southern entities
A lot of the time, one good ole southern boy is all you need to fix a problem. And most of the time, you know just who to call, because there’s only one good ole boy for the job.
In my small little town, it’s highly unusual to call someone you don’t know to fix something highly personal, like your air conditioner or your ant infestation.
Now, these men are highly professional. They had 20 years of experience by the age of 16 and could do the job blind-eyed and one-handed, sleeping and drunk.
We have Mr. Billy the Bug Man for all our creepy crawlies, and yes, that’s his full title. I don’t know where he came from, what company he works for or even his last name. I suppose it’s “TheBugMan,” but I’ve never had a chance to ask.
There wasn’t no better thing to happen in the summer as a kid than hearing the doorbell ring, and it was Mr. Billy the Bug Man. He’s at least seven feet tall and was always wearing khakis and a button up, which is strange now looking back on it.
Guys like him come in, do their job quickly with a smile, take only cash or check, and leave as fast as they came.
Take Mr. Pat for example. He fixes our air conditioner when it goes out. Multiple times in a summer.
Again, I don’t know his last name. I’m starting to sense a pattern. He is the greatest air conditioner fixer man because he doesn’t upcharge and does his best to actually fix it instead of replacing the whole unit.
He’s such a good ole country boy that he just pops in the back gate, does what he does, and we pay him later. Nuts at the trust in a guy that doesn’t even have a last name. Like Obama.
Sometimes you don’t even need someone else to fix your stuff. You learn a lot when you don’t want to pay anyone to fix something.
I need to tell you about Jake the Pirate.
Once upon a time, many, many years ago, my brother dropped a Jake the Pirate toy (from Jake and the Neverland Pirates, a cancelled Disney show) and flushed it. This one incident still haunts my family to this day.
The toilet overflowed.
And it has continued to overflow at least twice a year since. It’s standard protocol now. It has turned our family into a well-watered machine. GRAB THE TOWELS. SHUT OFF THE WATER. GRAB THE BOX FAN. CLEAN UP THE WATER BEFORE IT SOAKS KATY’S CARPET!
Yes. My carpet. In my bedroom. Jake the Pirate has cursed me.
We never found him, by the way. He’s still down there, somewhere. Cursing my family.
You’ve gotta understand, we’re not superstitious people. But now, every single time something goes wrong in any of the bathrooms, it’s Jake’s fault.
You have to be careful who you mess with in the south, and there’s no Yelp for good ole boys.
Now this guy, we thought was a good ole boy. Turns out he was an arsonist.
Ok, not really, but he did almost burn our house down.
This guy was a friend of a friend of a guy we knew from church or something. He was supposed to be retiling our bathroom and kitchen and whatnot.
We left this guy alone in our house for like 15 minutes to get lunch. We came back and our whole house smelled like smoke. Turns out, he had accidentally set one of his counter-covering blankets (super professional) on fire because it was on the stove, and he bumped the knob on with his butt or something.
Look, all I know for sure is maybe we should check our sources before letting a guy with no name into our house. Like The Rock.
Southern entities are something else. Good, bad or otherwise, just make sure they aren’t haunted before you hire them. Our toilet needs an exorcist, and that’s my southern truth.
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