HAMBO.
My Lord, boy, youse just full of words. Now, in de first place, if this year’s picnic was lak de one y’all had last year … you ain’t had no lemonade for us Baptists to turn down. You had a big ole barrel of rain water wid about a pound of sugar in it and one lemon cut up over de top of it.
LIGE.
Man, you sho kin mold ’em!
WALTER.
Well, I went to de Baptist picnic wid my mouf all set to eat chicken, when lo and behold y’all had chitlings! Do Jesus!
LINDSAY.
Hold on there a minute. There was plenty chicken at dat picnic, which I do know is right.
WALTER.
Only chicken I seen was half a chicken yo’ pastor musta tried to swaller whole cause he was choked stiff as a board when I come long … wid de whole deacon’s board beating him in de back, trying to knock it out his throat.
LIGE.
Say, dat puts me in de mind of a Baptist brother that was crazy ’bout de preachers and de preacher was crazy ’bout feeding his face. So his son got tired of trying to beat dese stump-knockers to de grub on the table, so one day he throwed out some slams ’bout dese preachers. Dat made his old man mad, so he tole his son to git out. He boy ast him “Where must I go, papa?” He says, “Go on to hell I reckon … I don’t keer where you go.”
So de boy left and was gone seven years. He come back one cold, windy night and rapped on de door. “Who dat?” de old man ast him. “It’s me, Jack.” De old man opened de door, so glad to see his son agin, and tole Jack to come in. He did and looked all round de place. Seven or eight preachers was sitting round de fire eatin’ and drinkin’.
“Where you been all dis time, Jack?” de old man ast him.
“I been to hell,” Jack tole him.
“Tell us how it is down there, Jack.”