Rocky Top

A farmer and a corn thief sit across from each other in the former’s backwoods cabin. The thief speaks first.

“Here’s the thing. I’m fucking crazy and you know that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure as shit. Sure enough to wrap these hand cuffs around your neck and choke slam your ass to the ground.”

“You ever sing Rocky Top?”

“Know the lyrics by heart.”

“So if I held a gun to your head you’d be able to sing it without fucking up.”

“Sure as I know that one plus one equals two.”


The farmer pulls out a sawed off shotgun from his back pocket and touches it to the  thief’s head.

“So what’s one plus one equal?”


“M’k. Now finish the lyric – wish that I was on…”


“C’mon now you don’t wanna make it that easy on me.”

“O-ole Rocky Top d-down in the T-t-”

“T-t-Tallahassee? Quit stammering.”

“T-Tennessee hills.”

“And where do all the folks get their corn from?”

“‘Sc-‘scuse me?”

“Do they get it from here?”

“What? I guess you’re the biggest farmer in Tenn-”


The farmer leans down and whispers:

Rocky Top.”

He pulls the trigger on the gun and blood, brains and bits of skull fragment all over the room.

“Once there was a farmer on Ol’ Rocky Top. Killed a corn thief there.

The thief’s corpse reanimates and sits up:

Now he’ll eat corn in the jail before he heads to the executioner’s chair.”

The corpse goes limp again as the farmer drops the gun.

“Ah shit.”