RIP. Hope he's running over glow in the dark CIA niggers in the sky.
In the tranquil countryside where the skies are clear and crickets sang their lonely songs, a lone pickup truck sits in a field where a father and his young son are lying in the tailgate gazing at the stars. The young son, whose eyes were scanning the countless constellations dotting the blackness of the night, saw a peculiar star moving across the sky in a steady line. He points up at it and asks "Daddy, what's that star? It's moving!"
The father sees the star and says "Well son, that's not a star. That's a satellite."
"A satellite?" the boy asks in wonder.
"That's right. You know that dish on top of our trailer? It gets a signal from that satellite high up and it lets us watch wrasslin' on Monday nights."
With a smirk, the son says "You're wrong Daddy, that ain't no satellite. I know what that is!"
The father smiled knowing that the imagination of a child was a wondrous thing. So he asked "Then why don't you tell me what that is?"
The boy replied "That right there is Terry A. Davis. He's drivin' his magic car through heaven and runnin' over them glow in the dark CIA niggers just like God told him to. That's why that light's movin' like that."
Perplexed, the father sat up and looked down at his son. "And where the fuck did you learn that?"
Instead of answering, the boy kept the grin on his face and said "Rest in peace, Mr. Davis. Rest in peace."
