Mrs. Justice was Jackson’s mama and she got kicked by a horse and fell outta her lawn chair on account of animal force. She was alive, but couldn’t go down to their stock oasis for six weeks, held up in a recliner in front of the TV, just watchin’ car crashians and other peep shows until his father caught whiff of her wafting. He cancelled the satellite and so she had to watch episodes of Housewives she’d already seen. This sort of retrospect kind of made her smell some roses or the wafting that his pappy smelt, because she up and moved to New York, neck brace and all. She realized you can’t do what you want in Openfield, Nebraska, sippin’ coladas and flauntin’ your skim-pippies to farmer Johnson with your son and his retard cousins (sorry Jib Bone) dodgin’ cow pitties and copperheads. Farmer Johnson wasn’t much to talk about anyhow, but she wasn’t either. She found some pro-bono snippy-snapper that would suck out her stomach and put it in her breasts. She’s hookin’ at nursing homes now.
Me, I’m glad she moved up in the world and did it right. Gotta be in your most suited environment–worms in the cow pitties–and a slummish sort of car crashed life in the big town was sort of up her alley. I think she regrets it. A lot of things are up her alley.