Things are bangin’ here in Hillbillyland. (I’ve never used “bangin’” in a sentence before, but I’m feeling pretty good about my usage and punctuation. Bangin’ is the new busy, I think. I’ll ask Mom. She knows everything.)

Hi, I’m John. I’m the hillbilly correspondent for this venture. I live on a farm in the foothills of the Appalachians and most of my social life is conducted on the internet, which connects us all, amen. (I will not affix the phrase “which connects us all, amen” to the word “internet” every time I use it, but I would encourage you to speak this phrase out loud whenever you happen to read, write, think or say the word “internet.” I will be making annoying parenthetical asides until the cows come home. The cows have been gone for about thirty years, so I wouldn’t hold my breath.)

What is B2L2? Well, B2L2 is a baby. If we’re walking, it’s the way babies walk. We are entirely likely to crash into something, or just fall over.

I like to think of B2L2 as a place where nice people bask in the golden light of information exchange. People who pretend to be nice are welcome, too.

I really don’t care if you’re nice or not. But I can tell you this, Ringo. We are all trying hard to be nice. Like Jules at the end of Pulp Fiction.

The civility bar is high. It’s way up there. This is our quixotic stand against, well, pretty much the rest of the internet. (Say it now. Do it.)

Right now we are a large head on a tiny body, prone to deranged, gasp-provoking attempts at locomotion. Sure, sometimes we go face-first into the coffee table. Babies are proven suspense generators.

Anything could happen. It’s free. Get over it.

The most famous dog on the internet (aren’t you forgetting something?) named Bob Johnson has a new media nickname!

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you … BoJo!

Special thanks to Traci in Hattiesburg, Miss., for sending that along. I was getting tired of typing “Bob Johnson” every time I reference the mutt.

I tried to explain to BoJo what a big deal it is to have a media nickname, but he was under the house, deconstructing the plumbing. (The plumbing was repaired by real plumbers for a reasonable charge, with only a minimal interruption of service. It was quite fantastic.)

If I had any real ambition, I’d be selling BoJo t-shirts, hats and mugs, tipping off the paparazzi. “Hello, TMZ? I just thought you’d like to know BoJo is playing with the bookworm toy. Uh-huh. The green one that squeaks.”

But I’m just a man of the soil. A simple farmer. My wants are few, and it’s a good thing, too. Because it’s summertime in Alabama and everything is growing like crazy. It’s like watching a time-lapse movie all the time.

I do not have time to pimp BoJo to Hollywood. The BoJo app and BoJo 3D will have to wait.

Today, for example, there was the lawn. The lawn is the size of a car dealership. Unlike a car dealership, the lawn has few level areas and it’s booby-trapped with tree roots, BoJo holes, rocks and other lawnmower killers.

In the seven days since I last cut the lawn there had obviously been some kind of growth riot. In movies, this is usually caused by atomic radiation.

There is something sinister about the lawn and its ferocious new attitude. The last thing I need is an atomic lawn. But BoJo is the same size as always, so I guess it’s not radiation.

While I cut the grass I listened to bad FM radio. Because Journey always sounds better over the roar of a Briggs & Stratton engine.

I listened to several songs I decided I never, ever need to hear again.

The intro to a Tina Turner song fooled me into thinking it was Def Leppard. I made a mental note to investigate.

(As I suspected, both worked with producer Mutt Lange. Lange produced the second-best selling album of all time in the U.S., AC/DC’s Back in Black. The best selling album of all time everywhere in the known universe is Michael Jackson’s Thriller, produced by Quincy Jones. Experts agree that, in a world where all songs are instantly downloaded for 99 cents, these rankings will likely stand forever.)

Oh yeah, life goes on. Long after the thrill of living is gone.

I looked over at BoJo, who grinned and nodded from the shade.

John Hicks is working for the weekend.

About the Author

John Hicks

Havin' a wild weekend.

John Hicks lives outside the city limits, where eagles dare.

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