Bluegrass bob

The Ballad of Bluegrass Bob (as told by Bluegrass Bob himself) Now let me spin y’all a yarn ‘bout the legend, the myth, the man who once serenaded a wild boar into a slow dance—me, Bluegrass Bob. I was born in the back of a moving El Camino during a Lynyrd Skynyrd guitar solo. My mama was chuggin’ RC Cola, my daddy was wrestlin’ a snake out the carburetor, and I came out slappin’ my knee to the rhythm. First words I ever spoke were, “Turn it up.” By the age of six, I had a mullet down to my ankles and a voice that made raccoons swoon. I didn’t learn to walk—I two-stepped outta the crib. I entered my first talent show with a washboard, a kazoo, and a possum named Larry. We didn’t win, but the crowd started a cult. Now I make my livin’ doin what God intended: singin’, smokin’, and stirrin’ up chaos. I once opened for myself at a county fair ‘cause the real act got scared off by a chicken I trained to scream in G major. I hit the stage wearin’ boots made of snake, belt made of snake, hat made of regret. One time, I was singin’ my hit song “She Took My Heart and My Fishing License” when a full-grown alligator climbed onstage. I didn’t panic—I tossed it a Slim Jim, gave it a tambourine, and now he tours with us as “Reptile Ron.” We even cut a duet: “Swamp Love (Bite Me Gently).” Women love me. Men fear me. Wildlife respects me. I once shot a music video in a tornado because I “liked the lighting.” I don’t need autotune—I just yell at the mic ‘til it submits. My album “Mullet Over: The Deluxe Mud Edition” went triple aluminum in Alabama. I sleep in a hammock strung between two monster trucks. I warm up my vocal cords by hollerin’ at thunder. You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve heard me sing “Whiskey in My Sippy Cup” while doin’ donuts on a lawn mower.