Swoop, you see this fool ridin’ dirty with one taillight out? Bet money he got warrants longer than your rap sheet.

Man, you been lookin' up my record, mother f*cker?

F*ck you mean, Cris?

Quit playin' with me, fool. Just flip them lights.

F*ckin' white boy.

F*ck is it with you callin' me white all the time?

I'm a nigga, I do what I want.

License and registration. And kill that mariachi music, sounds like the trumpet player is havin’ an asthma attack.

Officer, I-I ain’t do nothin’.

Yeah, and my daddy ain't dead. Step out the car, both of y’all. Hands where I can see ‘em.

(whispers over the cruiser wide-eyed) Swoop, you gotta reason to be pulling them out?

Hell yeah I do. Watch this.

This mother f*cker. Get out of the car, sir.

Hmm. You smell that? That ain’t regular weed. That’s that loud mixed with... Febreeze? Cris Call K-9, this ride rankin', bruh.

(on radio) 2-Lincoln-19, roll Greg and Niner to my location, possible narcotics.

Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to sit down.

Okay. Where at?

On the curb right here. Both of you.

I'm gonna search the whip.

Y'all better hope he don't find nothin'. He's like a bloodhound.

He ain't gonna find nothin'.

Better hope not.

Y’all are lucky, Niner's been bitchin’ all day cuz no action.

Well, we gonna need him, cuz I gotta know what's in that trunk.

Aight. Niner, let's go.

Looky what I found.

Well butter my biscuits. We got us a winner. Niner.

Pop it.

Oh shit—

That ain’t ours! She just— she asked for a ride!

Uhh, Uber Black don’t come with duct tape and a trunk subscription, bro.

Human trafficking and about forty kilos? Y’all done graduated from street thugs to federally fucked. Niner, good boy—here's your reward.

Swoop… good call on the stop, man.

I told you, man. I ain’t no cracker in some uniform. I know my s*it.

Aight, Swoopty-doo.

Y’all I'm out. Sun’s gettin’ low, and I still gotta feed Niner before he goes on strike again.

Greg, Good lookin’.

I know I am.

You know we could call a different K-9 unit, right?

But, then I don't get my bonus.

Yeah, f*ck out of here...

Earth's a dumpster fire, too many assholes and not enough lube. Fuctardia's got loads of pootanium. What's pootanium? The shit that powers your toys, your nukes, your regrets. The catch? It's crawling with big blue fucktards who hump trees for fun.

Yeah, I know what pootanium is. When do we get to go in and blast em?

Blast em? You can't just go around erasing civilizations!

Fuck you, we can do what we want.

Yeah, what he said. Fuck em.

Squad L.F.G., Link AI here. Get ready for landing!

We've successfully landed. Habitation was sacrificed, but fuck it. Who cares?

Ok. We go. We go now. Ooo.

That Avatard suit really makes you that dumb?

Hey, me no dumb... Me conquer!

Sky scum! Trampling our holy habitat with your big red rocket ships—why?

Me no care!

Invaders are not welcome. You will die!

You no fuck with me.

Enough!

Hey, I'm not part of this.

Let me go!

Uck. They touched me. Let's get out of here!

Hell no. Let the games begin... Tommy!

Attack!

He's vulnerable. Get him!

Bleeeh! Oh, gross! Get it off!

Retreat! Retreat!

We sure showed them!

Yeah, we did.

They'll be back.

Welcome, you glorious trainwrecks and backwoods brawlers, to The Hairy Flinger Show—where we primp 'em up like prize hogs at the fair, simp 'em down till they spill their guts, and watch the fur fly when the truth hits harder than a hangover!

I'm Hairy Flinger, the big-haired boss from Jersey who turned trash TV into treasure, baby. Bigger ego, sharper suit, hairier knuckles than any hack hostin' this circus.

Today? We're divin' into homewrecker hell—affairs stickier than sorghum syrup and feuds fiercer than a fox in a henhouse. First up, folks, meet Jeb Harlan, that barrel-chested bruiser from Kentucky with a gut like a beer keg and a scowl that could curdle cream, fresh off haulin' logs and heartbreak.

He's here to confront his twig-skinny ex, Lurlene, all five-foot-nothin' of peroxide rage and leopard-print spite, and the pint-sized poison pill who wrecked it all: Delilah Boone, that bottle-blonde bombshell with hips wider than a double-wide and lips redder than a stop sign. Jeb, you sorry sack—spill it. How'd this firecracker turn your marriage into moonshine memories?

Hairy, it started innocent-like, a family fish fry by the crick. But no—Zeke, my own no-good brother with that weaselly mustache and beer belly hangin' lower than his morals, sneaks off with Delilah here into the boathouse.

I hear 'em goin' at it like cats in a sack, moans echoin' louder than thunder! My blood, stealin' my woman? I'd wring his neck if he weren't hidin' in Mama's basement!

Oh, cry me a river, you lumberin' lump of lard! You with your flannel shirts stained worse than your cheatin' heart—always eyein' waitresses at the diner while I'm home milkin' goats and wonderin' why your idea of romance is a six-pack and a grunt.

Delilah? She's just the spark that showed me you ain't worth the mud on my boots!

Darlin's, spare me the sob story. Jeb here's got arms like tree trunks but a spark in the bedroom dimmer than a flashlight with dead batteries.

Zeke? That sly fox with the wink that could melt butter—he took me fishin' and showed me depths you couldn't plumb with a dredge. Blame the bottle you two swigged, not the babe who brought the heat!

Ha! See that, America? One holler of "Hairy," and the hounds heel like they got muzzles on. Pure magic from yours truly—the king who tames the tantrums.

Jeb, you call that a swing? My grandma's got more haymaker in her knitting needles. Lurlene, honey, that hair-pull? Amateur hour—next time, go for the roots!

Delilah, spill more: Zeke's "fishin' trips"—they end with more than trout on the line, huh? But hold that thought—we're cuttin' to break. Don't touch that dial; next, more matrimonial mud-slingin' that'll make your kinfolk blush!

We're back, you beautiful basket cases, and crankin' the crazy to eleven! Otis McGraw, that lanky scarecrow from Tennessee with a face like chewed leather and legs skinnier than a fence post, moonshinin' his way through misery.

He's fiancéd to Betty Jo McGraw, that fireplug of fury—short, stout as a stump, with a bouffant big enough to hide a squirrel and eyes that spit lightning. And the serpent in this garden? Roxanne Duval, slinkin' in from the next county, all curves like a mountain road and makeup thicker than Otis's mash bill, the vixen who turned his "yes, ma'am" into "yes, mamacita" behind Betty Jo's back.

Otis, you twig of a traitor—how'd Roxanne here rattle your cage and wreck the wedding?

Hairy, it was the 'shine talkin', swear on my still. Betty Jo's my anchor, solid as oak with them freckles dusted like cinnamon on biscuits, but she nags about the fumes while I'm stirrin' the pot.

Roxanne rolls up one night, legs longer than my copper coils and a smile sweeter than corn liquor, whisperin' 'bout "tastin' the proof." One thing to the next, and boom—I'm tangled in her web, not the one I wove with Betty.

Tastin' the proof? I found her lace drawers in your toolbox, Otis—you pencil-necked polecat! Toolbox, for cryin' out loud, like I'm s'posed to torque wrenches while you torque her in the shed!

You with your scrawny arms couldn't lift a jug without strainin', but for her? Suddenly you're Hercules haulin' hay bales!

Aw, sugar, don't get your girdle in a twist. Otis needed a woman with fire in her belly and sway in her step—not a brick wall who bellyaches 'bout the booze.

You two were drier than a dust bowl; I just brought the rain, and honey, did it pour. Blame his wanderin' eye, not my welcome wagon!

Boom—Hairy saves the day again! Say my name, and the storm clouds scatter. Otis, that dodge? Slipperier than your excuses.

Betty Jo, girl, channel that rage into a right hook next time—pow! Roxanne, those legs kickin'? Deadly, doll, but save some for the afterparty.

We're wrappin' this whirlwind—folks, that's The Hairy Flinger Show, where I primp 'em, simp 'em, and slap sense into the senseless. I'm Hairy Flinger, cockier than a rooster on roofies and twice as feisty.

Tune in tomorrow for "My Goat's Got My Baby Daddy's Goat." Get chaotic, stay hairy—peace out, you wild ones!