It's like Mayberry, but with meth.

Lou Lou grew up in East Texas, on the edge of a swamp on one side and the freeway on the other. She married Mr. Poodle Dawg, a tall drink of water from the middle of nowhere in the piney woods of Louisiana. They raised DB on the family timber farm, which is a lot less work than it sounds like. Between DB and Lou Lou, you've got over a hundred years' worth of...well, something.

Take funerals. When talking to somebody who's just come back from one, the first question you ask is, "Was it a good one?" That's shorthand for, "Did anybody make a scene? Did the ex show up? Did Maybelle drape herself over the casket like she does every time?" In other words, did they have fun and did they come back with a good story to tell? THAT'S a "good one."

In a town that doesn't even have a stoplight, you've got to make your own fun. And we have, for at least four generations.

You'll hear the true stories behind Bowel Checkers Anonymous and "My momma's the reason my girlfriend got pregnant." Where the Happy Bucket is and why we buy stickers on every trip.

But not just our own stories. We're passing on stories of or from Uncle Screw, Momma Lou, Nanny Dee, MG and Stephen Lee, Morris the Cat, Saint Rose, Forrest the timber farmer, Harold Wayne, Nanny RoRo, Jovan, Bro. Jimmy, Annie Mae, Alleycat, and Nicky Boy.

No preaching. No life hacks. No commercial value. Probably not even worth your time.

Unless you enjoy hearing about crazy.

Because as Pinterest once said, "In the South, we don't hide our crazy. We stick it on the front porch in a rocking chair and put a glass of sweet tea in its hand."

Welcome to the front porch of Mayberry. With a little meth.