Fun With Hillbillies

We can all do without hillbillies. If I could snap my fingers and all the hillbillies would disappear--sorry, it's hard to type with tears of joy in my eyes--your taxes would go down, your property values would soar, and, without hillbilly children dragging down the average, your schools would bask in high test scores.
But, is the hillbilly good for anything?
According to one of my readers, the answer is an emphatic "Yes!"
With his limited intelligence and gullibility, the hillbilly makes an excellent target for practical jokes.
Here's what he did:
He printed up some stupid flyers, proclaiming a "Poke Run." A "poker run," for those of you who are not cursed with the hillbilly menace, is sort of a hillbilly scavenger hunt on ATVs. These morons pay an entry fee (probably earned by drug sales) to race around in their four-wheelers, motorcycles, dirt bikes, and other assorted hillbilly toys looking for playing cards.
Since proceeds from the entry money usually benefit some hillbilly who suffered brain damage from not wearing a helmet while driving a motorcycle, our anti-hillbilly practical joker grabbed a picture of a dillweed hillbilly from the Internet and made up a fake name. For example:
"Poker Run to benefit Johnny Bob Jr. , who suffered a spinal injury jumping off the Railroad bridge."
Something like that.
He then selected a remote location and a time for the fake race.
Since hillbillies are either passed out or hung over on Saturday and can only be roused from their sleep by the promise of disturbing the peace or killing woodland creatures, the reader selected 6 a.m., the ultimate time to intrude on the hillbilly's ugly rest.
He hung the signs in all the hillbilly dens--convenience stores and dirtbag bars--and on utility poles through hillbilly country.
Then, he waited.
He slept in a little, but, after a few extra hours of sleep, he decided to check on the hillbillies.
Driving to the spot, he thought the clear skies and cool, gentle breeze would make it a perfect day for a poker run--too bad it wasn't real.
As he drove passed the spot--an old construction site--his heart fluttered: there, spread across the lunar landscape of dilapidated buildings and rusted equipment was an armada of recreational vehicles, commanded by hundreds of assorted dirtbags and scuzbags, who paced impatiently, plastic cups of beer already in their hand.
For a moment, he felt bad.
So, he called the highway patrol and reported a unruly gathering on private property.
As a citizen, it was the right thing to do.