By Donnie “Sparks” McCutcheon
Pipefitter at DuPont. Part-time reporter. Full-time outraged.
Howdy, y’all. Randy here. Most days I’m weldin’ pipe over at the DuPont plant off Battleground Road, but every now and then the spirit moves me—and I scribble for this here Underground Mirror. Mostly when prices start creepin’ up like fire ants on a watermelon rind.
I ain’t no economist, but I know daylight robbery when I see it. So welcome to The Redneck Market Report—your monthly breakdown of what it costs to be a hardworkin’ Texan with refined tastes in beer, chew, and boots tough enough to kick a coyote clean off a John Deere.
BEER PRICES: AIN’T RIGHT, AIN’T JUST
Swung by Jack’s Gas for my weekend medicine—24-pack of Busch Light—and the tag says $31.99.
Thirty. One. American. Dollars. For beer water in a cardboard coffin.
Y’all, I nearly dropped my pickled eggs.
That’s cuttin’ into my gas and Whataburger combo budget. Back in ’88, you could buy a 24-pack, a bag of ice, and a Hank Jr. cassette for that. And still have change for a Slim Jim and regrets.
I called a buddy in Illinois—same beer? Seventeen bucks. Either they got a magical barley unicorn up there, or Texas is gettin’ hosed like a deer feeder in August.
CHEW PRICES: STOP TAXIN’ MY LIP PILLOW
Let’s talk Copenhagen. My contemplatin’ companion. Used to cost less than a sandwich and gave you more to chew on.
Now? Pushin’ eight bucks a can. At that price, I oughta get dental and a therapist.
One guy at work switched to sunflower seeds and unprocessed rage. Not sure it’s helping.
WORK BOOTS: THE REAL CRISIS
I go through steel-toe boots like my ex-wife goes through alimony. Between rebar, ladders, and two weddings in Galena Park, I wear ’em thin fast.
Stopped by to grab a new pair, just Wolverines, nothin’ fancy. Price? $189.
I asked the clerk if that came with a foot massage and a sloppy wet kiss.
Ended up buyin’ off-brand Walmart ones that smelled like diesel and plastic got married.
WELDER’S HATS: A DYIN’ ART
Used to be you could score a paisley weldin’ cap for six bucks. Now they’re up to eighteen—and melt if you even look at a torch wrong.
Some of the fellas are makin’ ‘em outta old Wranglers. Not OSHA approved, but they’re vintage as hell.
THE BOTTOM LINE: SOMEBODY’S GETTIN’ RICH, AND IT AIN’T ME
Look—I ain’t here to whine. I’ve worked hurricanes, shutdowns, and a cousin’s third wedding with no AC. I know how to stretch a buck.
But it’s gettin’ tighter than Aunt Mae’s jelly jar, and I ain’t the only one feelin’ it.
Maybe it’s tariffs. Maybe it’s greed. Maybe we made the mistake of trusting people in suits who’ve never installed a flange gasket in 110-degree heat.
If this keeps up, I’ll be home-brewin’, home-chewin’, and wearin’ Crocs to the jobsite.
And if that happens, brother, society has failed.
Next Month in The Redneck Market Report
Brisket prices, bait bucket inflation, and why Gatorade now costs more than antifreeze.
Stay frosty, y’all.
— Donnie
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