Oh, the point. Right. Anyhow, I just fired up my bootleg import of AC/DC’s seminal ’75 classic, T.N.T., and I didn’t even make it halfway through “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ‘n’ Roll),” when it struck me — I’ve been misinterpreting that song for more than 30 years.

See, it was always my understanding that it served as a dire warning: if you want to make it to the top, you have to buckle down, work hard, and do what’s expected of you. Don’t rebel, otherwise you’ll spend your life in a Dante-esque inferno of menial labor, abject poverty and venereal disease. But now I realize they were just singing about how difficult it is for a rock ‘n’ roll band to succeed. I’m sure that you can imagine my embarrassment.

Still, all’s well that ends well. After all, I might not be the disgustingly wealthy man I am today if I hadn’t misunderstood the intent behind Bon Scott’s lyrics. And with that, it’s time for more whiskey. Good night.

Thing is, I’m willing to give our nation’s icons a lot of leeway. Take my good friend Hank Williams Jr., for example. Am I bothered by the fact that he’s accused of choking a waitress at a fleabag motel in Memphis? Of course not. I’ve done far “worse” myself. That said, I take a hard line when it comes to illegal drugs… a line that Willie flew right over the moment he allowed the Devil’s Weed to enter his body.

Which begs the question: Why, Willie? Why? With so many perfectly legal drugs to choose from — alcohol, tobacco, diet pills, Robitussin, my personal favorite OxyContin, etc. — why stoop to the level of a common street junkie to get your fix? Why ruin your legacy like that? Can you tell me? Or is your pot-soaked brain so addled that you long ago forgot what led you down this low-rent path to begin with?

I suppose we’ll never know. I’ll tell you one thing, though — not a chance in hell am I ever putting his so-called “BioWillie” fuel in my Hummer. Stuff’s probably pure hemp oil!

“Carver residence,” I said. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Oz?”

“Maybe. Who’s this?”

“It’s me, ol’ Randall Hank — Bocephus!”

“Hank? Well dip me in molasses and, uh, yeah. Let’s not go there. But look, how the hell are you, old son?”

“Not too good man. That crazy bitch’s lawsuit is moving ahead — it’s going to the grand jury!”

Hank was referring, of course, to some hillbilly waitress’ ridiculous claim that he’d cursed her out and choked her at a two-bit hotel in Memphis. As if the man who wrote “All My Rowdy Friends Are Coming Over Tonight” has to choke perfect strangers when he can hire world-class call girls to meet such needs.

“Grand jury? Preposterous. Do they have any evidence?”

“Naw man, just her word against mine. I mean, she had some red marks and bruising on her face…”

“Bruising?”

“Yeah man, from where I… I mean, from where she says I choked her.”

“Well, did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Choke her?”

“Hey man, this line might be tapped! I ain’t saying nothing that could put ol’ Hank in the big house!”

“Alright, I got you. Say no more. But tell me one thing.”

“What’s that, man?”

“Why’d you call?”

“Oh, that. Yeah man, I was wondering if ol’ Hank could borrow a couple of your high-powered lawyers — I’m gonna need them!”

“Of course, old friend, of course. I’ll put them on the next plane to Memphis.”

“Thanks man! Ol’ Hank owes you one!”

“Nonsense. Any debt you might have owed me was erased the day you put ‘A Country Boy Can Survive’ to vinyl.”

“Ain’t that the truth! Alright Oz, I’ll catch you later!”

Good old Hank. Dumb as a rock, but there’s no finer drinking partner to be found on Earth. God bless him.

“I’m gonna kill you, you fat honky bastard!”

This was the driver in the car to my right. At least, I think that’s what he said. It was a little hard to tell, as the windows on my Hummer were rolled up, both the AC and the AC/DC were at full blast, and we were doing 80 down the highway. Plus, he was waving a gun at me.

So I slammed on my brakes. And just in the nick of time, as it turned out. The madman fired wildly, putting six beer can-sized holes through a Cutlass Supreme in the lane to my left. Unfortunately, the old lady behind the wheel was killed instantly. Don’t expect me to feel too bad though. She was 87, which meant she’d already been soaking up social security for damn near a quarter-century.

The good news is, that guy’s going away for a long time. And to think it all started ’cause I flicked him off for driving too slow. What did he expect? If you don’t want the bird, don’t drive like an asshole.

I wasn’t sure how much memory I’d need, so I went for broke with the 60 gigabyte “Black Beauty” with video capabilities. Imagine my surprise when the 125 songs or so that I listen to barely made a dent. Oh well. Guess this means I’ll be walking around with a lot of porn videos in my pocket. You have been warned.

Think his story begins and ends with Smokey and the Bandit‘s “East Bound and Down?” Then allow me to direct you to such eternal classics as “Amos Moses,” “Guitar Man,” “When You’re Hot, You’re Hot,” “Another Puff,” and my personal favorite, “Uptown Poker Club” — not to mention countless others.

Bottom line is, if you don’t have any Jerry Reed in your music collection, odds are you’re an idiot.

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P.S. I can’t take credit for this post’s headline; it’s lifted from former punk-country rocker/current Sirius “Outlaw Country” DJ Mojo Nixon. None of which diminishes the veracity of the statement.