"Why no m'am/sir - not all our country boys are incestuous-drunken-racist-stereotypes. They're just victims of circumstance and relics of a lost culture. They'll treat you right nice and fry up your greens til you arteries will just start a-weeping at the sight of a tomato."
Well, my tune has changed. Right now, it is Taps in the key of bitter. Before last week, if I saw a thick drawl saunter up to me in a pair of wrangler jeans, I'd smile and let you hold that door open for me. But now, my message to any country boy I see is this:
"You better check yourself, before your wreck yourself.. or wreck my boyfriend's car. Again."
Then I would throw something super pretentious in their face (like a foreign criterion film or something) and slowly back away, humming Finnegan's Wake at a death march tempo.
Okay, perhaps I won't follow through with this, as I do admire a redneck's ability to guzzle whiskey and stand on a lawn and holler up at tornadoes, calling them "pissant pantywastes" and what not...
But you are on watch, rednecks. You are on watch.
|The bf's car. RIP, fair Honda.|