Ode to the Alabama Redneck (or, Rednecks and Car wrecks)

Look, I try to stand up for you guys. Even with your super majority of backwoods/backwards bible beating bigots, I know that is a slightly unfair generalization, as all of you are not like that. I'm talking to You! You southern country boys with not much to do, I imagine, other than drive your pickups a little fast, do a bit of off-roadin' and call ladies "darlin' "; Should folks ask about your questionable demeanour, I say:
"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.