I live in a weird neighborhood made up mostly of people who are not from around here and southerners who have forgotten they are from around here. For example, their kids have no idea what it means to have manners. They would rather die than say "Yes ma'am," "No ma'am,"or "Thank you, sir." No, that's not right. They don't use manners because they haven't been taught them. Indeed, as your mama would say, "They's ain't been raised right."
And here's another thing that just chaps my ass. Recently, I began an exercise program which involves walking through the neighborhood. Some of the road has sidewalks, a lot of it doesn't. Drivers around here think there is some kind of sport in seeing just how close they can come to you in their SUVs and Lexuses (Lexi?) and BMWs without actually hitting you as they approach the speed of light. On the other hand, these same people will stop and patiently wait for five minutes while a flock of Canadian geese waddle down and across the street. I don't get it.
Okay, you're asking, how does this relate to food? Well, some time during the last century I lived in north Florida and I had occasion to need the shingles on the roof of my house replaced. I hired a guy, Jerry Wayne, to do the job. He was from a very rural area called Madison and he was salt of the earth, poor as a church mouse, cracker. He had some of his teeth, more tattoos than skin and a fine looking mullet hairdo. He was long and lanky, wore a plaid shirt with the sleeves ripped off, with washed out, hole riddled Levi's long before they became a fashion statement. He made Joe Dirt look suave and debonair. One day, while Jerry Wayne was on the roof in triple-digit Florida sun, I was out in the yard lamenting what to do about the fire ants that had overtaken the place. Jerry Wayne saw me and decided to see what I was up to. He lumbered over to where I was swatting and cussing fire ants for all I was worth. "Grits," he said. "Huh? Sum-bitch piss ants!" I said as fifty of the little bastards attacked my left ankle. "Grits. Yep, grits will get rid of them piss ants. Them ants will eat grits and then the grits will swell up in they's bellies and make 'em explode. You know, grits is just little taters, and when them piss ants eat 'em, well you know, they's just gone explode." Well, I'll be a biscuit eating, egg sucking dog, I thought, how do you argue with that?
On the whole, I would rather spend a month with Jerry Wayne than thirty seconds with an East Snobber.
And here's another thing that just chaps my ass. Recently, I began an exercise program which involves walking through the neighborhood. Some of the road has sidewalks, a lot of it doesn't. Drivers around here think there is some kind of sport in seeing just how close they can come to you in their SUVs and Lexuses (Lexi?) and BMWs without actually hitting you as they approach the speed of light. On the other hand, these same people will stop and patiently wait for five minutes while a flock of Canadian geese waddle down and across the street. I don't get it.
Okay, you're asking, how does this relate to food? Well, some time during the last century I lived in north Florida and I had occasion to need the shingles on the roof of my house replaced. I hired a guy, Jerry Wayne, to do the job. He was from a very rural area called Madison and he was salt of the earth, poor as a church mouse, cracker. He had some of his teeth, more tattoos than skin and a fine looking mullet hairdo. He was long and lanky, wore a plaid shirt with the sleeves ripped off, with washed out, hole riddled Levi's long before they became a fashion statement. He made Joe Dirt look suave and debonair. One day, while Jerry Wayne was on the roof in triple-digit Florida sun, I was out in the yard lamenting what to do about the fire ants that had overtaken the place. Jerry Wayne saw me and decided to see what I was up to. He lumbered over to where I was swatting and cussing fire ants for all I was worth. "Grits," he said. "Huh? Sum-bitch piss ants!" I said as fifty of the little bastards attacked my left ankle. "Grits. Yep, grits will get rid of them piss ants. Them ants will eat grits and then the grits will swell up in they's bellies and make 'em explode. You know, grits is just little taters, and when them piss ants eat 'em, well you know, they's just gone explode." Well, I'll be a biscuit eating, egg sucking dog, I thought, how do you argue with that?
On the whole, I would rather spend a month with Jerry Wayne than thirty seconds with an East Snobber.
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1 comment:
That is the funniest thing I read in a long time. I hate them piss ants too.
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