The American Southerner is Fair Game
As an Atlanta native with ancestors dating to 1709 Virginia, I confess, I am a Southerner.
But hear this: I want to join the fun.
“To whit: I now renounce the South, my family and heritage. I acknowledge our all-encompassing wretchedness, and will reinforcing the few, yet crucial, sub-categories of our worthless existence.
Stereotyping – nay – vilifying white Southerners is not just acceptable, it’ a moral imperative. With revisionist history and movies leading the call to action, it is every American’s duty to root out this menace. Any suspect, be he stranger, friend, fellow worker or even a family member is now subject to citizen’s arrest.
Confront them. Demand: “Are you now or have you ever been a Southern native or resident for more than 10.5 years?” Given the slightest suspicion, turn them in. These Un-American hate criminals will be blacklisted, sentenced to the Gulag Archipelago of Eternal Ridicule.
How, you may ask, can I recognize the signs? Listen to the subject. Note slow, unintelligible speech pattern reflecting underlying ignorance. Overlook Hollywood’s failure to exact even ONE genuine Southern accent. They can’t cast a Southern actor who talks the talk, but can’t read a line.
Remember: ALL SOUTHERNERS ARE HATEMONGERS. Do not be confused by their sub-human sub-sets, i.e. Redneck, Hillbilly, Cracker, Southern Belle, Good Ole Boy, et al. We will explore each for your clarification.
Start by meeting with fellow crusaders who have selflessly flooded into Atlanta to remake this backwoods burg in the holy image of Detroit, Boston, Newark, etc.
Forgive me if, enthralled in my anti-Southern passion, I lose focus. I struggle to write, as Jethro Bodine of the “Beverly Hillibillies.” with a Sixth Grade “edumacation.”
My original aim, beyond denegrating the entire region and all who hail from it, is to re-enforce its sub-categories.
This episode is spawned by an initial research sojourn. Some of this material may be unsuitable for young children.
“HILLBILLIES AND REDNECKS (similar enough for one group)
References: “Deliverance” “Dukes of Hazard” “Tobacco Road” “The Beverly Hillbillies”
Appalachian foothills – hunting season at the local WAL-MART.
Bearded, camouflaged tobacco-spitters (those were just the women and children) scrutinize me as I wait in the pharmacy line for a much-needed Xanax refill.
“Bout an hour,” said “Tammy” (her nametag.)
An hour? What to do? Drive over to the Rite-Aid? Gorge on pork at the “Jesus is Lord” BBQ? Or sit in my car with tightly locked doors, listening to “All Things Considered?”
I came to my senses and stayed put, in the pantheon of the Hillbilly/Redneck sub-stratum.
With more floor space than some third world villages, SPORTING GOODS comprised two-thirds of this particular store, including, but not limited to:
Fashion. Camouflage is the new black, with jackets, pants, baby booties and sexy lingerie – for the whole family.
Escaping this dizzying forest, I turned, almost colliding with a mounted Buck’s head, its empty eyes looking to the beyond. I bowed, refusing images of evisceration and decapitation that this creature had endured.
“You’re in a better place now, Deer. No sadness, sorrow or trouble for you. Perhaps an afterlife where animals shoot humans.” Amazing Grace. Concluding my benediction, I gazed into the fluorescent heavens, in silence. Met by an 8-foot tall, fully erect, teeth-baring black bear, disrupting my meditation.
That did it. I hightailed it back to the pharmacy waiting area, fearing that, somehow I needed a Rabies vaccine.
All I found was literature on the most terrifying health crisis in the U.S., – ED and LOW T!
“Tammy, I need that Xanax!” I pleaded.
“Oh, it’s ready. It’s been ready,” she said, charging me $38 more dollars, than my “Silver Pathway Gold Plus” with Tier One through Tier Four coverage, (including Cialis, not that I would know)
Rushing through the parking lot to my out-of-place Infinity, hidden among monster trucks with gun racks, I sped off and go hideously lost in the hills.
Miles separate dwellings, due to the clannish, isolated nature of these people) But I finally spied one, set back off the road. No way in hell would I ask directions, but I couldn’t abandon my art. Parking behind a tree, quiet as a little fawn, I tiptoed around, photographing the Caldwellian scene.
Rednecks are known for a range of antique front lawn décor – washing machines, toilets, stoves and old cars, all ancient relics, returning to the earth in a magnificent array of Rural Folk Art.
(See abandoned car, juxtaposed with briars. Note the foreboding, mythical quality)
(See Political Statement flag display – Confederate Stars and Bars unashamedly atop the United States flag)
Afraid of getting my ass shot off, these rare, initial photos are all I managed. If I revisit, I’ll be properly armed with GPS and Special Ops reinforcements.
I trust this segment has strengthened our national resolve to insult every living Southerner until that culture returns, buried at last, in its own fertile, fetid soil.
Join me for my next segment of “STEREOTYPES ARE FUN!!!” as we examine Southern Belles and Good Ole Boys.”
– Reporting from my bunker in Suburban Atlanta,
I’m GEORGIA LEE