Song of the South

I'm not making excuses anymore for being a slackass as I'm guessing there is no one left here to read anything anyway. But, be that as it may, I’m feeling compelled to discuss a few issues.

As I haven't posted in a bit, I'm awash with difference topics. I don't know whether to tell you about my overwhelming fear of the inadequacy of the pipes in my new house and whether fiber therapy will assist to diminish said fear. Or should I discuss the fact that I have moved into a new office where the floor is so askew, it appears that I have set up my desk on the deck of the Titanic - a theory which is supported by the subzero temperatures in said office coupled with the occasional sighting of an off- course penguin.

I also considered discussing the fact that the office next door is clearly inhabited by terrorists which is evident by the peephole they have in their office and the occasional alarm bells I hear going off as they fail to follow proper procedure when removing their stash of plutonium which is kept in the freezer adjacent to my office wall.

All good topics to be sure. However, my need to discuss my recent trip to Six Flags overwhelms these rantings. Cause I, my friend, have at last found proof of the much rumored and ridiculed in breeding of fine southern folk.

Now, let me be clear. I can make fun of the South. I am Southern. And no transplanted from New York southerner or even some "I’m southern, I grew up in Florida" southern. I am a rare bird - a native Atlantan. Further, my entire family on both non-branching tree sides is southern. Matter of fact, on one side we trace our roots back to John Wilkes Booth (and yes, I know he was English but you see my point).

What does this mean? It means I can pick on Southern people but unless you grew up eating cornbread, vegetables boiled for 12 hours in bacon fat and the "last of this year's dairy cows" meat - you can't make fun of Southerners. It's like someone calling your mamma a "crazy, sadistic, lard ass" - you can call that crazy bitch that but if your buddy does, you'll sick that same whack job mamma on his weenie ass.

Anyway, I digress.

Prior to banishing the POD to wilderness camp for an indeterminate amount of time (and no, I don't want to talk about it), we decided to venture out with the masses to Six Flags. I used to LOVE Six Flags. Wanted to work there. Wanted to live there. Wanted to ride the Scream Machine until I puked. However, Six Flags has undergone a bit of a cultural shift.

In this previously stellar park, I finally found proof of the long rumored in breeding of Southern folk.

I will begin with the accident in genetics that was behind me in line for Goliath. He was a prime example of what Cowboy Dan refers to as “RBS” – Redneck Bone Structure. If I had been so inclined, I could have come right up on this guy and bashed him in the head with a two-by-four right smack dab in the middle of his forehead. He would never have seen me coming, as his eyes were set so far apart. Now, he probably could have kicked my ass in a lateral move but if I went straight in for the kill, he would be one knocked out redneck. Hell, his gap-tooted buddy would hardly have time to react.

A tad farther down the line was tattoo girl. Now, I myself have a discreet tattoo and find nothing wrong with it. But this gal was adventurous. Amongst her wide display of body art, she had a tattoo around her neck. A necklace, you ask? Oh, no. Barbed wire. With flesh and blood hanging off one spot of this lively decoration. Sound lovely, doesn’t it? A real “can’t wait to introduce her to Grandpa” kinda gal. Some poor kid from Alabama just about hurled up his $7 hot dog on the spot.

However, I will give old Barbed Wire one nugget of praise – she chose to wear a bra (I know this as her shirt was see-through but I’m being picky). Apparently, in the land of amusement parks, proper undergarments are now optional. I saw more bouncing mammary glands than you see at old Hugh’s house on trampoline night. My god, people, didn’t your mamma teach you nothing? Even my crazy ass loon of a mother made sure my accessories were firmly encased in a wire bound torture device because “good girls kept the girls supported”. AND IT’S AN AMUSEMENT PARK! Some of you could lose an eye like that!

And newsflash, sporting a bikini top does not count as proper support. It seems that here in the deep South, any time the temps hit over 80 degrees, the “ladies” find it acceptable to start wearing their bathing suits wherever they go. Here’s a hint – if you are more than 2 miles from the nearest cement pond, forgo the bathing attire. I look at you and all I see is a walking yeast infection. And your boyfriend squirting you down with a water pistol doesn’t count – perhaps it counts at your evening job of pole dancing, but not here.

And exactly when did we become like the Japanese in metro trains? STAND THE FUCK BACK! I have a personal space meter and you’re sending its readings off the charts. I don’t know where you’ve been but if that smell is any indication, you are communicable. Back the hell up.

And hey, Six Flags! Just because you keep giving me my cokes in a paper cup without a lid or a straw, isn’t going to make me buy your damn $9 souvenir drink thingie with that creepy dancing old man on top! Give me a damn lid before I introduce my foot to Tweetie’s ass.

All in all, an outing that was both fun and enlightening. When looking to carry the Floyds into the next generation, I might be better off looking a little north of the Mason-Dixon. I’m just saying.