In my youthful ignorance I thought the term "redneck" came from farming. Farmers, working outdoors in the sun all day long, had necks that seemed to be permanently sunburned.
I was wrong. I know--me!
The term "redneck" comes from long ago West Virginia coal mine wars between unions and owners. The owners hired thugs from outside to come in and beat the striking miners into submission. With so many folks involved and neither side wearing uniforms, how to tell who was fer ya and who agin? So the combatants in one group began wearing red bandanas around their necks. Anyone not wearing one was then fair game for a pickaxe handle upside his head.
The definition of "redneck" no longer applies to sides in labor disputes, nor is it limited to folks from West Virginia. It's not even limited to the South. "Redneck" is more descriptive of an attitude, rather than of a regional demographic. Rednecks are literally everywhere, from Barrow to Key West, from Hawaii to Maine. And though they walk among us, they are rather easy to spot.
Rednecks are generally loud in expression, vulgar in behavior, and inappropriate in dress. Their "I don't give a damn" attitude is an effort, however subconscious, to mask their ignorance, certainly of manners and taste. Regardless of destination or event, they wear their baseball caps backwards, their footwear with no socks, and their 29" pants buckled under their 56" waists which, with their too-small, often profanity-laced t-shirts riding up their backs, expose about three inches of butt-crack.
The favorite sports of rednecks most often involve the WWE, MMA, mud (wrestling or just driving trucks through it), animals (alligators, possum, snapping turtles, fish, snakes), wet t-shirt contests, beer-chugging, and essentially anything that will create a sloshing, spilling, smelly, barf-inducing mess.
Oh, I almsot forgot NASCAR. "Those cars blowed up real good, huh, Sis? Haw! And you wanted to take the young'uns to Didney World!"
Jeff Houck, writing for the "Tampa Tribune, explored how fascination with rednecks has translated over the years to the small screen, beginning "when homespun Andy Griffith brought 'The Andy Griffith Show' to life...featuring hinmself as the common-sense sheriff of Mayberry, N.C. America fell so in love with his aw-shucks manner, it spawned an entire genre of television highlighting the best and worst of what Hollywood perceived to be Southern life."
He believes its success led to "Beverly Hillbillies", "Gomer Pyle", and "The Dukes of Hazzard."
Having reached the bottom of the garbage bucket with "Hee Haw", we lifted it up and started to probe the grub-swarmed dregs underneath for even worse examples of human degradation and cultural decadence. We found it, and its name is Honey Boo Boo.
Honey Boo Boo's "show" is a spin-off of "Toddlers & Tiaras", a TV series showcasing mothers living vicariously through their offspring by dressing them up as miniature beauty queens and entering them in pageants. Honey Boo Boo's signature talent is compressing and manipulating the rolls of fat on her Pillsbury dough boy-gut, turning her abyss of a navel into a pie-hole from which she may emit verbiage she deems pithy.
No less a celebrity icon than Rosie O'Donnell has compared Honey Boo Boo to Shirley Temple. "She has a presence and an intellect that goes way beyond her years," said Rosie. You've got something there, Jabba. She's seven years old and already evinces an IQ comparable to yours.
We've come a long way since those early days of TV. We used to laugh with rednecks; now we just laugh at them.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Flotsam and Jetsam
Item 1: News out of Chicago is that because of the worsening homicide rate, a tax of 25 cents will be placed on ammunition. The following conversation was overheard in Promiscuous Pearl's Pool Hall and Pole Dancing Pavillion:
"Did you case the bank this morning?"
"Yeah. Biggest haul will be tomorrow, before they ship out the cash surplus."
"Can't do it tomorrow. We haven't even submitted our applications to purchase handguns. It'll be at least seven days before they're approved, and then we gotta buy the guns."
"And there's another problem. You hear they're talking about putting a 25-cent tax on bullets? How the hell are we gonna afford that?"
"Well, we could have a car wash."
"Or a bake sale."
"You know, we could just steal the guns and ammo."
"But that'd be illegal. Wouldn't it?"
Item 2: Tyler Perry has taken over the Alex Cross role from Morgan Freeman. That's like Chuy Bravo taking over Zorro from Antonio Banderas, or Justin Bieber taking over James Bond from Daniel Craig.
Item 3: Every day I open up my "Tampa Bay Times" and read how its editors want me to vote. With typical arrogance, they think I am too stupid to figure it out for myself.
Well, I've got news for you, Charlie Foster. Given that our choices for president are Jimmy Carter-lite and Ronald Reagan-extra lite, I've decided to write in Dexter Morgan and Walter White. How's that for responsibly exercising my constitutional right to vote?
Item 4: Hulk Hogan is suing his former BFF, Bubba the Love Sponge Clem (that's his legal name) for releasing a sex video of the Hulk doing the nasty. You probably know who the Hulkster is. Bubba, who fancies himself a "shock jock," has a local radio show. Imagine a redneck, TPT version of Howard Stern, but with all the talent of Honey Boo Boo and her Jabba the Hutt blob of a mother.
After years of the Hulk pestering the Sponge to let him penetrate his wife, Bubba finally agreed on the condition he could videotape the coupling. Hulk, in anxious anticipation, let his hormones overrule his common sense and panted, "Sure!" As for Mrs Clem, well, she had to have seen the steroid-sculpted Hulk as a huge step up from the beer-bloated Sponge.
You can guess what happened. Yep, the sex tape was leaked and shown all over the Internet. Bubba, who has even less credibility than Bill "I did not have sex with that woman" Clinton, denied that he leaked it.
Item 5: One "Tampa Bay Times" columnist, who inexplicably lives in Tampa, writes, "Me, I am glad every time I see a dog on a leash downtown, because it means people actually live there." Me? I always thought people lived in Tampa. Never understood it, but there they are. Every time I see a dog anywhere, whether it's on a leash or not, I see doggie download which may or may not get picked up, depending upon whether its owner is a jerk. I do not suffer pooch panderers who think my lawn is their mutts' toilet.
Item the last: Speaking of dogs, an Apollo Beach resident was walking his when the mutt knocked over a sign that was partially blocking the sidewalk. John Gallik, owner of the sign, stormed outside, thrust a knife at the resident, and threatened to cut his throat. Standing his ground, the resident pulled his .38 revolver from his pocket, fired, and thus terminated Gallik.
I blame the mutt.
"Did you case the bank this morning?"
"Yeah. Biggest haul will be tomorrow, before they ship out the cash surplus."
"Can't do it tomorrow. We haven't even submitted our applications to purchase handguns. It'll be at least seven days before they're approved, and then we gotta buy the guns."
"And there's another problem. You hear they're talking about putting a 25-cent tax on bullets? How the hell are we gonna afford that?"
"Well, we could have a car wash."
"Or a bake sale."
"You know, we could just steal the guns and ammo."
"But that'd be illegal. Wouldn't it?"
Item 2: Tyler Perry has taken over the Alex Cross role from Morgan Freeman. That's like Chuy Bravo taking over Zorro from Antonio Banderas, or Justin Bieber taking over James Bond from Daniel Craig.
Item 3: Every day I open up my "Tampa Bay Times" and read how its editors want me to vote. With typical arrogance, they think I am too stupid to figure it out for myself.
Well, I've got news for you, Charlie Foster. Given that our choices for president are Jimmy Carter-lite and Ronald Reagan-extra lite, I've decided to write in Dexter Morgan and Walter White. How's that for responsibly exercising my constitutional right to vote?
Item 4: Hulk Hogan is suing his former BFF, Bubba the Love Sponge Clem (that's his legal name) for releasing a sex video of the Hulk doing the nasty. You probably know who the Hulkster is. Bubba, who fancies himself a "shock jock," has a local radio show. Imagine a redneck, TPT version of Howard Stern, but with all the talent of Honey Boo Boo and her Jabba the Hutt blob of a mother.
After years of the Hulk pestering the Sponge to let him penetrate his wife, Bubba finally agreed on the condition he could videotape the coupling. Hulk, in anxious anticipation, let his hormones overrule his common sense and panted, "Sure!" As for Mrs Clem, well, she had to have seen the steroid-sculpted Hulk as a huge step up from the beer-bloated Sponge.
You can guess what happened. Yep, the sex tape was leaked and shown all over the Internet. Bubba, who has even less credibility than Bill "I did not have sex with that woman" Clinton, denied that he leaked it.
Item 5: One "Tampa Bay Times" columnist, who inexplicably lives in Tampa, writes, "Me, I am glad every time I see a dog on a leash downtown, because it means people actually live there." Me? I always thought people lived in Tampa. Never understood it, but there they are. Every time I see a dog anywhere, whether it's on a leash or not, I see doggie download which may or may not get picked up, depending upon whether its owner is a jerk. I do not suffer pooch panderers who think my lawn is their mutts' toilet.
Item the last: Speaking of dogs, an Apollo Beach resident was walking his when the mutt knocked over a sign that was partially blocking the sidewalk. John Gallik, owner of the sign, stormed outside, thrust a knife at the resident, and threatened to cut his throat. Standing his ground, the resident pulled his .38 revolver from his pocket, fired, and thus terminated Gallik.
I blame the mutt.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
A Morality (?) Play in Three Acts
Act I. Scene, University of South Florida President's office, 1995. The president and the Chair, USF Board of Trustees, are meeting.
"I'm sick of USF being the stepchild of Florida's higher education. I mean, look at UF, FSU, and UM. Tons of press, nationwide recognition, applications from all over the country. No one outside of Tampa even knows we exist."
"So, what do you suggest?"
"Let us ask ourselves what those institutions have that we don't."
"I give up. What?"
"Football! That's the ticket! We get a football team, we're on national TV, we're in the newspapers. Everybody will know our name!"
"Okay. Guess the first thing we have to do is hire a coach."
Act II. Scene, USF President Judy Genshaft's office, 15 years later. Genshaft and Trustees' Chair meet.
"Judy, Coach Leavitt has gotta go. 8 and 5 is not going to hack it."
"Yeah, well, it won't be easy. Jim's 95 and 57 overall. He got us into the Big East in only 10 years and had us ranked number two nationally in 2007. He's taken us to a bowl game every year. Won't be cheap, either. He's only just finished his second season of a seven-year, $12.6 million contract."
"Nah, it'll be easier than you think. Did you see the report from AOL FanHouse? Apparently, during halftime of the Louisville game he grabbed a player by his shoulder pads and slapped him twice in the face."
"That's terrible! What does he think this is, Marine Corps boot camp? Does he think he's Gunnery Sergeant Hartman?"
"Look. Remember the bowl game where Woody Hayes clotheslined a Clemson player? He was a legend, and they fired him."
"Yeah, but not for that. He was fired because he lost to Michigan three years in a row. Had he won those games he could have decapitated that kid and kept his job. I don't know. You really think we can fire Jim that easily?"
"Sure. We'll go through the motions of an investigation. It'll be iffy. The kid isn't talking, and his dad has said the coach didn't slap him. But we can round up plenty who'll say they witnessed it. It'll take a little finesse, but he'll be gone in time to get someone else in place for next season."
"Got anyone in mind?"
"Matter of fact, Lou Holtz's son, Skip, is available. Can't go wrong there!"
Act III. Scene, Genshaft's office, present day. Genshaft and John Ramil, Chair, Board of Trustees, meet.
"Judy, Coach Holtz has gotta go. 2 and 4 is not going to hack it. You get my e-mail?"
"Yeah, pretty strong, John. 'Disgusting and unacceptable. We have major problems with our football program.' Kinda harsh, isn't it?"
"Look. We've lost four in a row and 10 of the last 11 in the Big East. Right now we're 2 and 4 overall and 0 and 2 in the conference. Apparently, Skippy hasn't tapped into his dad's genes. He's just 15 and 16 after three seasons. We've gone from a team no one wanted to play to being a schedule-filler."
"Now, John, remember, we had a winner once, and we got rid of him. How's that make us look? I don't want to think about trying to sack Lou Holtz's son."
"Well, keep your fingers crossed. Maybe he'll slap some kid."
"I'm sick of USF being the stepchild of Florida's higher education. I mean, look at UF, FSU, and UM. Tons of press, nationwide recognition, applications from all over the country. No one outside of Tampa even knows we exist."
"So, what do you suggest?"
"Let us ask ourselves what those institutions have that we don't."
"I give up. What?"
"Football! That's the ticket! We get a football team, we're on national TV, we're in the newspapers. Everybody will know our name!"
"Okay. Guess the first thing we have to do is hire a coach."
Act II. Scene, USF President Judy Genshaft's office, 15 years later. Genshaft and Trustees' Chair meet.
"Judy, Coach Leavitt has gotta go. 8 and 5 is not going to hack it."
"Yeah, well, it won't be easy. Jim's 95 and 57 overall. He got us into the Big East in only 10 years and had us ranked number two nationally in 2007. He's taken us to a bowl game every year. Won't be cheap, either. He's only just finished his second season of a seven-year, $12.6 million contract."
"Nah, it'll be easier than you think. Did you see the report from AOL FanHouse? Apparently, during halftime of the Louisville game he grabbed a player by his shoulder pads and slapped him twice in the face."
"That's terrible! What does he think this is, Marine Corps boot camp? Does he think he's Gunnery Sergeant Hartman?"
"Look. Remember the bowl game where Woody Hayes clotheslined a Clemson player? He was a legend, and they fired him."
"Yeah, but not for that. He was fired because he lost to Michigan three years in a row. Had he won those games he could have decapitated that kid and kept his job. I don't know. You really think we can fire Jim that easily?"
"Sure. We'll go through the motions of an investigation. It'll be iffy. The kid isn't talking, and his dad has said the coach didn't slap him. But we can round up plenty who'll say they witnessed it. It'll take a little finesse, but he'll be gone in time to get someone else in place for next season."
"Got anyone in mind?"
"Matter of fact, Lou Holtz's son, Skip, is available. Can't go wrong there!"
Act III. Scene, Genshaft's office, present day. Genshaft and John Ramil, Chair, Board of Trustees, meet.
"Judy, Coach Holtz has gotta go. 2 and 4 is not going to hack it. You get my e-mail?"
"Yeah, pretty strong, John. 'Disgusting and unacceptable. We have major problems with our football program.' Kinda harsh, isn't it?"
"Look. We've lost four in a row and 10 of the last 11 in the Big East. Right now we're 2 and 4 overall and 0 and 2 in the conference. Apparently, Skippy hasn't tapped into his dad's genes. He's just 15 and 16 after three seasons. We've gone from a team no one wanted to play to being a schedule-filler."
"Now, John, remember, we had a winner once, and we got rid of him. How's that make us look? I don't want to think about trying to sack Lou Holtz's son."
"Well, keep your fingers crossed. Maybe he'll slap some kid."
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Menagerie A Trois
Reaching out to touch wildlife in Florida is strongly discouraged. Feeding wildlife in Florida is illegal. Attempting to join in the fun with mating wildlife when not invited to do so is, well, just plain rude.
One may swim with dolphins at a couple of places. At the zoo one might even touch snakes and other reptiles. At the aquarium one can immerse one's hand in a pool and brush the backs of rays as they swim by. But these encounters with local fauna are well controlled and supervised.
Not all attempts at inter-species contact are appreciated, however. A man who thought it was a super, neat-o, peachy-keen idea to put elementary school-age kids in a swimming pool to frolic with a three-foot alligator brought down the wrath of do-gooders, animal rights wackos and others of the perpetually outraged upon his head. Never mind that the gator' jaws were taped shut with duct tape, or that the gator never left the hands of its handler.
To be fair, in this case the buzz-killers had a point. Little kids learn that it's okay to be in the water with an alligator, next thing you know they're wading into a pond to play with one. They see a fun playmate; the gator sees lunch.
Kids that age just don't think at the cognitive level. For that matter, neither do many adults.
Imagine that you are cuddled up with your significant other, nuzzling, nipping, smooching, caressing, whatever. You can do it; I'm sure you've done it before. Imagining, that is.
The moment is right. The positions are assumed, expectations are high, hormones are running amok, and penetration is imminent.
All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, a shapeless blob of humanity jumps right on your back, wraps her arms around your neck and her legs around your hips, presses herself down upon you, and hangs on for what she expects to be a wild and crazy ride. What will you do? What can you do?
Well, you could invite her to join in on the fun. But, see, if you're, say, a manatee, you probably don't think like that. If you're a manatee, you've just been thrown off your game, which is making other manatees. And that's exactly what happened when one woman thought her need for a joy ride was more critical than a manatee's need to procreate.
Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez was on the beach at Ft De Soto when she saw manatees in the process of copulating.
I can't pretend to understand what she was thinking. I can understand folks who share my levels of education and experience, but I draw a headache-inducing blank when trying to understand the cognitively challenged. And since I retired from teaching mostly high school freshmen, I no longer even try.
Anyway, perhaps Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez thought she'd make the manatees' up close and personal interaction a three-some. Perhaps she thought she'd make the male's fantasies a reality while she taught the female the real definition of animal sex. I suspect she wasn't thinking at all.
Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez (anyone with four or more names ought to be accorded the respect of being addressed by all of them, don't you think?) propelled herself up onto the back of the male and engulfed him with a grip worthy of adoption by MMA combatants.
Manatees are, by nature, slow-moving, laid back creatures. When Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez didn't get the dolphin-like hyper-drive ride through the waves she expected, she gave up and released her death hold. The manatees, wondering WTF just happened, if they wonder at all, just swam off, the moment having passed.
Gracias, Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez. Thanks for the cold shower.
One may swim with dolphins at a couple of places. At the zoo one might even touch snakes and other reptiles. At the aquarium one can immerse one's hand in a pool and brush the backs of rays as they swim by. But these encounters with local fauna are well controlled and supervised.
Not all attempts at inter-species contact are appreciated, however. A man who thought it was a super, neat-o, peachy-keen idea to put elementary school-age kids in a swimming pool to frolic with a three-foot alligator brought down the wrath of do-gooders, animal rights wackos and others of the perpetually outraged upon his head. Never mind that the gator' jaws were taped shut with duct tape, or that the gator never left the hands of its handler.
To be fair, in this case the buzz-killers had a point. Little kids learn that it's okay to be in the water with an alligator, next thing you know they're wading into a pond to play with one. They see a fun playmate; the gator sees lunch.
Kids that age just don't think at the cognitive level. For that matter, neither do many adults.
Imagine that you are cuddled up with your significant other, nuzzling, nipping, smooching, caressing, whatever. You can do it; I'm sure you've done it before. Imagining, that is.
The moment is right. The positions are assumed, expectations are high, hormones are running amok, and penetration is imminent.
All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, a shapeless blob of humanity jumps right on your back, wraps her arms around your neck and her legs around your hips, presses herself down upon you, and hangs on for what she expects to be a wild and crazy ride. What will you do? What can you do?
Well, you could invite her to join in on the fun. But, see, if you're, say, a manatee, you probably don't think like that. If you're a manatee, you've just been thrown off your game, which is making other manatees. And that's exactly what happened when one woman thought her need for a joy ride was more critical than a manatee's need to procreate.
Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez was on the beach at Ft De Soto when she saw manatees in the process of copulating.
I can't pretend to understand what she was thinking. I can understand folks who share my levels of education and experience, but I draw a headache-inducing blank when trying to understand the cognitively challenged. And since I retired from teaching mostly high school freshmen, I no longer even try.
Anyway, perhaps Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez thought she'd make the manatees' up close and personal interaction a three-some. Perhaps she thought she'd make the male's fantasies a reality while she taught the female the real definition of animal sex. I suspect she wasn't thinking at all.
Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez (anyone with four or more names ought to be accorded the respect of being addressed by all of them, don't you think?) propelled herself up onto the back of the male and engulfed him with a grip worthy of adoption by MMA combatants.
Manatees are, by nature, slow-moving, laid back creatures. When Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez didn't get the dolphin-like hyper-drive ride through the waves she expected, she gave up and released her death hold. The manatees, wondering WTF just happened, if they wonder at all, just swam off, the moment having passed.
Gracias, Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez. Thanks for the cold shower.
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