Monday, January 24, 2011

Why I Hate the South...and the North

Your states started a war to keep people enslaved.

Your people enjoy and take pride in being undereducated, overweight and isolationist.

You belabor under the belief that houses require wheels.

Even when he is obviously wrong, undeniably factually in error, or making a logical jump so great as to be defined by professionals as borderline insane, as in "there's no way any sane person can think he's not making this crap up," you still think Rush is Right.

You soak sour pork in vinegar and dare call it barbecue - an affront to all things holy.

Your idea of birth control is doing jumping jacks and using Cheerwine in an unauthorized manner. Your mothers take their entire litter of whining little deep-fried future felons to Walmart as a bizarre combination playdate/educational experience/day care/chance to meet their real dad operating the fork lift as opposed to 'Marty' the guy who randomly sleeps in Mommy's bed.

You should have convinced Britney Spears to go topless when she was still young and firm. You had her during her formative years, and, quite frankly, I expected better from you.

You still have Stuckeys. You're hoarding all the Steak`n' Shakes along with your partners-in-arms, the Midwesterners.

You won't spend 60 minutes with your kids watching Sesame Street, but you'll drag them to some place called "Talladega" and make them watch cars go around in a circle for 4 hours.

You somehow think "sweet tea" is vastly superior to, and will refuse to drink, regular old "tea with sugar." You can not taste the difference, but your Type 2 Diabetes spawning in your leg can.

SOMEBODY is giving donations to Sarah Palin, and, last I checked, it wasn't us.

Your accent grates like a delicate Roquefort on an antique Mouli grater.

You do not know what that last sentence means.

You are convinced that wrestling is real. life. drama.

Your insects are the size of a Hollywood starlet's dogs. Even a small dog is a big bug.

Truck Nutz.

The Dukes of Hazzard, despite your most earnest thoughts and wishes, is not a documentary.

One of your people invented a thing called a cotton gin that contains no gin. Bad form.

You took all the hockey teams from nice, hard-working Canadian towns, changed their names and then got distracted by something shiny resembling the Virgin Mary in a Ford F-350's headlight outside of Plant Runoff Creek, Kentucky, and forgot you had them.

Seersucker. You have a lot to pay for that.

According to Jim lasted twice as long as Arrested Development. Not really your fault, but you're getting the blame anyway.

Every once in a while, you develop an amazing talent, like Terry Southern, and promptly ignore him cos' there's a water-skiin' squirrel on channel 49.

You openly dislike the Federal Government and then get mad when the Federal Government doesn't give you enough money.


Why I Hate the North