You Might Be a Redneck

I had one of them redneck weekends you might say. The kind where I simultaneously wish I had photographic evidence of what I did, and am grateful I don’t. I could tell you all about it in story form, like round a camp fire or whatever, but in the spirit of good redneck fun, I’ll just share it with you in one liner, Jeff Foxworthy format.

If you’ve ever gone to a housewarming party for your buddy, at a trailer on a dirt road in the middle of farm land on the edge of your county, and already known just where that road was, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever got drunk and seriously thought about stealing a pony, you might be a redneck.

If there are more leashes tied up in the yard than there are dogs owned on that property, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever chased tequila with tequila, you might be a redneck.

If every girl around looks real pretty till she smiles, you might be a redneck.

If there are three or more barefoot children running around your screened in porch, playing in the water you’re using to keep the beer cold, and none of them call their mom’s man daddy, you might be a redneck.

If all the ladies ask you for your recipe for the dip you brought, and it’s store brand salsa and store brand cream cheese mixed together, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever driven your tow truck to the mailbox so you didn’t have to walk down the drive way, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever picked you morning beer based on how easy it would be to throw up, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever trespassed on ranch land with your brother, to scout for a good place to bang your woman, and ended up coming back home with a bag full of deer bones, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever trespassed a second time, with a rake, to find more deer bones, to glue to your kitchen bar, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever argued about the price of recycled copper, you might be a redneck.

If your breakfast consists of everything you had for dinner, plus eggs, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever seen your sister in law hit a liquor bottle with a baseball bat, and it hit the boat in your brothers back yard, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever repainted a drill so your good neighbors wouldn’t recognize it as the one your crack head neighbor stole from them, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever said “now she needs fuckin!” about every single female guest on an episode of Jerry Springer, and meant it, you might be a redneck.

If your response to a story about incest is, “well, it happens” you might be a redneck.

If more than one woman has made fun of you for eating squirrel, you might be a redneck.

If you’ve ever cut down a tree with a sawz-all and an extension cord tied around it, you might be a redneck.

All true stories in one liner form. And now for a little red neck entertainment. For your viewing pleasure, I bring to you, all the way from the farthest reaches of internet land, the one, the only, Ray Stevens! (if you aren’t familiar with Ray Stevens, go look his ass up, cause he’s hilarious in a very old school southern way)

And how about a face melting southern rock band that jsut doesn’t give a fuck about you or anyone who isn’t down with dixie land? Here you go:

Pictures of my (road) rash.

Holy crap the updates I have for all of you! I sincerely hope you’re interested in topics such as missing pieces of my body, wild animals and carrion, and too much information about my sex drive. Of course you are, who isn’t. Put on your wading boots people, cause this is some deep shit.

First of all you will notice I am not in jail/prison tightly clutching a bar of soap as I lather my face. This is because the legal system in America is about as speedy as every other government system in America. Apparently I’m just dangerous enough to seriously fuck with, but not so dangerous that it’s a big priority. Nice comfy middle ground, aka justice limbo. So until late May I’ll still be around to occasionally post frivolous bull crap on the internet when I’m not too busy acting like a love struck retard with Em. (which is all the time, thank you very much) Also, if any of you seem to be bored (although experiencing this after high school has proven to be a bit of an urban legend) and you want a nice brain teasing time waster to pass the hours/days/weeks (without sleep or bathroom breaks) here’s a slightly addicting game that Emerald showed me called Chain Factor. You should be able to figure out how to play it pretty easy. If you need help, you are a tard and should not be playing brain teasers, or reading my blog, cause this textual outlet of mine is obviously intended only for the extremely highly intelligent.
Speaking of intelligent, I recently became well acquainted with a little stretch of Old Garner Road. In an attempt to make it through a changing green light so I would not be late for work, (that light is on a pressure plate and doesn’t sense when I’m there, and due to it’s proximity to the train tracks, other vehicles are often less than keen to pull up behind me, leading to 10-15 minute waits) I went over some rail road tracks at a slightly faster than anticipated speed, immediately banked hard left for a turn, happened across a poorly placed patch of loose sand and rocks, and promptly wrecked like a banshee. I’m assuming banshees wreck on their left side breaking their fall with their forearm. Don’t worry, the road was fine. And surprisingly the scooter was fine as well, minus a few scrapes down the side.

Following traditional man code, I immediately jumped up and pretended like nothing had happened. In my haste to get back on the road I did not stop to check and see if the traffic stopped in all directions had noticed anything or not, but I think I pulled it off pretty well. So anyway, after a day or two I kind of got sick of taking care of my little arm scratch and ceased any and all cleaning/bandaging. WebMD informed me that “school-age children ages 5 to 9 are most affected” by scrapes, and clearly being a fucking gnarley bastard with an armor-like man pelt, I would not need any of the candy ass medical froufrou they recommended for children, women, and the elderly. Here is the progression of how my healing process went down.

First you can see I am all bandaged up, and strikingly rugged and handsome. Please note that my money maker, as in my face, is still intact. All you ladies can breathe a collective sigh of relief. This bandage situation did two things for me. First it gave me a new found respect for medical tape and it’s abilities to not only stay on tight through a night of sleep and a day of sweaty, dirty work, but also to rip your hairs off at the end of said day of work. Second it gave me this idiotic looking bandage tan line cause I was outside the entire next day. That would be when I quit wearing the thing.

Now you’ll see the next day as the raw skin starts scabbing up. Please note the interesting pink and white color of the deeper road rash, along with the rock cut lines going through it. I thought that was the coolest part. I’m not sure exactly which layer of skin looks like that when you expose it, but I’m assuming it’s the one right next to the bone.

It was this point that my manstincts took over and I started just fucking around with it. I had my birthday, (yaaaaay me!) and that lead to happy booze times, which led to me doing absurdly abusive activities like dousing it with vinegar and beer, and getting sprayed with a fire extinguisher. (that last one was actually at work now that I think about it, and had nothing to do with booze) All care for and protection of the wound ceased, and today (one week later) I noticed it was rather odd looking and squishy. After a bit of field surgery I found that bubbly squishy scabs mean they’re floating on a bed of (presumably infectious) pus. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure that’s bad, so as JT would say, I’m bringing bandage back. Here’s what it looks like now.

You will note the big ass opening in the scab in the bottom left and top right. That would be me and my wicked awesome/reckless field surgery skills. I’m not really sure what that face is all about, possibly I had eaten a super lemon, or been riding on top of a jet fighter all day.

In unrelated news, we have foxes. Well, technically we don’t “have” them, they just pass through the yard, but that’s pretty close as far as wild foxes are concerned. Having now observed a fox fairly close for the first time, I’m not sure where the term “foxy lady” came from. I can however attest that foxes are both nimble and cunning. We put out some chicken for them, and the fox that came through ate some, and hid the rest scattered all over under the leaves in the woods. Fucking smart ass little dog if you ask me. And they can speed walk down fallen logs and shit. Even tiny ones. Anyway, foxes are cool. I also saw a hawk that got a squirrel. Hawks are cool too. And I saw a chicken hawk, which should really be called a chicken eagle, cause that thing was huge. Among the less cool sightings: mosquito’s, still-friggin-pollen-season, and of course, sweat. I didn’t really miss sweat over the winter, but of course I’m kind of sick of cold with no snow, so I’ll deal with it and take what sun I can get.

I believe I mentioned too much information about my sex drive. I just made that up. There’s no update as far as that is concerned. But I’ll wish you all happy hump day anyway.