A
Nice Hard Slap – You Can Take the Boy out of the Country But You Can’t
Take the Hunting Knife Out of the Face of the Boy out of the Country.
“I’m a good ‘ol boy.”
I’ve
heard this comment/apology/declaration quite a few times in my day,
usually from someone reacting to a statement about rednecks or as a
bold stance on their place in the pantheon of the culture of America’s
Southernmost regions. Somehow, by calling yourself a good ‘ol boy
you’re given the ability to spit, shoot animals for fun, keep the likes
of Kenny Chesney in business, and be generally indifferent to the
English language without punitive action taken against you.
I
know a lot of people who fit the mold, many of them quite good folks
who can be considered successful on a variety of levels but I still
don’t get the “Southern Pride” thing even though I’ve lived here since
1980.
I’ll
never understand hunting even though I am a meat eater who remains
intentionally ignorant to the evils of the food industry. I’ll never
understand the killing of an animal for “sport”. People however, that’s
not such a horrible idea…
I’ll
never understand the love of today’s definition of country music, this
overpolished and synthetic shit I’m forced to hear clips of as my
baseball team resides on a country music radio station. This is not the
fun loving and oftentimes subversively smart stuff from the old days.
This is sonic manslaughter that is no less an affront to music than the
horrible pop music or retarded punk emo screamo stuff saturating the
world in a toxic cloud.
I’ll
never understand people who are happy to massacre the language they’ve
been born into, especially people who are so proud to proclaim their
status as patriots. If they love America so much, how come they almost
enjoy not being able to properly put a sentence together. I know people
who actually give me shit for taking the time to put an apostrophe in
“it’s” if the situation warrants.
And spitting. Well, there’s a scant few times that really should come in handy yet I see it happening with reckless abandon.
This
tells me that I’ve got too thin a skin, probably shouldn’t hang around
softball fields as much as I do, and that I shouldn’t forget my own
myriad flaws and faults… but still I think the “Good ‘Ol Boy” thing
is just a nice way to say “White Trash”. White trash is the worst kind
of trash there is. Including Peruvian Brownish Trash.
Oh,
and I’m sure many of these bumpkins can beat me in a fistfight. I’m
sure they’d be more than happy to try. What have they got to lose?
Teeth? HIGHLY UNLIKELY.
I
think that our connections to humankind’s primordial and barbaric past
still reside in our DNA, only rising to the surface when we’re
imbalanced chemically or under duress. Most of us suppress these urges
and feelings because to give in to them would be to accept our own
weaknesses and likely lonliness in the cosmos. We do it to move
forward. These suckers embrace it, and though they may have a better
clue than condescending folks like me, I’d like to think sweet oblivion
rocks a whole lot more ass than a reality where the ‘Good ‘Ol Boy”
moniker is anything less than insulting to a human being in the year of
our Cthulhu 2008.
–
Nick Nunziata is an Exemplary ‘Ol Gentleperson.
Before
I go, here’s the latest thing I’m adding to the blog. Each day I blog I’ll
have a song, a piece of artwork, a photo, a Mary Worth, or something to
further justify your click and to give the trolls a little more ammo. Today, an ART JAM in progress, the RETARD FAMILY REUNION:
