The Redneck Party

Liz reminisces, 1990 style:

He had promised a redneck party, but we hadn't realized they would be authentic, backwoods, Liberty, MS rednecks. That's a whole new breed of country that none of us had ever encountered.

When we pulled up in Kim's Datsun, the scene looked low-key and charming. There was a cluster of old timers set up on the front porch of the modest home playing slide and steel guitars and a mandolin. The lead was singing Me and Bobby McGee in a shaky but determined voice. "This may be a dud," Kim declared, almost apologizing for hauling us deep into the woods for what appeared, at first glance, to be a Hee-Haw reunion.

We got out of the car, opened our beers, and surveyed the environment. Other than very young children, we were the youngest there. We made our way to the carport and engaged the hosts in conversation. My first encounter was with a woman, probably in her 30's, whom seemed much older with her rugged-face and smoke laden voice. She had brown nail polish that had grown away from her nail beds and was chipped. Her nails were yellow. I remember her most because I had never seen dandruff like that in my life. Huge flakes snowing around her, ever moving because it never stopped falling. Ah. Christmas in July.

The man with her also had that look of poor nutrition, no doubt reared by parents that made him drink beer at 7 so that they could laugh at him while he was drunk. I noticed a tattoo peeking from under his short shirt sleeve. "Is that a tattoo?" I asked.

"Sure is," he replied as he lifted his sleeve to show me. "Do you know what that is?"

"Ummm. Is that a spider?" He stared at me.

"Oh. It's a spider WEB, isn't it?"

"Hell no that's not a spider web," he said, spitting on the ground. "It's a tattoo of Liberty, MS. Did you know Liberty has seven highways that runs through it? I said SEVEN."

"Holy shit," I replied. "I had no idea."

The goat that was cooking on the Bar-B-Q had attracted a large crowd, eager to put something on their stomachs. They had been drinking all morning and it was well into the afternoon. After a short goat break, the band started up again and an old man asked me to dance.

"Why of course!" I said uncomfortably. He took my hands while standing under the carport and pulled me very close. He was very drunk. At first it was funny. It only became disturbing once he offered to rub me down with olive oil.

I too was surprised he said olive oil, but it's true. It wasn't Crisco or lard or anything like that. I guess they saved the good stuff for visitors.

Later, as evening approached, several of the children came running toward their parents screaming, "Grandpa's dead! He is behind the barn DEAD!" I stayed where I was as the locals ran behind the barn to find the patriarch. Moments later the group emerged from behind the barn, carrying my dance partner as he stumbled and swayed his was back to the carport.

He had passed out leaning behind the barn taking a shit.

My Best Worst Day: To Chad With Love

Imagine Casy Kassem is saying:

This very special post dedication goes out to a very special man, miles away from his friends and family, in a foreign country, eating pickled embryo instead of black eyed peas on New Years Eve.Today, it is Chad that has proven to be the muse for Liz. Today, Chad, you are celebrated as the wonderful man you are. This one is for you.

Liz remembers with vague guilt AND pleasure:

About 8 years ago I was living in a rural part of the state, driving to work each day on a winding country road hardly large enough for two compacts much less my compact and a farm tractor pulled by a heavy-duty pick up. Getting onto the highway to start my daily commute was an exercise in patience and mental acuity. One glance at the radio and I could hit a deer, skid on gravel, or be squished by a truck toting chickens to slaughter. I don't recommend started every day this way, but when you live in the sticks this is one of the hazards.

Every day on my drive I would pass a herd of children waiting for their bus, their ages ranging from 6 to 12 years old. They were dumbass country children whose mothers never taught them to STAY OUT OF THE STREET; especially when the street is curvy and people like Liz perpetually run 20 minutes behind schedule.

Nearly every day I would have to come to a complete stop while the dumbass children gathered their backpacks and lunch boxes and shoes and coats out of the street and amble to the curve. Nearly every day road rage would overtake me before I had even passed another vehicle. These children could ruin a perfectly good morning commute- spilled coffee from slamming on brakes, starting the morning with horn honking, exasperated sighs of disgust. It was LIKE living in the city, only without the culture and cute outfits.

Things got worse right after Christmas. The matriarch of the dumbass children gave them a puppy. Now every Monday-Friday I would have to wait on the dumbass children to gather their backpacks and lunch boxes and shoes and coats and Puddles. Wrangling a puppy is not a quick task. It wasn't so much that my patience was stretched (which it was) as the fact that no one was supervising these children and, if you're going to have unaccompanied minors, at least teach them that kid versus car NEVER ends well.

One day, after a complete stop and assurance that all children were safely huddled on the side of the road, I slowly crept forward. The sound was like stepping on a bag of potato chips. In my rearview mirror I saw the stunned expressions on their dirty little inbred faces. As I eeked forward, I saw the crumbled pile of puppy laying on the asphalt behind me.

I took out Puddles.

As an animal lover, I think I did this puppy a favor. And the best part of this horrible experience is that when the dumbass children saw MY car coming down the street, from that day forward, they got out of the fucking way.

You Hillbillies All Look Alike

Liz observes:

I recognize that this is going to make me sound like a total bitch, but it's not New Year's Eve yet and therefore my resolution to stop sounding like a total bitch hasn't taken effect yet.

Spouses can look alike. Like Ray Ramano says about twins, one ugly one is stunning enough. Two, and you're floored.

The other night I was at a local establishment with some friends. One of the guys there brought his wife. I've seen him before and had never met her. They are both good looking people that happen to resemble each other. This sounds like a win-win on the surface but there is a catch.

Aside from the great bone structure, the most noticeable trait I found in this pair was their thin, almost infantile teeth; too small, gaps, slightly gnarled. This is creepy enough to see on one person but when you have two sitting side by side it will rock your foundation.

I kept waiting for one of them to lose a tooth in their beer. I was TOTALLY ready to put a quarter under a napkin and say it was from the tooth fairy, but I left before it happened. This does NOT mean that the bus boy didn't find a tooth stuck in a remaining hamburger bun as he was cleaning the table.

I found the quarter in my pocket this morning when I was washing my jeans and smiled.

Add to the poor teeth their hillbilly actions. I am so glad that I've almost outgrown the need to tell everybody what a badass I am. Throughout the night I had to hear the tell-tell white trash mantras:

• Just who does SHE think SHE is? Ms. THANG!
• Oh! Don't think I won't.
• She will, too!
• This mango margarita taste like shit.
• We met at community college and I wouldn't even talk to him for weeks!
• I can't wait to have babies! We want at least 4!!!
• I've got my gun in the truck if he don't stop lookin' over here.
• Let's go somewhere where we can karaoke. HANK!
• What size tires you got on your truck?

Don't get me wrong, I had a good time and they're nice enough, just a little bit scary. Hey, I've scared people before too- usually with my stunning wit and enormous breasts, but still...

While at the bar I met a GORGEOUS little hottie from Russia. He had a great accent but an even better ass. We talked for about 45 minutes before separating. He's much younger than me and so far from home...

THAT'S what I want for Christmas. Killer, can you teach me how to say "balls" in Russian?

In other news, I'm becoming addicted to on-line poker since my league is on hiatus.

And I'm quite the badass.