Now, I’ve always had my suspicions about southerners, but who hasn’t?
The first strike against these fascinating folks is they think that watching a bunch funny looking cars go around in endless circles is actually entertainment, or worse yet, a sport!
Then there’s their strange and exotic “cuisine.” Tea should never be sweet, I don’t want to have to say the word “grits” much less eat them, some things were never meant to be deep fried, and biscuits and gravy isn’t a meal, it’s a death sentence.
They don’t even speak the common tongue! Cattywampus, purdy, tarnation, and varmint? I refuse to wear “britches” and will someone please tell me what the hell “y’all” means and why it has ten syllables?
Why, southerners will even go as far as electing politicians with peculiar and unnatural names like Newt Gingrich, Jeb Bush, Trent Lott, and Saxby Chambliss. Saxby Chambliss? That sounds something you should go to the doctor to get lanced.
But despite their vast and numerous shortcomings, in the spirit of brotherhood, love of country, and all that crap, I’ve generally been willing to make an exception and let these peccadilloes go. But no more my Jeff Foxworthy enamored friends. After those recent meteorological events, it’s time to draw a Mason-Dixon line in the sand.
(For my southern readers, “meteorological” means weather related.)
Apparently, the second the southern flurries started, the entire state of Georgia, having contracted a collective case of the vapors (a strange southern disease), all dashed for their rusty red pickup trucks with the rubber testicles dangling off the back bumper at exactly the same time.
And as you might expect, that many southerners on the slightly slippery roads created the kind of havoc that can only be approximated to the biblical endtimes or a really bad B movie.
There were twelve hour commutes, a slew of abandoned vehicles, vehicles in the ditch, children stranded overnight in schools, and all sorts of the sky is falling general chaos.
When it snows two inches in northern Illinois, we grab our crotch, flip Mother Nature off, and ask if that’s all she’s got. Two inches of snow isn’t even enough to engage in that grand Midwestern tradition of writing your name in it without a stick. Chicagoans show their contempt for two inches of snow by taking off their shoes and walking around in it barefoot.
But just two inches of the fluffy stuff managed to bring Atlanta to it’s knees faster than General Sherman could’ve hoped for on his best day.
Now we know why the South didn’t win the Civil War, though I wish they had because it would’ve spared the northern half of the country from this kind of unimaginable ignominy. My God! If Lincoln had procured just one snow machine that war would’ve been over in a week!
(For my southern readers, ignominy means humiliation.)
So we don’t wanna hear another word about southern pride; we don’t want to see another Ford Pinto with a Confederate flag flying through an open window; and we certainly don’t want to have to watch another episode of Honey Boo Boo. The sad truth is, y’all are a nothing more than a bunch of wusses, weenies and wimps.
But we don’t want you to feel too bad my weather challenged Dixie dwellers. After all, we northerners are nothing if not polite. So please rest assured that we’re not laughing with you, we’re most certainly laughing at you.
And should you feel the need to secede again, this time, you have our full support.