I love the South:
we still have debutante parties,
the college kids who attend are unfailingly polite,
and when the band plays Sweet Home Alabama, the place goes nuts!
I have been to a million of these parties, and always, at some point late in the evening, it is obligatory for the band to start strumming Skynard. An instrumental chorus begins as a prelude. The first familiar notes ring out and everybody knows what’s coming. People, young and old holler and rush onto the dance floor; the jeune femmes jump on stage. The electricity circulates, feet get to moving, happiness abounds and if the assembly could speak in one voice, the message is unmistakable, ” we are from the South, we like it and everyone else can F-off.”
When this happens, I get a tingly feeling and this mad urge to bayonet a few Yankees. Lord knows,
there are plenty of them around, they are like Mayflies.
When I was growing up, I never knew what a belly-button was. My father just told us children that the hole in our stomach was “where the Yankee shot ya.” Since all the other children I knew were fellow Virginians, it was logical to assume that the Yankees had shot them as well.
In the 6th grade, my family visited some friends of theirs who had a house in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. I noticed that the Yankee children all had holes in their stomachs too. I thought, what mean sons of bitches, these people shot their own children. I almost felt sorry for those kids.
By the way, it is my understanding that in today’s PC world, it is now against the law to bayonet Yankees, so please write your representative.