Tuesday, March 20, 2012


I have a large cedar tree about 40 feet from my back door.  A male mockingbird has taken up residence there this Spring.  I know this because he sings--all night long.  The singing doesn't bother me.  I'm a light sleeper anyway, and I'm not likely to hear the same song twice, which keeps it interesting.

This fellow knows more songs than Casey Kasem.

The bird books all say that he is trying to attract a mate.  That's probably a good strategy for any male of the species--do all your sweet talking upfront, mix it up, then shut up.

It's a skill I have never mastered.  The shut up part.  I call myself plain-spoken.  Others that know me have other terms to describe this "quality."

Case in point:  just this weekend, the Redhead said "the birds are making some weird noises this year.  You notice?"

"No, they're not," I said.  "There making the same noises they always do.  You are just noticing their singing more than you have in the past."

Words plainly spoken are not a quality admired by the female of the species.

Here are some other cases, fellows.  Never, under any circumstances, answer or comment to any of these utterances from the female of the species:

  • Does this dress make me look fat?
  • Are you getting hungry?
  • Maybe I should join a gym.
  • Let's go shopping.
  • What a beautiful day.  Want to do some yard work?
  • If I die, would you remarry?
 I hope it takes my feathered friend a while to find Miss Right.

A fellow needs some entertainment for all those long nights when he's sleeping on the couch.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

A little "r" republican in the Heart of Dixie

I feel compelled to offer an explanation.

Note that I said "explanation," and not "apology."  We've got nothing to apologize for, and quite frankly, we wouldn't apologize if we did. "We" being the rural folk of the great State of Alabama.  I won't speak for Mississippi, although I suspect their reasons were about the same as ours.

The issue?  We didn't vote for "the Party man" in yesterday's Republican primary.  Mr. Romney came in third in Alabama.  The election result map is revealing:  Romney won only the metro areas surrounding Birmingham, Montgomery, and Mobile.

We country folks don't much like him.  He is a "country club Republican."  We have NEVER been country club Republicans.  In fact, we haven't been Republicans all that long, less than 20 years in most cases, and even now most of us who vote that way do so only because the Democratic Party abandoned us.

We didn't vote Romney because he doesn't have a clue about the average person in Alabama.

Romney made the mistake of calling a well-known syndicated sport's talk show just before the primary.  I guess he wanted to "connect" with the Crackers and Hillbillies he would need to win Alabama.  It was a miscalculation on his strategist's part.  Good idea--poor execution.

It became apparent, very quickly I might add, that this man knows nothing about college football, which is not going to win the hearts and minds of Alabamians.  I doubt he knows the National Championship has lived in Alabama for the last three years, or who the coaches are at our two big-time schools.

The host of the show tried to help him out of his jam by changing the subject to the NFL.  He asked Romney about the recent free-agency of Peyton Manning.

"I'm friends with several NFL team owners, but I really don't care where Manning goes as long as he doesn't play in the same division against my Patriots.  I hope he doesn't land in our neck of the woods."

My, my.  I believe we got us a rich-boy country club Republican here, mama--and a damn Yankee to boot.

Those of you outside the South who are desperate to beat the current president shouldn't worry too much.  We made our statement yesterday.  We will fall in line in November and vote for whoever y'all nominate--not because we want to, but because we'd like to get back to some of the luxuries we used to enjoy down here before Obama/Biden and their hope and change--little things like jobs, groceries, gas--stuff like that.

But we won't like it.

Fergit, hell.