South

The Ugly American Crosses The Line

(Mason-Dixon, That Is)

Well ham my hocks and hush my puppies, if it isn’t Appomattox, Virginia, site of the famous Civil War surrender by Robert H. Lee to Ulice “Sis” Grant! Your old pal, TUA, recently relocated to this historic burg and I have to tell you, these Dixie turncoats can sure get hot under the collar when a true-blue Yankee Union type gives ‘em what-for about being on the short end of the stick when it comes to domestic warfare.

F’rinstance, on my first trip into town, my wife and I stopped at the feed store to pick up a supply of sustenance for our horses. When she introduced me to the proprietor, I jokingly inquired if the picture on his desk was of his wife, his sister, or both.

Perhaps the loading dock was the wrong place to emit this particular witticism. When I was finally extricated from beneath the couple of dozen or so fifty-pound grain bags, my body required more patches than a NASCAR jumpsuit. ‘Course, I didn’t help matters any by asking the paramedics where they kept the jug marked ‘XXX’. They really ought to make sure the backdoors of the ambulance are securely latched before speeding off like that. We’re talkin’ serious road-burn here!

I thought Southerners were supposed to have a sense of humor. I mean, they always did on The Andy Griffin Show and The Dukes of Hazardous, but I sure as heck didn’t see any of it here! Like them church types I ran into at the supermarket when I good-naturedly joshed them by asking where their water-slide was located or how they fit their make-up applicator paint-rollers in their purses…

A little advice from your old pal, TUA: When kidding around with Southern churchy-types of the deep-water variety, it’s best you don’t do so while standing in the canned goods section. Them ladies got mighty powerful throwing arms and you’d be surprised what kind of welts six or seven cans of black-eyed peas thrown at high velocity and close range can raise. Hope I bought enough ointment.

Then there was the lady at the linen shop who took umbrage over my asking for a set of king-sized bed-sheets without eyeholes. It took four boy scouts two hours to undo all the knots and I’m still a mite light-headed and dizzy from hanging upside down all that time. Touchy, touchy!

Anyway, the wife suggested that perhaps it’d be best if I stayed within the confines of the farm for a few weeks before attempting to venture back into town. She said the same thing in Florida after an unpleasant occurrence in which I tried to impress the locals with a few droll remarks about Jewish retirees, Cuban refugees, my preference for California citrus, and how they’d be a lot better off if they just turned the entire state over to Walt Disney. Now I can’t get within 10 miles of Jacksonville without them issuing an Amber Alert and having the State Patrol greet me with more firepower than an Arkansas Moose Lodge on a coon hunt. Can’t anybody down here take a joke, or are they afraid that if they laugh too much the vibrations will shake their trailers off the frames?

This is your old pal, The Ugly American, signing off and laying low. Y’all come back now, y’hear?