Avoiding the Confusion..

Greetings Y'all!

I had the absolute pleasure of spending four years living on the Eastern Plains of Colorado, where rednecks are commonly referred to as ranchers, cowboys and farmers. (Sometimes they are all three!) I had a small ranch (by comparison) of 160 acres out in the middle of nowhere 8 miles outside a small town called Rush, 50 miles east of Colorado Springs. Oddly enough, no one was in one there, but that's what the town was called. They had a great cafe , but nothing else besides the volunteer fire department.

My place was called the Lazy Flying BS Ranch. (True story. I even had a brand on register with the Department of Agriculture. Look it up.) And we raised beef steers and horses.

I loved that place.

My nearest neighbor was a mile away and I could pee off the front porch with impunity. No one ever called the authorities that I was exposing myself. Trust me, that's a difficult thing to explain in most neighborhoods.

Some of the other things I could do from my front porch were shoot prairie dogs or sight my guns in, scratch myself, and watch thunderstorms in Kansas. (I knew they were in Kansas because I had my laptop out and was checking the radar to see where it was.)

One of the things we had out on the prairie was a breed of folk that brings a bad name to rednecks everywhere; the dreaded Trailer Trash.

This was in evidence in all it's glory when my pal and best friend a horny farm girl could ever have, Ryan "Milk. Milk. Lemonade." Smith, came to visit. (Yes, he actually worked that into a conversation when the wife and I asked a local girl, who ranch sat for us when we had to go out of town, to join Ryan and us out for pizza. She thought it was funny and asked after he left for home when he was coming back. Go figure. She must have a soft spot for the depraved.)

So, I get a call from Ryan one Winter day letting me know he was coming to visit, was somewhere in Kansas, and wanted to know how to get to the ranch. Thank goodness there were only three roads heading that way and he happened to be on the right one. He made it to the ranch later that afternoon and we made plans for the weekend to go snowmobiling up on the Continental Divide.

The next day we headed out to Monarch Pass, way, way, way up in the mountains. On the way to the paved road we passed by a typical site marking the location of trailer trash, a single wide up on blocks in front of a double wide.

Ryan spotted it right away.

"Will ya look at that!", he said in amazement. "I'll tell ya, you can't hide money."

I nodded in agreement. What else could I say?

Trailer trash are the kind of folk who dress a lot like rednecks, but there are some fundamental differences.

Aside from living in trailers and trailer parks, trailer trash are usually the first ones to pick a bar fight, usually with a redneck. They usually get their butts kicked as they are often too drunk to land the first punch anyway.

Trailer trash think everything is of value and will try to sell it to you for far more than they got it for. Most of the time, it's trash to start with and they don't end up selling it at all, but choose instead to store it outside of their trailer. (There's no room inside.. ) That explains the various piles of assorted trash out side the trailer. Hence, the moniker "Trailer Trash".

Trailer trash are notorious dumpster drivers. (And you thought it was raccoons. A fact most people don't know is that an unshaven trailer trash often resembles a very large raccoon.) It's how they replenish their inventory.

Trailer trash women are easily plied with alcohol, even if they are married, and it is usually OK to bed the married ones without repercussion from their husbands if you send them home with a six-pack. Consequently, trailer trash men are easily distracted by beer and porn. If you are ever negatively confronted by a trailer trash man, hold up a porn magazine and a beer, offer it to them and you will have a friend for life. They might even offer you their woman if you do it often enough.

There is the occasional redneck who lives in a trailer park, but they usually hate their neighbors. Mostly because a trailer is the worst place to hang a trophy mount. There's just not enough room to hang a decent trophy rack without taking an eye out trying to get past to head to to the bathroom.

So, now that we've got that cleared up, Ryan and I had a great time snowmobiling. For those of you who have never gone, it's a lot like a combination of jet skiing and four-wheeling, but on snow. And, you wear more clothes.

We rented some sleds (That's what they call snowmobiles up there.) and a guide so we wouldn't get lost and went up riding around some old mines, through some old logging roads and just rode and rode having a great time enjoying the scenery. It truly is beautiful up in the high Rockies. At one point, Ryan was facing going down a very steep hill (Like 80 degrees straight down for about 100 yards.) and he just jumped off the back. Thank goodness he didn't lose his sled in the forest, but it made me laugh and laugh. He's much better at fishing, and that ain't saying much.

Well, that's all for now.

Go Hurricanes!

More Fish Tails..

Howdy again!

Having lived in North Carolina for many years, my friend Ryan "Gimme that hog jowl!" Smith (whom I have known almost as long as my wife) and I have gone on many fishing expeditions aboard my somewhat trusty vessel "The Hungry Dawg" on the vast and open waters of Kerr Lake. Kerr Lake is a huge lake that straddles Virginia and North Carolina, due north of Durham and contains many lunkers. (I once caught a fish that swallowed whole the original fish I caught.)

On one such occasion, we were fishing in a quiet cove near Satterwhite Point for crappie, catfish and all manner of bream (bluegill for you Yankees). We had just settled in and had cast out when, suddenly, Ryan's phone rang.

"Uh oh", he says. "It's the boat anchor."

I start to get up to check the ropes that attach the anchors to the boat. Ryan waves me off and points to his phone. It's the wife. I give him the universal hand gesture that means "Gotcha, I understand."; thumbs up.

The ensuing conversation went something like this.

"I'm fishing with Bob."

"What do you mean 'It doesn't sound like I'm fishing?' What does fishing sound like? We're on a lake. It's quiet."

"I'm fishing. Really. Say 'Hi." Bob." ("Hi!")

"OK. Uh huh. Yup. OK. Bye."

He hangs up the phone and looks at me incredulously.

"College educated social worker.", he says and gives me that pained, pinched-faced look that can only mean: "I don't get it."

He sighs that big sigh that one sighs when one is trying to shrug off an enigma that has the effect of being immersed in a vat of underfed fleas.

"Let's fish.", I say and so we do.

But something is stuck in Ryan's craw like fried chicken gristle lodged between two cavity riddled molars. He looks up and spies a woman on the shore tending a garden and frolicking next to her is a very spunky sheltie. (A sheltie, for those of you who are not familiar with this breed of dog, is a miniature collie and is favored among northerners who have drifted South in search of better winter weather and cheap property.)

With all the annoyance and malice he could muster, Ryan then begins a soliloquy of pain and rancor not seen since the likes of Shakespear's Dane, Hamlet.

"A sheltie.. Will ya look at that. In Cary (his town) we have lots of those shelties. Cary, Concentrated Area of Relocated Yankees. They drive me crazy. I hate'em. They get mad and scowl at you if you change your oil in the driveway."

Then in a whiny, nasally New Yawk accent he launches into an impersonation of the stereotypical neighbor that seems to plague true rednecks everywhere.

"Ohhh.. Look at my shel-tie! Isn't he pretty? His name is Trevah! Trevah is the smartest dog evaahh! He can sit. He can fetch a bawl. He can play dead. I love my shel-tie! You know since we moved down heah, we haven't been able to find a decent bagel. Whea are all the Stah-bucks, and the delis? All these people eat down heah ahh bis-kits. Trevah doesn't even like bis-kits! Look at my shel-tie! It's so hawt down heah! It's hawt and muggy! Trevah doesn't do muggy. "

"Why don't they just go back where they came from?", he says. "Look. Don't move to the South and complain because the people here are Southern! Maybe if they ate some collard greens they wouldn't be so full of crap. Collard greens and grits. Good roughage if you ask me. Eat some collard greens and grits and save your money on that Zelnorm prescription. It's not irritable bowel syndrome. They're just backed up and need to clean out their colon!"

By the time he got to this point, his voice had been growing louder and louder as he got to the end. Mind you this was a calm, cool morning where every word traveled across the glassy lake like a whisper in Carnegie Hall.

I look up and there's the lady, leaning on her shovel, staring out across the cove at Ryan, who had forgotten all about her.

I am laughing hysterically at his impression and when I noticed the lady, I laughed even harder, tears coming out of my eyes, barely able to keep my breath.

I hardly have the physical wits to point across the cove.

Ryan figures it out in about a micro second.

Without missing a beat, he says, "Sorry shel-tie lady!" in that whiny, nasally northern accent.

She gives him the finger.

I catch my breath long enough to say, "Wanna go fish that cove where we almost caught that bass?"

"Sure." he says. "Let's fish."

"you feel better?", I ask.

He nods vigorously, a smile slowly broading across his face.

We started the motor and left the quiet cove, both us us hunched over to ward off the hairy eyeball daggers shooting our way from the slowly receding shore behind us.

It was a good day.

Welcome to Redneck Haven

Howdy and welcome friend...

I intend to use this waste of space on a hard drive to chronicle the simple fact that rednecks are every where, sea to shining sea. It is a widespread myth that the entire redneck population is confined to the Southern states. (You have to capitalize Southern. It's the law dammit..) The true fact is that rednecks are everywhere.

Case in point: Fishing. It is universally accepted that every redneck ever borned loves fishin'. Rednecks invented fishing. It's origins goes way back to the olden Bible times when a man, who had surely come to the end of his rope listening to his woman carp on him about not hunting up enough food, found that at the end of the aforementioned rope was a tiny filament to which he could attach a hook fashioned from a piece of bone, dip it into the water with some bait attached and, viola! (Walla for those of you whose French is limited to swear words and cussing.) a fish would bite and could be reeled in, hand over hand if necessary, cooked and eaten.

Well, that was the plan, anyway.

In truth, it was more wet line and napping than reeling. At least he was putting in the effort and as long as he brought home a fish or two, the woman was happy and all ate well.

Now, my buddy and bestest friend a dog or man could ever have Ryan "Smokey Pants" Smith, is a born in the south redneck, a man of true redneck origins, had come to visit me in Wisconsin over the Winter. Way up north (north is not capitalized. It's the law dammit!) the lakes freeze over and hoards of pickup trucks can be seen out on the lakes in search of peace and quiet - umm fish. From Lake Michigan and Green Bay to the tiniest of over sized ponds like Pike Lake near my house, rednecks go to great lengths to fish. Some even bring with them elaborate shacks on trailers to fish from. With amenities such as a bathroom, couches, bunk beds, kitchens and, yes, satellit

e TV so you can watch the Outdoor channel or the football game, a redneck could get quite comfy fishing out there until the Spring thaw comes and chases them all back home.

As a show of true redneck hospitality, I bundled up my fine frittered friend in true cold weather gear (Insulated Carharts top to bottom and a fur lined over the ear cap) and off we trundled to the lake. We drove my truck out on to the pond and parked out where the fishing seemed to be going strong. We talked to several guys out there and they when asked how things were going they all had the same answer.

"The fishing's great, but we ain't catching nuthin." *wink*

At 5 degrees and the wind chill at minus 20, Ryan lasted all of 25 minutes before he motioned to me to come close so as not to be over heard.

"I can't feel my face, Dude."

It was time to go and I had the sneaking suspicion that the hearty northern redneck had earned his respect and admiration. I took him back to the casa and got him all thawed out.

To make it up to him, the next day we went on down to Milwaukee and took a tour of the Miller Beer factory (Free Beer!), spent some time at the Harley Museum and met up with a local friend, Tim Cook (Bassist for the legendary indie-rock band Bender.) at my favorite downtown watering hole in Milwaukee to toss back a batch of beer made right there in town.

It was a wonderful redneck adventure.

More to come..