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Posts Tagged ‘Rednecks’

I don’t usually make resolutions for the new year. (Why wait until Jan. 1 if you want to change something?) The closest I get is making non-resolutions.

I’m feeling optimistic and inspired, though. And so I resolve to:

  • try noodling. (Anyone know a good guide?)
  • wear skirts more often. (I tend to be a pants kind of gal.)
  • go to Lacoste again (or, at the very least, drink more French wine).
  • speak more Spanish at home and keep practicing French.
  • acquire more chickens (much to Eddie’s dismay).
  • clean out my pantry. (I don’t really think this will happen, but it is nice to have a goal.)
  • stop letting my son’s superhero noises bother me. (Yeah, that won’t happen either.)
  • see Adam Ant in concert. (He’s on tour!)
  • throw my panties on the stage at that concert. (I’m kidding. Just making sure you’re paying attention.)
  • see Van Halen reunited with David Lee Roth in concert.
  • visit the Brannens in Abu Dhabi.
  • go camping at least once.
  • see my friend Tina’s new place and finally talk her into visiting us.
  • stop pretending I like to listen to NPR in my car. (Confession: It’s usually ’80s and country.)
  • audition for a play or musical.
  • actually go out for drinks/dinner with my friends Matt, Pam, Kathy, Lee, etc., instead of just talking about it.
  • either part ways with my padding or to stop talking about it.
  • make homemade pasta more often. (Not sure this goes with the one above.)
  • take a cooking class to improve my knife skills.
  • go to more of the interesting festivals I like so much (such as the Redneck Games).
  • write more, read more, talk less.

Of course, there are the resolutions I share with almost everyone else: Improve eating habits, exercise more, spend more time with family, save money, etc.

Now I’m ready for the new year. How about you?

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In one week, this village will be my new home:

It’s only temporary, though.

The university that employs me has a study-abroad campus in the South of France. I was lucky enough to be selected to teach writing courses there in the fall.

Here are the answers to the Top Five questions I’m asked:

  1. No, Eddie is not going. He and the kids will join me later in the quarter.
  2. Because the boys have school and he has work events planned.
  3. Yes, of course I will miss them. Skype will save us.
  4. Yes, I’m excited, mainly for the chance to gorge myself on wine and cheese and a variety of other treats for which the Luberon Valley is known.
  5. No, I don’t speak French fluently. I will be able to carry on conversations with French toddlers based on what I remember from two years of the language in high school. And I can inquire as to the whereabouts of my sunglasses.

Although I’ll still post images of grammar mistakes in the wild, this blog will change focus a bit.

Perhaps a temporary blog title is appropriate.

Perhaps “A Redneck in Provence.”

 

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Just when you thought it was safe to read my blog again, I bring you more photos from the Redneck Games!

(Hey, I allowed a few days for your system to get back to normal after Sunday’s post.)

Sarah shows off her "arsenal of hydration." *

Bursting with excitement, I lead the way to the festival. (Photo by Royce)

Bikinis and boots: A fashion trend sweeping Dublin. (Photo by Royce)

Muscular men and jorts go together like peas and carrots (or twigs and berries, as the case may be). And white velcro shoes too? Mmm ... tasty!

Feast upon this buffet of manflesh and be disappointed you did not get to use your own looking holes -- er, eyes -- in person.

Nothing says "redneck" like a freshly dug mudpit for bellyfloppin'.

Ol' Dixie also makes a great beach towel.

I actually wanted to compete in this event. They didn't draw my number. I wept. (Or maybe that was just sweat.)

Nothing like a "sovienor" cup to commemorate the day.

If you are thinking about attending next year’s Redneck Games, you should know this:

  • It is hotter than the surface of the sun in Dublin in July.
  • Even with a canopy, you must apply sunscreen or you will be redder than the General Lee.
  • There is no organization and no real schedule. Type As must get over it.
  • No real bathrooms either. Savor the Port-O-Let.
  • Media will nearly outnumber the participants.
  • You can make a killing selling ice. And beer. And Dixie bathing suits.

See you all next year!

* Heidi gets the credit for this term.

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This week I submitted the final version of my dissertation and the corresponding paperwork. One of my first activities as a new Ph.D.? Attend the 2011 Redneck Games.

Allow me to take you on an amazing journey with this gallery of images.

Redneck living room

Redneck Granny comes over for a chat. A long chat.

Awaiting the lighting of the ceremonial torch

Posing while awaiting the lighting of the ceremonial torch

Lighting the ceremonial torch

Let the games begin!

Enjoying the view.

Royce enjoys himself.

Redneck Snooki

Redneck Snooki performs.

Jack Sprat and his wife

"Germany Sucks"

Redneck rump shaker

Redneck horseshoes

Royce seems intrigued while Sarah seems perplexed.

John and Heidi are mystified. Or sleeping.

Jeff Vaughan and his moonshine.

One of many interesting tattoos

Tiffany must be so pleased.

What?

Yeehaw.

Jorts are never a good idea.

Armpit serenade

Redneck Riviera

Redneck water slide

Sarah partakes in riverdancing.

It's really too hot for a Dixie duster.

Crack kills.

Sigh.

Bobbing for pigs' feet

See other comment regarding jorts.

On our way to get a second round of "sno-cones."

The Man of Steel and his buns of puff pastry

Dixie overload

It is important to know your true size when you shop.

See comment regarding clothing sizes.

Redneck Granny needed a nap.

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Copper comes a-calling

No Fourth of July celebration is complete without a visit from the Po-Po. Usually, the Po-Po visit the neighbors across the street. But last night, we earned a talking-to.

We have become “The Other.”

Why?

This (and its ilk):

Friends from Florida and relatives from South Carolina brought some treats from their respective states. Unfortunately, these treats are not allowed in Georgia. Georgia is OK with sparklers and “non-explosive and non-aerial” types of pyrotechnics.

Um … well … that’s not what we had. The polite young deputy sheriff who suddenly appeared at our fence was kind enough to remind us of Georgia law.

It didn’t matter that our neighbor (“Big Screen’) had launched a River Street-style display the night before. We ceased and desisted, much to the dismay of our pyro-leaning progeny.

Clearly, the transformation is complete.

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Signs of life

Today I saw two signs that merit a mention.

No separation of church and state in Bloomingdale.

Hmmm ... this could have a different connotation.

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If there is any question that there is an obesity epidemic in America, then I suggest a trip to Summer Waves (or really any water or theme park).

You know what else has reached epidemic proportions?

Bad tattoos.

You can find those at Summer Waves also.

Did she give the baby the tattoo gun and let him have at it?

You know what his destiny is? The ER after a heart attack.

¿Que carajo es eso? A snake? Hamburglar? Dopey from the Seven Dwarves?

Is this a permanent immunity necklace? Immunity from normal relationships, I'd bet.

What IS this? Maybe a wave of humiliation surrounded by kanji for "I'm a dumbass with no taste."

I spy with my little eye a penguin on a doughnut, one of those freaky intestinal tapeworms, a rabid bunny, and an ode to Wesley (as in Dread Pirate Roberts? As you wish.)

Tattoo-watching = more interesting than waterslides!

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Summer is starting to bring out the “best” in my redneck neighbors. I’ve mentioned some springtime idiocy, but the summer offers something different.

I’ve been collecting stories about the neighbors — whom Eddie and I have named Serial Killer, Beekeeper, Ghost, Refrigerator Box, The Preacher, Prophetess, Auburn, Professor, Shirtless George, Big Screen, Fish Trapper and Kurt Land — but today’s post is about Mr. Gun. Mr. B.B. Gun.

We live on a small lake and we were enjoying the serenity (Serenity now!) while feeding the geese.

Suddenly, we heard gunshots (which, incidentally, is why we left our last neighborhood, Cracktown).

We look up and see this:

Our neighbor is throwing out fish food, then shooting the fish with his BB gun.

Seriously? It is too much trouble to get out a pole? Why not just skip right to dynamite?

I called the local police department to see if such activity is legal in our area. I got voice mail.

Sigh.

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From Blitchton, here’s proof of functional illiteracy in America.

(Thank you, Royce, for bringing this into my life.)

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I apologize for my dissertation-induced hiatus. I’m back with a vengeance: a roundup of this week’s idiocy, near and far.

From Texas:

From Montana:

From around the corner:

I think I'm offended.

And from the Savannah Morning News:

I can't imagine the Muslim would want to be worn anyway.

And I’ve just discovered the apostrophe key is not working on my laptop (all of the ones here were cut and pasted). How will I survive?

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