Tag Archives: Redneck Hillfolk

Dear Sweet Mama Never Learns

Our lovely and talented Minister of Finance, LeeAnn, recently regaled us with the tale of her heroic rescue of one of the inbred waterhead kittens she has living under her house.  So I have no choice but to relate…

The Legend(s) of Dear Sweet Mama

vs. the Snapping Turtle(s)

PART I.

We begin our tale long ago (shut up!) when Hoody was but a wee slip of a lass (shut UP!) still living in her Childhood Home with Dear Sweet Mama (yes, the same Childhood Home with the bottomless bucket of poop in the yard).  DSM and Young Hoody were going out somewhere, and as they passed the fence post that butted up against the side of the house, they beheld a strange sight:

A snapping turtle, apparently emerging from hibernation in the mud, had somehow managed to get itself wedged between the fence and the house.  Vertically, so it was a-waving all its little legs helplessly.  And DSM and Hoody swung into action.

Now, a brief note for those of you who do NOT hail from out the holler, a snapping turtle looks like this:

And yes, if he appears angry to you, imagine how angry he would be if he was covered in mud and trapped between the fence and the house, balanced upright on his wee turtle tail.  And hissing.  And snapping.  But DSM and Hoody were undeterred in their mission of mercy.

So they got a stick.

And they tried to use the stick to poke the turtle sideways so that he would slide out of the gap he was stuck in and go upon his way.

Turtle don’t play dat.

That damn thing whipped his big ol’ angry head around on his freakishly long neck… AND BIT THE STICK IN HALF.

So DSM and Hoody repaired to the house to find something more durable to poke the turtle with (i.e., something a turtle could not, at least theoretically, bite through)… but when they emerged a short time later, the turtle appeared to have solved his own problems and gotten free on his own.

So DSM and Hoody repaired back into the house again… because that meant the turtle was LOOSE.  And they had POKED it.

You’d think that would be enough to teach DSM that snapping turtles do not appreciate the kindness of strangers.  But no!  Stay tuned for Part II tomorrow!

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Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, Getchore LEARN on!, La Vida Loca, Only in Wes' BYGAWD Virginny, Reality Bites, SCIENCE!, The Royal Court, Youse Guys

All Quiet on the Porch Out Front

As I mentioned yesterday, my favorite local Pizza Joint very nearly got itself burnt the fuck down by a mysterious arsonist who was less-than-satisfied with her Pizza Joint experience (and we have NO IDEA who that could have been).  We have, however, at great personal risk, obtained the following dispatches from the front lines of The Great Pizza Wars (messages intercepted via wire tap or other surveillance are in italics):

1100 hours: *FIELD OPERATIVES REPORT DELIVERY DUDE AT DOOR WITH SUBJECT.*

“This isn’t my receipt, this is the one for the $85 order y’all got just before me.  Sure, I’ll just pay cash for my order and call the restaurant back.”

1110: VIA WIRE TAP

“What do you mean, you already ran my card? You didn’t run it for $85, did you?  Well, good, but I just paid the guy in cash!”

“Well, you can just un-run it then.”

“Fine, then send him back up here with my money… AND with the pepperoni rolls he didn’t bring the first time.”

1210: *FIELD OPERATIVES REPORT SUBJECT HAS BEEN WEARING PANTS FAR LONGER THAN SHE ANTICIPATED.  ALERT STATUS ORANGE.*

1236:  FROM:  SOCIAL MEDIA SURVEILLANCE TEAM

Fuck. Me. Running.  Still waiting for the dude with mah money and the rest of mah order.

1307:  FROM:  SMST

Nice try not answering my home phone call, pizza bitches!  I have a cell phone, too!

1310:  VIA WIRE TAP

“Yes, may I speak to a manager? Oh, you are the manager.  Well, I’m still waiting for my… He’s on his way?  Good, thank you.”

1330: *FIELD OPERATIVES REPORT DELIVERY DUDE HAS RETURNED WITH REMAINDER OF ORDER AND FREE PEPPERONI ROLLS. SUBJECT SEEMS SOMEWHAT MOLLIFIED AND PANTS-FREE.  CRISIS AVERTED, STAND DOWN.*

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again… never let it be said I cannot be bought.

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Filed under La Vida Loca, Only in Wes' BYGAWD Virginny, Reality Bites, WTF???

Can’t Make It Up

Cleanin’ out the ol’ C.T. … just a few inexplicable situations in which I’ve found myself lately:

1.  HUGE Brass Balls

Scene:  Hoody Hoo is attempting to ascertain why her cable/phone/internet are all out, so she calls the company.  Following the automatic prompts, this happens:
HH:  *enters home phone number*

HH:  *enters last 4 digits of SSN*

HH:  *presses “5” to “report a problem”*

HH:  *presses “1” for phone outage, because although EVERYTHING is out, there’s no option for that*

Cable Company Recording:  “If you are in the ((hugely long list of pretty much every town in Wes’BYGAWD Virginny)) areas and are experiencing problems, please be aware our technicians are working to restore your service… If you would like to make a payment, please visit us at stupidcableassholes-dot-com.”

HH:  REALLY???

2.  Sharpen Those Skills

Scene:  Hoody Hoo is in the checkout line at Walmart, and the manager-looking types nearby are discussing an inventory issue.

Manager-Type # 1: “Well, it looks like they sent half a case of this and half a case of that but marked it down as a full case of that…”

Checkout Girl (muttering):  “Which is what I just said, a little bit ago, but you weren’t listening then and you’re not listening now…”

Hoody Hoo:  “Oh, you’re just practicing talking.”

Checkout Girl erupts in surprised cackle of laughter.  Manager-Types are not amused.

3.  Do You Know Who You Called?

Hoody Hoo is on the phone to Pizza Joint.

Pizza Joint Gal:  “Hello, thank you for calling Pizza Joint, can you hold please?”

HH:  “Sure, no problem.”

Phone is laid down on counter BUT NOT put on hold, so we still hear:

PJG (to another customer on the phone):  “No sir, we don’t do paninis. <pause> No, we don’t do that either. “<pause> PJG yells to the kitchen: “Hey!  Is there a calzone special?” Back to phone: “I’m sorry, we don’t have that either. <very long pause> “Okay, that’ll be $85.”

PJG comes back to Hoody’s phone:

HH:  “Did you just get an order for $85 from somebody who doesn’t even know what you serve?”

PJG: “I KNOW, right?  We’re on the damn internet!”

Then, as those of you who follow me on teh Twitter may have noticed, what can only be termed “The Pizza Wars” began as the not-quite-right delivery dude fucked up my order so many times I almost went to burn the building down… but it all worked out in the end!  In fact, it may be time for another order…

 

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Filed under I'm Confused, La Vida Loca, Reality Bites, Weep for Humanity, WTF???

This Is How We Do It

Had a wedding reception over the weekend — one of those where they got married already, then came home to have a party — love that idea, btw.  But anyhoo, we had a blast — the bride got so drunk she spilled 3 drinks on herself (luckily AFTER she had changed out of her dress!), broke a glass and fell twice, after which she pretty much just sat in the floor laughing like a loon.  And the groom was so shitfaced he couldn’t do anything about it, so for all I know they may have had to sleep there!

But the best part… was the food…

Heaping platters (yes, plural) of fried chicken, vegetable tray, chips and salsa, every kind of potato-salad-macaroni-salad-whatever-salad imaginable… and the piece de resistance:  TWO ENORMOUS MEAT AND CHEESE TRAYS WITH WHOLE LOAVES OF BREAD SITTING NEXT TO THEM FOR MAKE-YOUR-OWN-SAMMICHES!  Now that’s a motherfuckin’ party!

But there were also… little weenies.

And I LOOOOOOOOVE little weenies.  Little weenies soaking in a bubbling Crock-pot full of barbecue sauce is second only to little meatballs in the Hoody Hoo Food Pyramid.  Oh, and little quiches. And crabcakes.

But I digress.

The pancreas… does not approve of little weenies in BBQ sauce.

Even WITH the pig enzymes, I had to let Chuckweasel have most of them after my damn organs got uppity.  Now, I’m figuring it’s the sauce, since I’ve had both regular hot dogs and little meatballs in a similar sauce PP (Post-Pancreapocolyse) with no trouble.  So the difference between the weenie sauce and the meatball sauce is the bad part.

But still.  I will miss you, little weenies in BBQ sauce.  We had a good run.

And then, as we were packing up to leave, I saw this:

WTF?

And I felt a little better.

 

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Filed under Chuckweasel, He's the DJ I'm the Rapper, La Vida Loca, Only in Wes' BYGAWD Virginny, Reality Bites, WTF???

Stop DOING That!

As y’all know, I work for a country radio station (your condolences are appreciated), so I end up listening to that crap style of music a lot.  And I’ve noticed yet another thing about it that pisses me off:  The M. Night Shyamalan School of Songwriting.

Along me to explain:  I hate hate hate M. Night Shyamalan, he is a ruinous human being and should not be allowed access to film.  The only time his “twist” actually surprised anyone was when they screened “The Village” at the Regional School for the Blind, Deaf, and Completely Fucking Retarded.  YOU ARE NOT SURPRISING ANYONE, YOU HORRENDOUS TWAT!

Ahem.  So, as you can see, I am not a fan of the poorly-disguised and completely-foreshadowed “twist.”  Surprise me, motherfuckers!  It ain’t that hard, just throw in a “the call is coming from inside the house” or something.  This rule applies to movies, books, and yes, songs, too.

VIRTUALLY ALL OF COUNTRY MUSIC

IS ONE BIG VAT OF

SHYAMALAN-A-DING-DONG DICKERY!

For example, if a girl is singing about how much she misses her ex, he didn’t leave her, he’s dead.  If ANYONE is singing about their mama, she is also dead.  Everyone anyone cares about can be virtually guaranteed to be revealed as either dead or a cheating bastard by the end of the song.  No surprises.

(I do enjoy the part of “Three Wooden Crosses” where you find out the preacher’s mama’s a whore, but that’s just me)

Seriously, country singers:  If you’re going to keep doing this, be honest.  Be upfront about it.  Don’t make people sit through a whole song hoping against hope that some kid’s dear ol’ daddy DIDN’T really get blowed up in the mine, just get that out in the open early.  We already know, and you know we know, and so forth.

I suggest you look for inspiration to Mr. Gordon Lightfoot.  No one goes into “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” expecting a happy ending.

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Filed under At the Movies, I Rule You, Just Call Me Beavis, Weep for Humanity

I Might Be a Redneck…

… okay, there’s really no “might” about it.  But I do know I’ve been working in country radio for too. damn. long.  And here’s how I know:

Yesterday was Chuckweasel’s first day riding the bus, and I asked him how it went.  Then this happened.

Chuckweasel:  Oh, it was fine.  I didn’t realize how expansive —

HoodyHoo (interrupting):  I thought it was a dollar?

CW:  What’s a dollar?

HH:  The bus.

CW:  It is.

HH:  But you said it was expensive…

CW (incredulously):  Um, honey… I said “exPANsive”… I was talking about the office complex where the bus turns around, I didn’t know it was that big…”

To CW’s credit, he DID NOT end that sentence with, “you ignorant stump-jumpin’ hillbilly.”

HH:  Oh.

CW:  You been working with them yay-hoos too long.

And he’s right, but they’ve already got me, so I might as well stick around!

PS:  Today I said someone set something on “far.”  But I meant to, to be funny.  I think.

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Filed under Chuckweasel, GENIUS!, La Vida Loca, My Secret Shame(s)

Happy HOlidays!

No, that isn’t a case of stupid-finger-syndrome (SFS) up there… I really do mean to emphasize the “HO’ part.  Here’s why:

One of the clans of Redneck Hillfolk up at Ye Olde Apartment Complex has put a red light bulb in their porch light.  And I think they mean it as a Christmas decoration, but I’m not sure.  Let’s apply some Non-Stick Science, shall we?

OBSERVATIONS

1.  There are no OTHER decorations visible.  This would seem to indicate either it’s NOT for Christmas or these particular Hillfolk are unusually lazy.

2.  The porch itself is home to a disproportionately large number of chairs.  Like, I live alone, so I have one chair and a little patio bench on my porch.  This particular batch of Hillfolk (whose apartment is exactly the same size as mine, remember) have at least 7 or 8 of those cheap-ass white plastic chairs.  And no tables.  This leads me to believe the light means what I always THOUGHT red lights meant and they’re using their porch as a waiting room.

(Wait.  Do hookers have waiting rooms?  That’s gotta be uncomfortable.  And sticky.)

3.  Hookers operating out of Ye Olde Apartment Complex wouldn’t even be all that illegal by the current standards of illegal immigrants and drug deals.  In fact, it wouldn’t even be the most illegal thing I’ve seen this WEEK.

So, what do y’all think?  Hookers or lazy trash? Or both, don’t wanna exclude the most likely possibility!

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Filed under GENIUS!, I'm Confused, La Vida Loca, Only in Wes' BYGAWD Virginny, SCIENCE!, Ye Olde Apartment Complex