So, here we were, Mike and me and his twelve year old son, sitting in a bar at ten P.M. eating fried chicken and drinking beer.
Well, Mike and I were drinking beer. Matt was drinking Pepsi.
If that ain't redneck I don't know what is. Maybe if Matt had been drinking beer too, that would have been more rednecky.
Note: I tapped this out in a text editor a couple of weeks ago, as I've been without the internet. Perhaps a comparison between DSL and cable will be a later diary. Also, I might write up last night's Perfunctory show. I think the band was drunk.
Chris and Donna are so redneck they make Mike and me look like urbane sophisticates. Chris was at Mike's house a few weeks ago.
God, I feel sorry for Chris. Donna's a hottie, if you're turned on by ultra-skinny chicks, but other than that she's worse than even Evil-X, if you can believe that.
She's a stone cold alcoholic, drinking from whatever time of day she deems “morning” until she passes out at night. She doesn't cook, she doesn't clean, she doesn't shop, she doesn't work.
She doesn't eat. At least, not much anyway. All she does is smoke cigarettes and drink cheap beer.
“I haven't had any pussy in three months,” Chris laments. Meanwhile, according to him, every other guy in the little redneck town they live in is getting some of it. He told us of the guy she was banging whose dick was covered with warts.
“So why the limp?” I ask.
“Look at this.” He pulls up his pants leg, and there is a big, raw, ugly wound. “Fucking bitch stabbed me with a paring knife!”
Mike and I just kind of stared at him incredulously. “What did you do to piss her off?” Mike asked.
“She was drunk and I wouldn't let her have the car keys.”
Like I said, poor Chris.
Robert the Farm Boy shows up. “Hey, I got some killer sensie, want some?” Robert has a wooden leg and grows some fine, fine dope.
He pulled out a huge, ten inch long and two inch in diameter bud. My eyes got big and my mouth watered. “Forty bucks,” he said.
“Damn,” Mike replied. “I just can't afford to smoke the shit.” Lucky for me Mike was on his seventh beer and his math wasn't that great; anybody else would have asked a hundred bucks, maybe two. Hell, I don't know prices these days as I haven't been buying it, maybe five...
“I'll take it,” I said. Damned thing must have been two full ounces. Ever see the movie Nice Dreams? I wonder if I'll turn into a lizard now?
I rolled up a couple, and we all walked down to Mike's barn and got wasted. Fuck Paxil, the killer bud is lots better.
The hog pen is pretty close to the barn, and the wind was going in the wrong direction. Damn, but Mike's pigs stink. They sure taste good, though. We staggered back up to the house, and Mike put some dead pig on the barbecue pit.
The Redneck P.E.T.A. is “People Eating Tasty Animals”, Y'all. YeeHaw!
I finally found an apartment a few days later that would let my daughter keep a couple of her cats. I got lucky, she gave the males, who piss all over everything, to her sister who lives in a trailer in Chatham. By herself now, as Evil-X abandoned her (again) to move in with her boyfriend.
The apartment was finished on Friday night, and I wrote a check and got the keys and started moving. Mike and Matt came up in Mike's pickup truck the next day (Saturday) to help me move the big stuff; washer and dryer, fridge, furniture... I'm getting too old for this shit.
They didn't get up there until afternoon, and we got done after dark. I'd promised Mike and Matt dinner, so we went down to Gloria's kitchen, a little redneck bar.
We got there right before the kitchen closed.
“Damn, this is good chicken,” Mike exclaims. “I can't believe they're still cooking at ten o'clock!”