How To...

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How To

I was going to post about Memorial Day weekend, as there was a lot of crap that happened, but I do not want to make this a Smeagol based blog, otherwise I would have to change the name to Smeagolthongs.blogspot.com, and who would read that?

Today's post is a how-to on something I have personally done, something you would think was impossible but I have proven otherwise. It is going to become a series, and when I finally write a book/sitcom/suicide letter about my life, you will all have the honor (or the embarrassment) of having this precious knowledge I am passing down to you. It's all so spiritual...

Anyway, today's How-To:

How to Make a Redneck Cry

I live in Ferrelview, which is apparently the redneck capital of Platte County. You might not believe this, but being a darker toned gentleman I am not a favorite amongst said rednecks, who spend their days driving by and looking at me mean (but not stopping) and whooping around their nightly bonfires while I'm trying to sleep.

They, as well as everyone in my neighborhood, knows I am well versed in the k-rat. This is common knowledge and so probably the reason they do not come any closer, because I could cut through them like the unstoppable rebel forces advance on Alderon. I revel in this knowledge, the feeling that unless and in most cases even if they have a gun I can beat the living crap out of any 5 of them at any given time without dropping my mojito (which tastes like toothpaste, BTW)

So last night, I had a decision to make. The Stevester is tired of drinking all that delicious alcohol, ya'll. Tired of waking up with a hangover, a nasty itch, and a carrot sticking out of my asshole. Well the carrot part is alright but the rest sucks. I bought a case of Bud Light (I know, I know, I lost the vote for the cookout, I will post that all tomorrow) and no one drank any, so I have 26 beers in my fridge that I never intend to drinkify. I decided to have a little fun.

I went to the k-rat, in my capri karawte pants (I will explain later) and had a great time. I get home, get a walmart sack (not recyclable, sorry Derka) and fill it up with beers. I mosey on up the street to where they are all standing around a grill, sipping beers and going "Yuuup.....mmmmhmm..... whoo hooo" over and over, as rednecks are wont to do. It's hilarious, because even though I was outnumbered at least 6 to 1, the guy who saw me first looked like he was going to run. Let me describe his exquisitneness (BTW, he's single, ladies!) for you so you can get the breadth of his inbreeding:

He had a feathered mini mullet, that swayed gently in the breeze. A Poison muscle shirt. Dirty, faded camouflage pants and dusty boots. Pedo-stache and mirrored sunglasses. Dear god his redneck pedigree was in full display ya'll.

Anyway, I walk up to him and I go "Hey listen, I gave up drinking, and I-" Now up to this point he had been looking around to make sure he had backup that would get there to help fast enough to keep me from assaulting him, but when he heard I gave up drinking, ALL of his attention turned to the walmart sack that was bulging with brewskis. I mean ALL. I could have beaten him to a pulp and he would not have remembered anything but the beer. Anyway, "-figured you guys are barbecuing, you might like some beer to go with it, here you go, enjoy on me." And with that I held out the sack.

"You, you gotta be fuckin kiddin' me. You-you gotta be kiddin man..." he stammered, and I am not sure but I think I saw him start to tear up, like the baby Jesus came down and they had the same style mullet. He took the beer, like he was in a dream, and I was instantly afraid he was going to try to hug me. I mean I was frightened. I had never seen someone look on a sack of beer with such loving eyes, and I felt a little uncomfortable.

As I walked away, I thought I heard him say "Yeah, that big sumbitch, lookit what he gave me! I cain't believe it!" Oh by the way, when he said "man", it sounded like he was Tony Montana on Scarface, he called me "main", which is hilarious to me for some reason. I think it was a lot funnier to do that than to give them all the asswhooping they sorely deserve, because if I kick the shit out of them, that would be exactly what they expect and they could go on calling me nigger and porch monkey amongst themselves. Giving them beer, which is not unakin to giving Toboggan Boy free crack rocks when he smoked them or giving Smeagol interest free credit or letting him out of jail on his own recognizance, causes an inner conflict that could do much more damage than my fists or feet ever could: How do you hash 300 years of ingrained, inbred, white supremacy-fueled hatred for some guy who just, for no reason whatsoever, gave you the only reason you wake up in the morning for free?

I would like to also post that when I gave him the beer he finished his a lot faster, meaning it was probably his last one, which is hilarious.

More tomorrow...