I have a friend who recently wrote in and said something to the effect, if recall is not failing me, b/c I deleted the note, like the Ron zero that I am. She wrote,” I’m glad you kept the Audubon Ron name, it reminds me of guys who drink beer on a porch.” Well, it was either that or she said, “I want to drink you on your porch.” Nope, I think it was more along the lines of, “I want to make a baby on your porch.”
Whatever, it made me think, I just don’t have the right chairs for drinking beer on my porch. I need to go to the junkyard and pick up an ole wore out snap-out seat from an ole wore out Aerostar van.
Then I need to make me a chicken wire can. That would be the trash can for the empty beer. Its chicken wire so mamas driving down the road can see how many cans we’ve nailed. We be drinking for a good cause. Cause we’re not littering and we’re trying to recycle aluminum, fix’in to get ready for the next WWIII.
It is imperative; however, according to good protocol when inviting porch drinking buds over that no one wears a shirt. Wife beater tees are permissible. We do that for the girly-girls who might get aroused by the site of half-neked men, sitting on Aerostar chairs, drinking beer, at noon.
Now, ole Dummy Line Pete, he got him a ole shinny blue Lazy Boy chair he leaves out in the yard. When the chair is not wet, he mostly sits in it and bird watches with a .22 rifle. There is a WWIII brew’in.
Ole Elwin was talking about that with Jasper Jack just the other day. He said, he was watching one of those shows on FOX and learnt those Mooselums holy war was fix’in to come to fruitation. Might happen in a couple of munts from now. Maybe by Christmas. That’s okay. We be ready for ‘em. I will call ole Earl and ask him to bring back my shotgun he bard dadgummit.
My frei-undt, she don’t gotta be mak’in funt of me no, cause I live up’in’er woods and it all be took care of. She must think I’m ignert.
Don’t like be’in made fun of juhere.
(This is not my house)
Do you have any redneck friends?
My ex-husband’s sister was married to a redneck. He would hunt squirrel for their dinner. They lived in South Carolina. My ex was from the Bronx, which meant his sister was too. How you go from the Bronx to eating squirrel in SC is beyond me, and the ex could not fathom it either. He doesn’t even like being outside in the backyard. Nature makes him nervous.
Where I come from, it is possible to drink beer on the porch and tell stories in which all the words are spelled correctly.
Apparently, I do.