funk home funk

Alabama

Jesus H. Christ. Alabama.

Jesus H. Christ. My gene pool.

I got home and took three showers to scrub Alabama off of me. I never want to hear Mat refer to Tennessee as the “Dirty South” again. You have lost rights to do that until you visit upper Alabama. So many stories, so little time. But I will tease you with this:

The Scene: Breakfast at Fast Food place that should of been condemned. Holes in walls, about the size of a car’s front grill. Funktastic.

(Elle and her parents and aunt enter.)

Elle: My options are grits or pancakes. Pancakes, on the menu, are listed “w/meat.” What KIND of meat? Nevermind. Sans meat. Does white gravy come on the pancakes too? I feel faint.
Girl at Counter: (cross-eyed, chewing gum): ‘Jis meat. Yew want meat er don’t yew?
Elle: What?
Girl: Meat. wit yer flapjacks? Meat or no meat?

We stayed at a motel (to remain nameless). The buffet there was horrifying. Creamed corn and fried okra. Yum. I did however, get my picture taken in front of the Talladega Nascar SuperSpeedway, so I am going to have GREAT Christmas cards this year. Me, in front of the sign, and the inside will say “Godspeed for a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.” My speech is temporarily corrupted. All morning long I’ve been saying things like “I’m fixin to go get sum eats? Y’all want anything?” Etcetera. Etcetera.

Basically, we drank all weekend. I HAD to, simply dull the pain, I can’t speak for the rest of the family. I think it’s kind of their average weekend. My new cousin-in-law (from the May/St. Louis Family Wedding Fiasco v1.0), is the biggest alcoholic you’ve ever met, so she fits in with the family well. By Friday evening she had herself and the groomsmen screaming profanities off the balcony of the motel and doing a naughty version of the limbo involving pool cues. No one was really even dried out by Sunday when we needed to catch a plane, so we were all sick.

Also, my mother stuck her fist in the “Sweet Tea Fountain” (not champagne, SWEET TEA) at the reception because she thought it was funny, my father spent all night doing the air guitar in the corner and walking into the reception hall over and over again proclaiming “THERE’S NO BIRTHDAY PARTY FOR ME IN HERE!” (his lousy attempt to be Jeff Spicoli.) My married 43 year old aunt was seductively hitting on all of the grooms friends, who are in their twenties. It’s hard competition for a dancing partner when one’s aunts are flashing boob at prospective single guys. The night was rounded out with a lovely keg party in room 106 of the motel. I think there may have been some groping going on in the bathroom. I don’t want to talk about it.

No decorum. You’re all so jealous. I can smell it.

Notes

–Madonna concert on Friday. Dust off your bustiers.or yer goth capes.
–Mat only stalks out of love.
–No more monkey movies

(*DISCLAIMER: I CAN make fun of Alabama because I have roots there. One cannot laugh unless one is laughing at oneself. So, please, no hate mail.)

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