Hear hear...MUD
Florida used to be in DIXIE but we been took over by New Yorkers who don't know the difference between grits and cream of wheat.
We put sugar in iced tea.
I'm betting it's rather easy to confuse a Waffle House cook...
Best,
PB
Don't o'der filet mignon o' pasta primavaha at Waffle House. It's jest a diner. They sarve bustfast 24 hours a day. Let them cook sumpin they know. Eff'n yo' cornfuse them, they'll kick yer ass.
Don't laugh at our Southern names. (Merleen, Bodie, Ovine, Luther, Ray, Tammah Henrietta, Darla Beth, Inez, Billy Joe Billy Joe, Sissy, etc.) These varmints haf all been known t'kick ass.
Don't o'der a bottle of pop of a kin of a six pack down hyar. Down hyar it's called Coky Cola. Nobody gives a flyin' dadburn whether it's a six pack, RC, Dr. Pepper, 7-Up, o' whutevah - it's still a Coky Cola. Accepp it. Doin' otherwise kin lead t'an ass kickin'.
We knows out heritage. Most of us is mo'e literate than yo' (e.g, acco'din' t' th' code o' th' heells! Welty, Billy Joes, Faulkner). We is also better ejoocayted an' junerally a lot nicer. Don't refer t'us as a bunch of hillbillies, o' we'll kick yer ass.
We haf plenty of business sense (e.g, acco'din' t' th' code o' th' heells! Fred Smif of Fed Ex, Turner Broadcastin', MCah Wo'ldcom, MTV, Netscape). Natcherly, we does, sometimes, haf small lapses in judgment (e.g, acco'din' t' th' code o' th' heells! Carter, Edwards, Duke, Barnes). We doesn't care eff'n yo' reckon we is dumb. Well bust mah britches an' call me streaker. We kin still kick yer ass.
Don't laugh at our Civil War monoomnts. Eff'n Lee had lissened t'Longstreet an' flanked Meade at Gittysburg instead of sendin' Pickett up th' middle, yo'd be payin' taxes t'Richmond instead of Warshin'ton, as enny fool kin plainly see. Eff'n yo' viset Stone Mountain an' complain about th' carvin', we'll kick yer ass.
We is fully aware of how high th' hoomidity is, so shet th' hell up, spend yer money, an' git th' hell outta hyar - o' we'll kick yer ass.
Don't o'der wheat toast at Cracker Barrel, ah reckon. Ev'ryone will instantly knows thet yer fum Ohio. Ett yer biscuits like God aimed, cuss it all t' tarnation. Don't put sugar on yer grits, o' we'll kick yer ass.
Don't fake a Southern accent. This hyar will incite a riot, an' yo' will getcher ass kicked, cuss it all t' tarnation.
Don't talk about how much better thin's is at home on account o' we doesn't give a dadburn. Menny of us haf visited hellholes like Detroit, Chicage, L.A., an' D.C., an' we haf th' scars t'prove it. Eff'n yo' doesn't like it hyar, Delta is ready when yer. Take yer ass home befo'e it gits kicked, cuss it all t' tarnation.
Yessuh, we knows how t'speak right English. We talk this hyar way on account o' we doesn't be hankerin' t'soun' like yo'. We doesn't care eff'n yo' doesn't unnerstan' whut we is sayin'. All other Southerners unnerstan' whut we is sayin', an' thass all thet matters. Now, hoof it away, o' we'll kick yer ass.
Don't complain thet th' South is dirty an' polluted, cuss it all t' tarnation. None of OUR lakes haf caught fire like scenic Lake Erie once did, cuss it all t' tarnation. Whine about OUR scenic booty, an' we'll kick yer ass all th' way back t'Boston Harbo'.
Don't ridicule our Southern manners. We say "suh" an' "ma'am", hold dores open fo' others, an' offer our seats t'old folks on account o' sech thin's is specked of civilized varmints. Behave yournelves aroun' our sweet li'l gray-haired gran'Mammys o' they'll kick some manners into yer ass jest like they did ours.
So yo' reckon we is quaint o' we is losers on account o' most of us like in th' countryside? Thet's on account o' we haf 'nuff sense t'not live in smelly, crime-infested cesspools like Noo Yawk o' L.A. Make fund of our fresh air, an' we'll kick yer ass.
Last, but not least, DO NOT DARE t'come down hyar tryin' t'tell us how t'cook barbecue. This hyar will getcher ass shot off (right af'er it is kicked). Yer lucky we let yo' come down hyar at all, ah reckon. Quesshuns our sacred BBQ, an' yo'll hoof it home in a pine box -minus yer ass.
Y'all haf a nice day! Fry mah hide! ----------------------------------------------------------
Tom Lehrer, "I wanna be a Dixie Pixie"
'Bout Time, Bump !!
The new label said:
Carolina Possum – Guaranteed sun cured for at least 4hrs. Killed by a marl truck on hwy. 24 west of Swansboro. Goes best with a Dr. Pepper and a moon pie.
I actually has a few folks from up North believe that it was Possum in that can. Could not get any of them to try it.