January 04, 2009
Originally published November 28, 2003
I call myself a "redneck," but I really don't like that term, and to tell the truth, I don't qualify. I just call myself a redneck to piss off yankees, racists and the politically correct among us.
I KNOW what a Southern redneck is. He's a farmer who spent so much time in the fields plowing, planting and harvesting under a blistering summer sun that the back of his neck resembles a hand-sewn red quilt. The skin appears to be put together in sections with stitches in between. It's rough, wrinkled and red.
Genuine red-necks are hard-working, honest creatures of the land. They grow the food the "metrosexuals" eat every day. They know how to milk a cow and pick cotton and what "fair-to-middlin'" tobacco is. They are fine people. I live around a lot of them.
The term "red-neck" has been corrupted in its meaning and it has become an insult to all Southerners. The same people who call ME a red-neck would love to lynch me for using the word "nigger" on this blog (and in fact, they have).
I've often said that white, Southern, heterosexual men are the last minority in the country that political correctness does not protect. It's okay to call a Southern man a red-neck. In fact, you can get a lot of laughts out of your "intellectual" peers when you do it, as long as you carry a "Free Mumia" poster at the same time.
Kiss my Cracker ass.
I would rather live among a bunch of red-necks than live in Washington, DC, among a bunch of politicians and bureaucrats. Red-necks are a lot more honest. Red-necks tend to leave you alone if you ask them to.
Government never does.
(Still, this isn't a bad post.)
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