We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
So, there I was, weeping quietly because Taranto is taking the day off and I didn't have my Best Of The Web to read with dinner. Boortz for breakfast, Taranto for dinner -- that's the way to do it.
Desperate for something -- anything! -- to read with my dinner, I came here, expecting another Yankee recipe on how to make molasses muffins or boil a pot roast, perhaps a kit to turn your 50-star flag into an original 13-colony flag, and a long article on how you have to be a sixth-generation New Englander (living in the same house, of course) in order to be a 'true' American.
You know -- classic Yankee values.
And what do I get?
Dr. Bliss would have a field day with you, BD.
And thanks very much for the post. Went perfectly with the dinner, which, I note, I actually bought in the South, thereby making it an authentic Southern experience.
The reason I got dragged to Florida four years ago was to engineer for a radio station in Central Florida, a rural area of the state where 'cowboy' was more than a lifestyle and 'redneck' was worn with pride.
You'll notice in the song he didn't mention some pansy-ass Beretta or Glock. A forty-five, buddy. You're in the South.
Me and the jocks would go on road shows on the weekends, deep into the heartland, and I'd set up big speakers and play country music. This song was, naturally, one of the crowd's favorites, as was "Song of the South" and the always-inspiring "God Bless The USA":
It is impossible to describe the feeling of waking up on a Saturday morning, spending an hour reading about anti-war this and anti-America that, then driving to a small rural town, breaking out the above song, and watching people link arms and parade through the parking lot, singing it at the top of their lungs with unabashed pride.
"A country boy can survive"
I was there when the fiercest hurricane in 44 years struck. Here's my testament to this surviving: