A Sweet Oldie Song

I'd Like to Teach the World

It bums me out that they made this song into a commercial.

Bubbaland

Reynard Wilson was trying to come up with a new concept in theme parks to attract those sparse tourist dollars remaining during the recession times. Let's face it: Disney, Six Flags, Graceland, Beulahland, and others of their ilk are drawing in the dollars. But south Middle Tennessee was one of those blah locales, other than the Jack Daniel Distillery at Lynchburg (strangely, in a dry county).

It was in the south; but not particularly Southern. The one attraction in that region was called, embarassingly enough, the Boobie Bungalow: a 'gentlemen's' club just north of the Alabama line.

Mr. Wilson had an inspiration. Most of the travelers on I-65 were Northerners going to the South in search of beaches, good weather, and experiencing the Southernness of the situation.

Now Alabama and Mississippi don't have to try hard to be Southern. Georgia screws it up around Atlanta, but is otherwise a good Southern experience. Louisiana: too exotic, not a consistent Southern theme. And, in Wilson's mind, southern Tennessee was a good locale. Far enough away from Nashville so that people would get restive by then, but a good site for a faux Southern experience.

So he fleshed out the concept. "Let's see: Cute girls in Daisy Dukes, louts running stills that dispense root beer, mountain crafts . . . . "

"Er, Reynard, those are jest hills south of the Duck River."

"Hell, Clyde, some jasper from Michigan ain't going to know diddly-squat the difference."

And so they built it. And it had moonshiners. And car chases. And Tennessee gals almost wearin' shorts (or damned little of them at that), and banjo music . . . . 

The Yankee tourists came in droves. They bought stuffed coon dogs and raccoons, t-shirts featuring hillbillies, Confederate flags, grits, Moon Pies, and ate passels of hush puppies and barbecue. And drank RCs, that's for sure. And listened to country music.

And all came away with The True Southern Experience. And talked about how they just barely got out alive before the inbreds shot them!

Did you expect truthiness? Truthiness died sometime back in the 90's.

A Salute to Dry-Humping!

How about a rap song about dry-humping? The pause that refreshes with no stains on my panties or a bun in the oven:

Dry-humping is the official sport of Montana. Especially during the winter,

Overused States or Cities

I suppose that the United States could have been an experiment in which fifty different entities engaged in their individual visions as to what constitutes the ideal government, within the judicious confines of the Constitution, of course.  Unfortunately, this didn't happen: some states seem to have more impact on the collective vision than others.  

And I know full well that it would have been totally unlikely that Tennessee or Montana would be among those.  At least Illinois or New Jersey didn't make it either, thank God!

Unfortunately, the three that seem most influential from my perspective are New York, California, and Massachusetts.  It's understandable when those three places disproportionately influence the media, weigh heavily in Congress, is where the money is, and carry a mystique about them.  So does Seattle, which I'm visiting.  Going from Elliot Bay to downtown is steep uphill.  They have fine art, and interesting food.  But no detective shows and only one hospital show is set there.

Did anyone ever perform a song, "Wisconsin Girls"?  Did anyone leave his heart in Omaha?  Did anyone sing that if you could make it in Dallas you could make it anywhere?  But no one, absolutely no one, was called a Tennhole.  At least that's something.  Let's have some variety for a change: set a detective show in glorious Tallahassee or a sitcom in Little Rock. Now that would be something to see!

Staging Your Early Background and Childhood for Future Fame

One of the things that differentiates the great masses of us from our betters (at least in terms of fame and/or accomplishments) is the relative haphazardness of our earlier lives. Let's face it: we've now smartened up enough now to realize that possible employers or human relations directors do scrutinize Facebook to look for signs of a non-corporate mentality in what we thought we were sharing solely with our friends. (Not to mention the less discreet bikini poses that we had meant solely to appeal to our b.f.'s dejour.) 

And, of course, any drinking or other violations of the laws of God or man might be seen by law enforcement personnel. No, the problem is more than that. Most of us, even if we live our livesInteger vitae, we still have those less-than-sterling residues to come up and bite us in our increasingly padded butts as we reach the heights of fame or fortune. After all, say you're running for the U.S. Senate in Massachusetts (a sign in itself of moral questionability), and it is revealed that your seventh-grade report card has mostly C's and D's. The Dons of Hah-vard will go "tut," and make an unjoyful noise that you are unworthy! Or, let's say that you are the hottest of the hot supermodels, and your tween picture of you with braces comes out? Or what about that dubious dress that you wore to the prom, or that sweet but impossibly outréboy who you went with? 

Or even more so, your membership in that kooky cult that wore those silly outfits and acted like Young Republicans off the reservation? We're talking Situation Damage Control here! Doing repair work on the ol' image. 

A big source of damaging information is everyday official records, such as school or police reports. Some are supposed to be closed; but persistent journalists or papparazzis can dig up dirt if there's dirt to be found. Unfortunately, the only ultimate solutions are sort of illegal; such as hacking into records of varying types and making them sound better or discreetly bribing your way to civic virginity! 

Photographs are easier, provided you also destroy the negatives or memory cards. Keep the ones marking major life events, such as graduations, honor society memberships, or worthy school activities, provided the pictures are flattering. A tip: get some professionally-taken ones; no glam shots and, above all, no boudoir poses! Obviously, destroy all souvenir detention slips. 

And bribe your old high school assistant principal to silence. Actually, if he is like most, he is all-too-willing to support yourpersona: after all, not many of his charges amounted to anything. 

Personal possessions should be culled from time to time. Having a single, charming stuffed animal left over from your childhood is desirable; having a cabinet full is -- whoa! -- a little too much disclosure! Clothing should be deliberately culled, lest they seem dowdy, bizarre, or too intrusive. Imagine yourself being famous; and having a museum of your childhood home. And what is on display? A bra that you wore back as a freshman will be studied by all, and your size checked and commented on. And, for God's sake, lose those cute hats! No one looks good in a hat! 

On the plus size, purchase a few faux trophies and certificates to indicate your showing early promise. No one will look further into them. 

And have a few tantalizing items that are incompletely accounted for to add a touch of mystery. After all, you want them to continue to look, you know. Maybe a baton, or a cheerleader's outfit or a gavel. Or a notebook of poetry. Copy neatly only your best efforts, though. And try to appear both open and modest if enquired. 

Look at my advice not as a suggestion to be dishonest, but rather to be strategically revisionist. After all, even newspapers have editors. Why not edit your life to make it more in line with your present accomplishments?

News from Flathead County

Here's the police blotter from the Flathead Beacon. These sorts of things make the news in Flathead County, Montana.

9:24 a.m. A local man was upset that someone flipped the bird at him so he called 911.

10:26 a.m. A Martin City woman who lives between the town’s two bars said she was sick and tired of people fighting each other in front of her house.

10:57 a.m. A local resident’s phone was stolen in East Glacier Park.

11:01 a.m. A local man found his bike that had been stolen from McDonald’s the previous night.

11:21 a.m. A motorhome in Bigfork burst into flames.

12:13 p.m. A dog was reportedly locked in a hot Jeep parked “in the middle of nowhere.”

12:28 p.m. A landlord-tenant dispute was getting “aggressive” in Columbia Falls.

12:42 p.m. A Hungry Horse man found his stolen bike.

2:14 p.m. A man running heavy equipment called 911. The dispatcher couldn’t hear what the man was saying and eventually the guy just hung up, leading the dispatcher to believe it was probably a pocket dial.

3:25 p.m. A Columbia Falls man reported that his ex-wife was causing trouble.

Apparently, crime is not a big priority here.

Three Sizes

One time a young fellow was going to marry a girl up on Panther Creek, but they hadn’t done no screwing yet. The girl seen him taking a leak out behind the barn, so then she begun to holler that the wedding will have to be called off. “You’re a-carrying more than I can take,” she says, “that thing is too big for a little girl like me!” But the young fellow just laughed. “I’ve got three of ’em,” says he. “One is lady size, another’n is whore size, and the third is mare size. I always use the mare size to piss with.”

So the girl says all right, and they got married right away. The first night she tried the lady size, and everything went fine. The second night she latched onto the whore size, and that was wonderful, too. The third night she called for the mare size, and it was the best of all. Him and her both had a good time, and you’d think they would live happy ever after.

About three weeks after the wedding, the girl woke up one morning, and she just laid there and yawned. “Honey,” she says, “fetch me one of the garters that is hanging on the chair.” The young fellow just grinned at her. “You ain’t got no stockings on,” says he. “What do you want with a garter?” The girl yawned again, and snuggled up against him. “I just thought of something,” she says. “If we can tie all three of them pricks together, maybe I could get some good fucking for a change!”