I believe that this is a terrible game and that I can count only on better games to come. Therefore, I believe in liquor, hard liquor.
I believe in sarcasm, which gives me the ability sit through an afternoon of bad football.
I believe Vern and Gary need to retire, without which I cannot continue to watch football on CBS.
I believe that if I eat enough chips and dip that I can slip into a food coma and forget an entire game before it has even ended.
I believe in a fence or hedge around a field because it protects the lives of the coaches from drunk fans.
I believe the players on my television can hear me, therefore I will continue to scream at them, as well as the coaches.
I believe in my team, because they continue to play their hearts out even when it seems like all is lost, and even when armchair coaches like me are slamming drinks, shoving chips in their face, and screaming obscenities at Gary when he criticizes all of college football during plays under review.
And because Auburn men and women believe in these things, I believe in Auburn and love it.
**Originally penned as a Facebook status during the Auburn loss to LSU on 09.19.15
If it isn’t monogrammed, is it really yours? This is the general sentiment here in the South. I may not understand it, but I am surrounded by this mentality. I own a store that provides embroidery, and I’ve seen some crazy things that people wanted monogrammed. And I’ve seen some crazy things that people wanted embroidered on said bizarre items.
Lace collars, seersucker shorts, and all things Little Lord Fauntleroy are plastered all over the Southern male from birth until the kid is old enough to figure out he isn’t getting boobies like the other little children who are dressed like girls, and revolts against his mama by kicking and screaming in the aisles of Wal-Mart until she succumbs to her son’s overwhelming desire for a graphic tee.
For the girls, its hair bows large enough to plop atop an automobile being gifted in a Lexus commercial, ruffles on pants, monogrammed everything, and appliqué. The latter has become the status update of the apparel world. For instance, if you think your little daughter is a little princess, you take scraps of fabric and sew it to other fabric in the shape of a princess and embroider the words Little Princess above or below the fabric stuff. If they are turning one, you sew a cupcake or candle or whatever and embroider the word ONE. Maybe you’re going to have another baby. Big Sister would be the way to go. You can have whole parties planned around the theme of your kid’s appliqué. Photo shoots, Christmas cards, birthday parties, school pictures, major and minor holidays…there really isn’t a reason for a day to go by without putting your young daughter in a shirt with an appliqué.
Considering the Southern lady’s love of a monogram, and the unfortunate reality that Southern women over the age of thirty also think it is acceptable to wear clothing with the prominent display of Disney characters, glitter, and/or ruffles at the end of one’s sleeves and pant legs; I think it is time to introduce the adult appliqué. Maybe some fabric scraps sewn into the shape of a beer mug with Sloppy Drunk embroidered above it. Maybe some nice suede sewn into the shape of a prescription pill bottle with Medicated embroidered below. How about a cute patchwork puppy that states Bitch. The possibilities are endless, really. I mean, most of us are already looking at others and judging them for who we think they are. Why not take out some of the guess work?
Over the past few years, I suppose I’ve had my fair share of antics, and every now and again, I’m even told that I should have my own reality show. But to date, Andy Cohen hasn’t called me, so I’ve devoted my time to running a small boutique. I think I’m at least as interesting as the Real Housewives and maybe even the Jersey Shore people, but still – no television show. Now that I’ve thought about it, I have decided the problem isn’t me, per se, the issue is that I don’t ever get punched in the face. It seems like more fights break out on reality TV shows than at hockey games, so that must be the crucial missing element to my life. The issue this poses for me is that I will more than likely never be punched in the face. Why, you ask? Because I’m Southern, and Southern girls don’t get punched in the face. Seriously. They don’t. So in an effort to explain why I don’t have my own reality television show, here are the top five reasons Southern girls rarely, if ever, get punched in the face.
- Southern girls don’t talk badly about people. Oh, we talk, but we don’t say anything bad. For instance, Olivia may leave the Gatsby and head to a bar with friends. While there, she may see one of her arch enemies and decide to speak badly about said nemesis. Southern girls; we just don’t do that. Our Mamas taught us if you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all. We would never flat out say that some girl was a fat cow. First and foremost, that girl is most assuredly friends with a chick named Karma, and we have no desire to meet up with her in a dark alley. Therefore, we would simply and nicely say something like, “I declare, if it doesn’t look like Stephanie accidentally tripped and swallowed a washing machine, bless her heart.” You see, poor Stephanie isn’t fat. Oh, no! She just looks fat. And we are just calling a spade a spade; and there is nothing mean or malicious about pointing out the obvious. We are more than happy to help out others by making excuses for them such as, “It must be that time of the month, God love her, as she looks swole up something awful.” A mean girl would never cut a rival slack like that and help justify their portly appearance. That’s why they get punched in the face.
- All groups of Southern girls – yes, Southern girls travel in groups – have at least one member who look like they accidentally tripped and swallowed a washing machine. She is usually the funny one with a cute face that everyone clamors over and wants to stand next to in group pictures. Have you ever heard of one of those trainers at Sea World getting involved in a riot and getting punched in the face? Of course not. And do you know why that is? Because they hang out with Shamu. And nobody messes with Shamu. Did that Sea World trainer look at your boyfriend funny? Did she accidentally knock over your bar stool? That’s okay. No worries. Let it go! Why? Because she’s standing next to Shamu, that’s why.
- Southern girls carry guns. That’s right, guns. Not mace or pepper spray or Tasers or Duct tape (although we usually have some of that, too), but guns. And we actually carry them. We don’t leave them in our purse, or store them in the glove box of the car, or put them on the top shelf of our closet; we carry them in sleek, form-fitting holsters that fit right into the back waistband of our designer jeans. There is one in the chamber and plenty more in the clip, and we use high quality hollow point bullets. Only the best for us, baby, and we have a spare clip ready so we don’t ever find ourselves in that terrible position by which we break a freshly manicured nail because we had to reload in haste. Now, do you know anyone who would intentionally take a fist to a gun fight? I didn’t think so.
- Southern girls know how to handle drunk assholes. Now, I promised my Daddy I would try not to cuss so much, but dammit, there is no other word for some of these people. See, if you’re a girl it is inevitable that at some point in your life you will get hit on by a non-desirable. Your chances increase greatly if the guy is drunk, and your chances seriously increase if you are Southern. I’d like to say we don’t get punched in the face because the world is filled with chivalrous gentlemen, but considering there is a well- known saying, “Sometimes you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince,” this is just not statistically feasible. The thing is, a Southern girl would never yell at some guy to get his filthy hands off of her when he grabs her arm and says something like, “I bet you could really heat things up if you took off that dress.” We would politely tilt our chin down and look up at him through our lashes and smile as we respond, “Oh, Honey, I assure you, when I take my pistol out and help you meet the devil, you’re going to be so hot you won’t be able to handle it.” Guys dig honey coated speech, regardless of what is being said. And drunk, stupid guys are usually too distracted by the lashes and the pad of our index finger at the top of their collar as we give them a shove backward that the morons don’t even realize they are getting turned down. Therefore, we get hit on, but never hit.
- In the South, everybody knows your Mama. I don’t care if you work at Wal-Mart or own the bank, if you’re from the South; everybody knows your Mama. They have gone to Sunday School with her for 47 years, or they play bridge with her at the Club, or somebody once dropped a big stack of mail in front of the post office and your Mama jumped out of her car and helped them pick it all up. But trust me; somewhere, somehow, some way – everybody knows your Mama. If you think for one instance that you can punch a poor, sweet Southern Girl in the face and her Mama won’t know about it before your hand finishes it’s follow-through, you are sorely mistaken. And the only thing worse than a woman scorned is a crossed up Southern Mama whose little darling doodle-pie just got punched in the face. She will bring the full fury of hell upon you in front of God and everybody, and then when she is done; she will call your own Mama and tell her to come pick you up.
So in summary, I’ve never been punched in the face and I don’t have a reality show. But not to despair; I know over 47 analogies for fat people, I’ve got a great group of friends, a swell pistol, fantastic eyelashes and everybody knows my Mama.