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Redneck License

During my Thanksgiving weekend at home in Mayberry, my mom “revoked my redneck license” because my children “don’t know how to drink from cans.”

I want y’all to know that this is something I take very seriously, despite having lived in Williamson County for over a decade and being somewhat removed from my redneck roots. I’d like to present you, the jury, the evidence and my rebuttal.

The accuser (alias “Mom”) would like for you to believe that I have abandoned my upbringing in a most unacceptable fashion — by adopting high-falutin’ and uppity parenting techniques such as serving my children beverages from cups, rather than the aluminum cans in which they were packaged.

I would like to clarify that my children (“the moochers”) have, in fact, consumed beverages from cans, although perhaps not as often as they drink from plastic and disposable vessels. It should be noted that none of the moochers has ever so much as touched a drinking cup made of anything glass. (Indeed, no actual glasses can be found at my residence.)

Let the record also show that the moochers regularly participate in such activities as wrasslin, seed spittin’, earthworm diggin’, campin’ and creekin’, all of which are irrefutably classified as redneck hobbies/pastimes. The moochers are also known to play outside in their pajamas and the youngest has been spotted “watering the grass” in the back yard when in urgent need of a restroom.

Furthermore, let the record show that I, too, maintain an impressive repertoire of redneck behaviors, including standing at the bus stop in robe and slippers, hurling insults at opposing sports team fans, yelling at the moochers within earshot of strangers and shootin’ stuff once the Thanksgiving meal is over.

Granted, there may be areas in which the moochers are deficient in knowledge of redneck decorum, as none of our vehicles is outfitted with mud tires and we are all very proud of our access to indoor plumbing (moocher #3’s habits notwithstanding.)

I believe I have supplied enough evidence of my and my children’s redneckery to confirm that we should keep our redneck license, but I would be remiss if I didn’t question the accuser’s redneck pedigree as well.

I’d like to bring into evidence two recent incidents that illuminate Mom’s own lack of commitment to the redneck lifestyle. Exhibit A is Mom’s complicity in the great waffle smorgasbord of of Thanksgiving. When five different grandchildren requested five different preparation methods of frozen waffle, the accuser complied. 

Everyone knows that a true redneck matriarch ain’t got time for that. The proper response would have been “Who am I, the butler? Y’all know where everything is, get it yourself.”

Exhibit B is Mom’s willingness to pay actual U.S. dollars to entertain children. It is documented that she took grandchildren to a trampoline park two days in a row. From time immortal, redneck mothers have been asking kids why they “need to pay to have fun when there’s plenty to do around here?” Clearly the accuser is losing her touch if she missed an opportunity to yell this phrase at children while shooing them out of the house with a broom.

In closing, I believe the motive here is clear — the accuser wishes to abandon the redneck childrearing principles that created two fine, upstanding citizens in favor of modern parenting techniques. I believe it is the intention of the accuser to use these dangerous techniques to cause the moochers to become even more insufferable than they already are in an attempt to “teach me a lesson” and make me “pay for my raisin’.”

Actually, I think I see it now. This is the ultimate redneck mother move — changing her entire life philosophy to Redneck Inception me. Touché, Mom. Touché

Overheard at the salon: Just buy that stuff at Kroger and put it in your fancy serving dishes. Nobody will know the difference and you can watch the Gone With The Wind marathon.