Redneck Review

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Hillbilly Mom Is...

I took this from Redneck Diva, who took it from aka Monty, who
saw it at True Jersey Girl and J&Js Mom, who chased the cat that
worried the rat that lived in the house that Jack built. Oh, I had a
flashback moment. I also saw that Stacy had a post on this Friday.
Come on, join us. All you have to do is Google "(your name) is"
and see where it takes you. I used my real (real common) first name,
but here I will say "Hillbilly Mom."

Hillbilly Mom is... evil and must be...locked away in the attic, with a
bucket of fish heads provided daily at 10:00, 2:00, and 4:00.


Hillbilly Mom is...a for-real contemporary multi-tasker. She can
go shopping for the bacon, bring home the bacon, fry it up in the
pan, and throw it out to the dog. If she's not busy makin' the bacon.


Hillbilly Mom is...clipping her toenails and the noise bothers Buffy.
Well excuuuuuuuuse ME! At least I don't bite them like you, Buffy.

Hillbilly Mom is...forced to stop taking night classes. Man! You clip
a few toenails in class, and they give you the boot!


Hillbilly Mom is ...recording Lina's singing and dialogue at night
so that Lina won't...find out that HM knows nothing about recording
singing and dialogue, since they kicked her out of
night school.

Hillbilly Mom is ...a favorite guest on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno.
You'll never guess who I really am!

Hillbilly Mom is ...so caring and loving, and finds joy in everything
around her. Yeah, right!

Hillbilly Mom is ...my best friend and the one who makes me take
time to stop and smell the roses. And after she shoves my face into
the thorny rose bush and says "Get a whiff of
that!" she says she'll
be back in 20 minutes and runs into the house to help my husband
with his special purpose.


Hillbilly Mom is ...often asked, "How do you..." find such a bad
haircutter and such unstylish clothes.

Hillbilly Mom is ...now staying at a motel and has hardly any money
to pay for it. But I will after Lina pays me for recording.

Hillbilly Mom is ...manipulative, and Anna is ripe for manipulation.
Don't ask. Don't tell.

Hillbilly Mom is ...traveling by limo, taxi, and public transportation.
On a strange, erotic journey from Milan to Minsk. I'll tell Rochelle
y'all said "Hey."


Hillbilly Mom is ...not certain she wants to continue working for
Scotland Yard. What with all her travels and Tonight Show
appearances.


Hillbilly Mom is ...full of juicy tidbits. But lets keep them in
there.
DO NOT slice open HM to eat the juicy tidbits!

Hillbilly Mom is ...slowly rebuilding our breed. And that there
tells you the sad state of our breed.

Hillbilly Mom is ...unmasked. Oh no you di unt! You may think
you know, but you have no idea of all that I've masked.


Hillbilly Mom is ...such a psychopath...that she is on a first-name
basis with the 55-gallon barrel killer and is allowed to call him
"Fitty."

Hillbilly Mom is ...able to save approximately $7 a week. How do ya
like
them apples, free-cheese eaters! Count 'em and weep! SEVEN
dollars a week!


Hillbilly Mom is ...the kind of prim woman who knows about "the
horror movie" stuff involved in living in the real world. So listen up
when she advises you to "Keep your mouth closed while scrubbing
the toilet."

Hillbilly Mom is ...a great artist, but why make a fan club about her.
Who cares, really, if she lives or dies, because her art will be worth
more if we knock her off.


Hillbilly Mom is ...to remain unlocked at all times. But still don't cut
her open to eat the juicy tidbits.


Hillbilly Mom is ...dressed to the nines in a terry Velcro towel wrap.
Hey, aren't you?

Hillbilly Mom is ...off pouting. Because other people are stylin' in
the terry
Velcro towel wrap.

Hillbilly Mom is ...all mouth and not much depth beyond her constant
obsessing that...she really does have a deep mouth and she is all that
and a bag of pork rinds.

Hillbilly Mom is ...widely known as a very nice person who thinks
"ego" means waffles...because she is so stupid she doesn't know
singular from plural.


Hillbilly Mom is ...currently on medical leave, and her employer is
holding her...tightly around the throat until the job is done, and he
can tell everyone that she just "went away for a little while" and

"hey, y'all might as well call me 'Fitty'."


Hillbilly Mom is ...trying to clean her ruined sweater...because she
saw that on an episode of ER a couple years ago and Jing-Mei told

everyone it was club soda, but Susan and Abby used a Woods' lamp
and figured out that it
was really Greg Pratt's man-juice.

Hillbilly Mom is ...able to understand 80% of speech and is able to...
ignore it at will.

Hillbilly Mom is ...there to perform with a bunch of other chorus girls.
Though "perform" and "chorus girls" seem to be euphemisms for a
much seedier agenda.


Hillbilly Mom is ...an ID forger and a police informant who has more
than a few screws loose. Even though people have said she used to be
tightly screwed, until this police fiasco occurred, and she became totally
screwed.

Hillbilly Mom is ...clearly in love with Tommy, who seems to be a
troubled boy...ever since his 6th grade teacher, that sweet Mrs.
Letourneau, moved away.


Hillbilly Mom is ...ironing her jeans and listening...to the tiny voices
in her head asking "What kind of a moron irons jeans?"

Hillbilly Mom is ...an avid woodworker, and has built the chairs
everyone is sitting on...so be prepared to hit the floor faster than
Sheriff Hogg went a-swimmin' when Bubba hit the lever on the

dunk tank at the 4th of July picnic last summer.


Hillbilly Mom is ...not allowed to leave the Hoot and Holler and
meet Mike. Which doesn't matter to her, because she has only begun
to hoot and holler, and that Mike is a big sissy mama's
boy and
he's not that pretty and he's not that special.


Hillbilly Mom is ...on the floor crying now...because all that hootin'
and hollerin' has given her a headache.

Hillbilly Mom is ...still undecided on which team she is joining.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Hillbilly Mom is ...scheduled for surgery on 4/24...to remove
her foot from her mouth and the stick from her butt.

Hillbilly Mom is ...found dancing to 'Never Let Me Go" by Judy
Bridgewater in a classroom one...dark and stormy night, but they
told me it was all about the toenails, not the dancing, and that
pole and those laps were ripe for the pickin'.

The Saturday "What Would Rednecks Do?" will be on Sunday.

Friday, August 05, 2005

Stand-Up Doctor

Wednesday I had my annual visit with the OB-GYN. Or as some
people here in Blogland call him, the Cooter Doc. Since I am a
high-falutin' hillbilly puttin' on airs, I am not going to give you the
details of THAT part of the visit. And I will just call him Doc.

This annual visit is a bit like going to see a stand-up comic. White-
haired Doc is pretty funny. After running through the updated health
questionnaire, he asked about some medicine that he had prescribed,
since I needed a refill. Then he said, "Do you have any with you? So
I can see what it looks like?" (Uh, yeah. But didn't you prescribe it in
the first place?) Then he gave me the gown and said, "Leave on your
socks. I'll be back in a minute to humiliate you."

I wonder if his assistant ever gets tired of his routine? He's good at
it. Not like the poor college kids at Silver Dollar City, who you know
are giving the same spiel on the hour all summer. (For their little shows,
silly. They don't look up women's cooters.) Doc acts like you're
the only one he's ever made these jokes to. (And what is worse, girls...
having that durn exam, or having it with somebody watching? I know,
lawsuits and stuff, but I'd rather not have the audience.) So we got done
with the business end of the appointment, and Doc put his hands tightly
around my neck and said, "Swallow." Which was kind of hard, because
he had his hands squeezing tightly around my neck. He said, "Hmmm..."
(OK, that's not something I want to hear in a doctor's office.) Doc said
he wanted to test my thyroid.

So after I was dressed again, Doc came in and typed on his laptop to
get the prescription refill. Then he said, "Now what else?" So I
reminded him "Thyroid." He typed a bit and said, "Oh, yeah. We'll
need a diagnosis. Goiter." I'm sure he was just talking to himself about
what code to use to bill my insurance and co-insurance within an inch
of their lives, but all I heard was the word "goiter." Then I started to
laugh out loud. Doc looked at me like that wasn't really part of my
routine. I told him, "I just watched that Seinfeld the other night where
Elaine volunteered to visit the woman who had a football-sized goiter."
Doc said he can't stay up late enough to watch Seinfeld. I haven't
figured out if that is a good thing, or a bad thing.

Then we proceeded to the bloodletting room so Doc could get a
blood sample for the thyroid test. The chair was a brown leather-
look recliner. Usually the other offices have a student desk. And
usually the other offices have a nurse or phlebotomist take the blood.
Doc went to tie the big rubber band thing around my arm, and he
had picked up two. Oh, and did I mention that he was on his knees
beside the recliner? Then he flipped my vein like a heroin-shooter
(I've seen them on TV, OK?) and said "I've never done this before,
but the video I watched last night made it look easy." After sucking
out some blood (sorry to my teacher friend who does not like
stories about blood being sucked out of people's veins with a needle
into a tube, but is OK with shots of dead or weakened virus cells
being shot into people with a needle), Doc put on a piece of gauze
and that tape that rips off three layers of skin, and said "Leave this
on long enough to get sympathy so someone will take you to lunch."

I think he is a real doctor. If not, we've got to stop meeting like this.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

No Joy in Hooterville

Wednesday morning got a cranky start at the Hillbilly Mansion.
Hillbilly Husband was around, planning to go to work late after
going to a doctor's appointment with me. The boys were cranky
due to getting up early. HH hurt their feelings by criticizing their
"bed heads." HH, make a "note to self." If you have to leave in
5 minutes, it doesn't help to complain about the boy young'uns'
messy hair while Hillbilly Mom is wetting it down.

I don't know why I was surprised. Redneck men are not exactly
noted for their sensitivity. Oh, they are the best at chuckin' possums
down sinkholes, picking ticks off the pets, unclogging toilets,
brush-hogging the yard, killing spiders with their bare hands,
programming the thermostat, eating an entire pot roast out of
the vegetable soup, cleaning calcium deposits out of the water
heater, and replacing burnt-out light bulbs. But not at noticing
the feelings of others. Like the time he said I was like an elephant.
What he meant to say (according to him) was that I never forget
anything. Or the time he said, "I like that skirt. It's like a tent."
Oh, he meant that the material reminded him of a circus.

Now, we would not have had this hair issue if he had taken the
boys for haircuts a month ago when I said they needed one.
Oh, HH has gotten a haircut since then, but he wouldn't take
them. HH has clippers. He used to give the boys their summer
shave-head haircut. It really looked pretty good. The boys get
whiny when HH says, "Get the clippers. I'll give you a haircut."

Well, they do have a reason. He cut #1 son's ear one time.
You would have thought he cut the whole ear off of the little
Van Gogh, the way that boy screamed. Now he uses it in
every argument. "Remember the time you almost cut my ear
off, DAD?" It doesn't help that HH won't ever admit to any
wrong-doing. The closest we get is "Well, if I cut your ear,
then I guess I'm sorry." Not exactly a glowing apology.

Last summer HH was getting ready to cut #2's hair. We
didn't think he had been as traumatized as #1. #2 took off
his shirt and went out on the back porch. "Go get a towel,"
I told him. He came back, draping it around his shoulders.
"This is to catch the blood," he explained solemnly. We got
a good heehaw out of that one, but then wouldn't you know it
--HH nicked his ear, too. Talk about a premonition.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

What Rednecks Did For Fun

If you haven't been there yet, check out Redneck Diva's coronation
ceremony for winning Miss RSJS. She uses the same redneck lingo
that people around here use (well, they did--a hundred years ago).
One of those sayings reminded me of a friend from high school.

When I was in high school, THE thing to do on a Friday night was
drive back and forth on Main Street. We had quite a long cruising
strip back then, from downtown out to the park. It was probably
about 3 miles one way. These days the kids have shortened it, and
the police have to control it, and it doesn't seem like fun--expecially
if you are trying to get through town. And you are old.

We mainly cruised on Friday nights, or Saturday, or for a few trips
after whatever game was in season. We honked and waved at the
same people every time we passed. We had to make a stop at
Sonic for a Frito-Chili Pie or a Foot-Long Coney Dog. Then more
cruising. I wasn't one of the popular people, but I was in that next
group that is smart but just not real ccol. So the popular people
did honk and wave at my car, as long as I did it first.

I had my yellow Chevy Vega hatchback with the black stripe down
the side. That darn thing had a bell that kept chiming if you didn't
buckle the seat belt. It could not be fastened and sat on comfortably,
so my front seat passenger and I wore the seatbelts. This was back
in the day before we were safety-conscious. In the time when wearing
a seatbelt was not cool. When I was inching my way up to the stop
sign at the 3-way stop, the people in the car in the left-turn lane
would peer into my Vega and holler, "What's a-matter? You guys
afraid you might fall out of the car?" Then they would peel out, hooting
at their own cleverness. Yeah, like I hadn't heard that one before.
But it was kind of funny. I was a nerd, so that is what they expected
of me anyway.

One Thursday night we went cruising after a volleyball game. Our
coach always made us dress up (IN DRESSES!) for our games.
So there we were, cruising the strip IN DRESSES, honking and
waving like there was no tomorrow. I had so many people in that
car, I can't remember them all. I would say that I had 8 or 9 girls
in that two-door hatchback. Some of them I just gave a ride home,
then when we got down to 5 of us (so we all had a seat to sit on)
we stopped at Sonic. Then I took a couple more home, so it was
just me and my best friend and our buddy "Possum," who was a
year younger than us. If you want to know how she got the name
"Possum," it's like that saying on Redneck Diva's coronation post.
She was always "grinnin' like a possum eatin' ****." Little did
we know that she would earn a new nickname that night.

Possum had to ride in the back seat, because she was a year
younger. But don't go feelin' sorry for Possum, because that was
a little bitty car, and she sat in the middle and poked her head up
front with us the whole time anyway. The back seat didn't have
a seat belt alarm.

As the night wore on, I noticed a lot more cars honking at us.
And it wasn't the cars that were driving in the opposite direction.
Some of those honkers were behind us. I looked up in the rearview
mirror, expecting to see Possum's permed 'fro looking back at me.
Nope. I saw her standing up with her rear against the hatch. What
I didn't see (oh, thank you Jebus!) was that she had pulled down
her pantyhose and underwear, hiked up her dress, and was
MOONING everyone behind us. Ahem.

I was shocked. "What are you doing !?! Sit down!!!" Possum,
from that day forward to be called "Mooner," and BF were
howling. Like rolling on the floor howling if there had been
room to get on the floor of a Chevy Vega. I was a nervous
wreck, in one of those moods that would later prompt my future
friend Bob to say, "Take a red" every time I got that way.

The next day at school A LOT of people took time out of
their busy popular day to ask me, "So...did you guys have a
good time last night?"

And when I think about it now...yes, we did.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Feudin' Hillbillies

My Hillbilly Husband is about to start a feud with the neighbors.
He didn't plan it that way. It's just that everything he does turns out
in a different way than he had planned.

It started when HH asked the across-the-road neighbor and his
17-year-old son to help him enclose a lean-to on the left side of
the barn. (Since he only has a workshop that takes up 1/4 of the
basement, a workshop shed that he built, and the whole bottom
floor of the barn for his workshop, he needed some more space
to work in.) These neighbors are the ones who walk through our
field with a shotgun, pick our blackberries, drive their 4-wheeler
in our field, and got one of their ponies stuck in our back fence
after he trampled our garden. We do get along with them. Really.
Their daughter is best friends with #1 son. But now there is a
feud a-brewin'.

HH asked Neighbor why he'd put his house up for sale. Neighbor
said they were going to buy some land and build another house.
He asked HH if he wanted to sell our 10 acres that is up another
road here. HH said no, that it was for our boys. Neighbor said
he'd looked at the 60 acres one lot over from us, but it was too
expensive. HH told Neighbor that he had always wanted to buy
the 10 acres right next to ours. HH said that on vacation, he had
gone to the county courthouse and looked up the owner, and that
he was going to write him and see if he wanted to sell. Then they
went on with building the barn addition.

A couple days later, HH called the landowner, who lives in Illinois,
and asked it he wanted to sell. Landowner said, "What's going on
down there? Did somebody strike oil? Your neighbor gave me an
offer, and I'm dealing with him." We don't know how he knew this
was our neighbor. HH offered him $2000 more. HH explained
that he really wanted that property, because it is right next to our
current 10 acres where we live. Landowner said that Neighbor
had already given him some earnest money, and that he reckoned
he would stick with that deal, because he gave his word.

HH was fit to be tied. He talked to a relative of Neighbor who
lives down the road. Relative said Neighbor told him that they
were buying our dream land, and that they were going to live in
a camping trailer for a while. That really rattled HH's cage. We
are high-fallutin' hillbilly snobs, and don't want to live next to a
camping trailer homestead.

THEN a few evenings later, while frollicking in the blue plastic
Wal-mart swimming pool with the boy young'uns, HH heard
equipment running on the dream land. I though he was going
to have conniptions. "He's clearing it and he's gonna do something
over there. I didn't think he could get the money until he sold his
house." HH's plan was to offer to buy it from Neighbor for the
$2000 over what he paid. He figured: why would someone
want to sell his house and move across the road?

I think Neighbor saw a way to turn a quick profit, and planned
all along to get HH to buy it at a higher price. The equipment
we heard was Neighbor mowing the part of the dream land
that fronts the road. I told HH that I didn't think he'd really
bought the land yet, or else he would have dozed down some
little cedars and cleaned up the land better. All he did was mow
around clumps of trees and bushes. Then Neighbor sold his two
horses. One of his cars if for sale. HH thinks he is trying to get
the down payment. It has been about 3 weeks now. HH is
hoping the deal falls through.

As HH was leaving for work the other day, Neighbor started
up his driveway in his truck. He stopped halfway and waited
until HH pulled out and went down the road. HH thinks this
shows that Neighbor feels guilty and knows HH is mad at
him. I think they both know a feud is a-brewin'.

I am not going to worry until HH starts oiling up the shotgun.

Monday, August 01, 2005

Tell Me Where It Hurts

Other people are absolutely filling my head with ideas this week.
Raehan at Agog and Aghast mentioned something in the comments
of my Hillbilly Mama, Medicine Woman post that got me thinking
about that pain scale that doctors use. You know, the "On a scale
of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?" thing. Numbers are
not graphic enough for me, so I have devised my own pain scale.
It starts with the most severe pain I have ever felt, and then descends
gradually to the least bothersome pain. Because let's face it...when
something hurts, I think, "Hey that hurts like ...." I don't think,
"Hmm...that is about a 4."

HILLBILLY MOM'S PAIN SCALE
(Ranked from "I can't take it anymore this excruciating pain is
KILLING ME!!!" to "Eh...that kind of smarts.")

  • Gallstones
  • Childbirth without anesthesia
  • Torn cartilage/knee surgery
  • Broken arm
  • Migraine
  • Root canal needed
  • Sprained ankle
  • Finger closed in a car door
  • Vertebra/disk pain from car wreck
  • Bee sting between the toes
What do you think? I'll bet you have some aches and pains
not mentioned here. Where would they fit in? Redneck Diva,
how about that "fat foot?" Deadpanann, the broken finger?
Bert, the stitches? Rebecca, the broken arm, the broken nose,
the ten knee replacements? Anybody...anybody? Doesn't
someone have burning hemorrhoids or an eye popped out of
the socket? Tell me your own pain scale!

Sunday, July 31, 2005

Can't We Just Get Along?

The other day I was reading Alexandrialeigh's recollection of life
with her younger sister, and it reminded me of my dear sibling. I
saw that Redneck Diva had a sister post on Saturday, but hers
was not the source of my thieving. Mine was already in the can.
Check these two out if you haven't already, because they're much
better than mine.

Sis is 20 months younger than me, but who's counting? Well, she
is, to be truthful. In fact, when somebody gave us their condolences
at our father's funeral, and mentioned how she had red hair, and I
had brown, Sis said, "Hers would be gray, but she colors it." Maybe
it's just me, but I did not think that was appropriate.

We had our battles growing up. I had to include her in all the
neighborhood games. By the time we hit middle school, we
each had our own set of friends. I tortured her as a sibling will,
making fun of her purple bedroom with Donny Osmond posters.
The one act that irritated her most was when I saw her wearing
some kind of silver plastic sandals, and told her she had "boy toes."
She was outraged! I had found her Achilles heel in those sandals.
Whenever I wanted to needle her, all I had to do was lean over
and whisper, "boy toes."

Since I was older, I got my license and a car first. But I had to
drive her to school. Be careful what you wish for, huh? Living
in Missouri, we were occasionally sent home from school early
due to snowstorms. My Hillbilly Dad had always said to put
more weight in the back if you had to drive on snow. We lived
at the top of a quarter-mile hill, and I had a Chevy Vega, bright
yellow with a black stripe down the side. (The color had nothing
to do with the way it slid around in snow--I'm just bragging about
what a fine car I had!!!) When I found out we were being
dismissed early, I waited in the hall for Sis and told her, "You
need to get in the hatch so we can make it up the hill." She
hurried past me and said, "Uh uh. I'm riding the bus home!"
Oooh! I was spittin' mad. I couldn't wait to tell on her. I was
hoping she would get in trouble and have to ride the bus all the
time, but no such luck.

I never did much to hurt her physically, though there was the
time she was cleaning her ear with a bobby pin and I "accidentally"
bumped her arm. I wouldn't have been in so much trouble if it
wasn't for all that blood. (Let this be a lesson to you, kids. Don't
ever put anything smaller than your elbow in your ear.) The only
other physical thing I remember was regularly chasing her for
revenge so I could thump her on the back. That sound of a
lung rattling against her ribs was quite satisfying.

Don't go thinking Sis was an angel, and I was a bully. Check out
her transgressions. She loved to get me in trouble. A clever ruse
was to call me around the corner with the lure of, "C'mere. I've
got something to tell you." And I fell for it. I'd go around the
corner, and Sis would promptly CLAP her hands together and
start screaming, "OW! Mom! She slapped me!" Now this was
not a lung-thumping...I hadn't laid a hand on her.

Mom was a teacher at a school about 20 minutes away. After
school, before Mom got home, it was our job to fix supper. I
didn't like to cook, so Sis did the cooking, and I did the dishes.
Fair enough, one would think. Sis always cooked spaghetti or
lasagna. I hate both. She would dump something in a pan, then
say, "Oh, I didn't want that pan. I want this pan." So I had extra
dishes to wash, and a meal that I didn't like.

Another example: when I was 18 or 19, I played on a fast-pitch
softball team sponsored by a hole-in-the-wall bar called Al's Tavern.
Most of the girls were older, but a friend and I had been asked to
join their team. After a win, the owner of Al's said to come on to
the tavern. We drank soda, they drank beer. This might be something
I had neglected to tell the parental units. But Sis made sure they knew.
She rushed home one evening to tell them that she had seen my car
parked in front of Al's Tavern. They questioned me, but since I was
a good kid, I pointed out that if I wanted to sneak around, I would
not have parked my screaming yellow car in front of a bar less than
two miles from our house. They said they knew there was a good
explanation. Sis was spittin' mad this time.

How about the piece de resistance? When I had knee surgery the
first time, I was on crutches for 10 days. While recuperating, I had
fallen down an 8-step flight of stairs at my parents' split-level home.
It made them nervous when I went crutching up or down the stairs.
Dad was at work, and Mom had to run to town. She left me at home
with Sis, with strict instructions not to leave the family room. We
had a bathroom down there, and she told Sis if I needed anything
from upstairs, that she was to get it for me. I sat with my leg propped
up in a recliner. Sis and I watched some TV. She was nice enough.
Then I needed a drink. I asked her nicely if she could go up to the
kitchen to get me a glass of water. "Sure," she said. She returned
with one of those green Tupperware glasses full of water. I took a
drink and almost spit it out. It was hot water. Sis laughed an evil
laugh. I asked why she brought me hot water. She shrugged. "You
didn't say you wanted cold water."

We are still on speaking terms. I don't see her very often, but she
is a laugh riot when I do. And I know better than to go around the
corner to hear a secret.

#3 Official Answer: What Would Rednecks Do?

The question this week was "What would a Redneck Mama do if
she was in the recliner watching TV and her son ran in to tell her
the cat was stalking a chipmunk?"

The official answer is to try and save the chipmunk by catching it
and putting it in a tree. OK, I didn't say it was a smart Redneck
Mama. More details can be found here.

The scoring for this week goes like this:

Rebecca: (3)
Scolding child for interrupting TV
Using child to bring food
Alternate use for chipmunk

Deadpanann (2)
Letting child learn from mistakes
Beer

Bert Ford (3)
Animal killing
Wild animal casserole
Skinning a cat

Redneck Diva (3)
VHS tape
America's Funniest Videos
Tattoo

So it looks like we have a 3-way tie for first, which puts Miss Ann
in second and reminds her that if you can't run with the big dogs,
you might as well stay on the porch. Hey, it was only one point. You
don't really have to stay on the porch. You can run around with those
fleabags if you want. Please come back and play again next week,
and maybe I won't get so smart-alecky with you.