I used to work with a mess a rednecks. Rednecks love nothing better than to be rednecker than you.
Naturally, not to be outdone, We rednecked as well as some, better than others, worse than many.
We were working at a truckstop outside Lancing.
My boss enjoyed chess. He's a homosexual, and was somewhat displeased when I suggested Mangina would be cleaning the woman's room.
His spouse in the photo is post-op.
Signage claimed WE were located in Waterdown Township, or something similar.
Much like Dune and The Hobbit, my consumption of this literature bordered on maniacal.
Now and then, an uppity negro would walk in with a chest full of provocation. (Ladies, the next time you wonder why men are unable to stop looking at your chest, remind yourself that if my penis were on my chest....) I often complimented these negroes, and their provocation. More than once, the negro had the chutzpah to suggest xhe had made the garment xesself. On one such occasion, the negro asked if I cared for a garment or two. I accepted two, one of which I gave to my negro landlord which, I would guess, he has never worn and probably threw out not long after he challenged me to a fight in his backyard.
If you've read this, and you think these literary references are not real, and that I'm lying about facts, please, for the good of your ancestors, your unborn and birthed descendants, please shoot yourself in the temple.
