Just for chuckles today:
Maybe you have to live around these parts to really understand the humor in this. All I know is, I laughed so hard when I saw this that I nearly pulled a muscle, because this perfectly fits damn near every woman I know in Hickville, the inbred and uncultivated trash heap where the kids are forced to live with Crow.
We even affectionately nicknamed that god-awful haircut and skunk-stripe bleach job pictured in the top row after Hickville, because for a while, it seemed like a town ordinance for every woman to have that godforsaken mess perched on top of her vacuous head. It’s still a popular choice there, even though it is flattering on a total of none, but most of the womenfolk have shifted to a utilitarian chop job with pronounced sideburns (yes, just as lovely as it sounds, I assure you).
I am surprised that women in Hickville don’t have monograms tattoo’d on their foreheads. I swear, they monogram everything, from shirts (for every holiday, mind you) to shoes to bags to towels to wreaths and those absurd, icky yard flags. It’s like a raging monogram virus swept the town and left its indelible, tacky mark. And if it doesn’t have a monogram plastered on it, then it’s doused in chevron stripes, preferably in loud, clashing colors, to make sure everyone notices them and their new, just-like-every-other-washed-up-has-been’s aforementioned haircut.
The only thing not quite accurate is that the auto back glass decals pictured do not include “Salt Life”. That’s quite trendy in Hickville, even for people whose cracked heels rarely find themselves submerged in proper bath water, let alone sea water.
Wrapping oneself in a billboard for God is pretty typical too. It’s like they think if they mention God enough times on their shirts, then people won’t notice the rather un-Godlike things they do and say on a regular basis. Along the same lines, it’s like they need to constantly be reminded that they are, indeed, in the south, because everything is Southern This and Southern That. Did they forget where they were? Did all that bleach from the Hickville haircut sink into their diminutive gray matter?
The Holy Grail in Hickville would be a chevron-striped shirt, with a monogram tacked on the front, a quote about God plastered on the back, as long as the shirt brand is Southern Something or Other, and for some reason always a size or two too damn small, paired with distressed, too-tight jeans doused with cheap rhinestones, and a cell phone in a chevron-striped case poking out of the back pocket…oh, who am I kidding? They like to stuff their iPhones right into their sweaty bras, which probably have monograms on them too.
The entire thing is kind of like the uniform of a bizarre redneck cult, one to which I am quite glad I do not belong…okay, well, except for bling on jeans. Guilty! And proud of it! I love sparkly anything and everything, in moderation, though. But I was like that before I ever moved down south, I swear. And…*pinky swear*…I don’t own a single shirt with a monogram, a chevron stripe, or the word “southern” on it!