Bless His Heart! Tyree To The Rescue

“I ain’t from the South, but I got here as fast as I could” is a popular bumper sticker; but, according to a survey by the Associated Press, only 77 percent of the people born and still living in the South consider themselves to be Southerners.

Have national chain restaurants, industrialization, and political baggage really made Southern heritage so insignificant to some of y’all? Our ancestors would be turning over in their graves, if they hadn’t already been exhumed for construction of a Sushi R Us franchise.

I place much of the blame on the media elite, especially TV news anchors, with their subtle Midwestern bias. (“Will the knuckle-dragging segregationist Southerners be able to operate the voting machines? Only time will tell.”)

The inferiority complex of the South is even watering down our religion. Here in the Bible Belt, we used to worship someone who walked on water. Now we’re heaping all our adoration on Guys Who Can Drive In Snow And Ice.

Then again, maybe Southerners aren’t really rejecting their culture. Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding caused by our drug-dispensing public schools. (“Duh, I’m from south of the Mason-Dixon Line, so that makes me a …quadratic equation!”)

Whatever, the South is fast losing its identity and becoming a bland component of a homogenous society. Watch for these Warning Signs That The Yankees Have Won Again:

* The Lions Club sponsors an annual Monster Yugo and Civic Pull.

* “Hog killing time” involves cement blocks and a river.

* Motorists pull over for funeral processions, not out of respect, but to avoid being run over by the paparazzi. (“Ya never know. That hundred year old dirt farmer could have slept with Jennifer Aniston. Better take more pictures!”)

* Surplus middle names are donated to the Bob-less and Earl-deprived regions of Africa.

* Filling station attendants give directions like, “The bank? Just go down yonder a ways and turn where the feed store used to be. You’ll find a guy who can Google the bank for you.”

* Hospital emergency rooms are equipped to offer you a transfusion of Type A, Type B, Type AB, Type O, or unsweetened tea.

* School speech teachers are all replaced with auctioneers.

* At church socials, someone is inevitably accused of being the Nanner Puddin’ Nazi.

* Folks say, “Have your people call my people about ‘How’s your momma ‘n’ them?’”

* Two words: aerosol cornbread.

* Signs bear the message “See Rock City. Hey, What Are YOU Lookin’ At???”

* Instead of registering with the state, deer hunters register with Saks.

* No more marrying cousins – unless they’re the same sex.

I keep holding out hope that someday the 23 percent of respondents who claim they disavow the South will admit they were just yanking the chain of the nosey pollsters. Wouldn’t be the first time.

(“The Euro dollar? Yes, I reckon it will crash because of mounting deficits in the Third World – but mostly because of the influence of Elvis in a U.F.O.” “Wow! I’ve gotta rush this survey into print! This could be the biggest trend since Jennifer Aniston’s John Deere fetish!”)

Lennon Fans: We All Shine On

Monday, December 8, 1980 started out as a good day for me.

I was doing well in my college classes, I was writing for the student newspaper, I had my first girlfriend, and the radio featured catchy songs such as John Lennon’s “(Just Like) Starting Over.”

I returned to my dorm that evening and learned from the resident assistant’s roommate that Lennon had been gunned down outside his New York apartment building.

I felt blindsided. Rock stars overdose or die in plane crashes or fade away on oldies tours. This was too surrealistic. Not only would there be no new Lennon masterpieces, but it was as if my childhood was being erased behind me. (For one thing, the “Fab Four” helped inspire me to go from a flattop to bangs. Of course now when I look in the mirror I just feel like singing the Beatles classic “Help!”)

I find solace in different ways. At least widow Yoko Ono got to see how much Lennon meant to the world, when 10 minutes of silence were observed the following Sunday. Poor Yoko is still vilified for supposedly being the reason the Beatles broke up. If you’ve heard her sing, you realize she could probably also be accused of making the continents break up.

At least John went out in his prime (he was only 40), not reaching the point where he obtained “Instant Karma” only with Metamucil. Nor did he have to sell out to Madison Avenue by turning “Whatever Gets You Through The Night” into a companion jingle for “I Get By With A Little Help From Depends.”

I’m glad Lennon’s legacy survived the controversy that erupted in 1966. Churchgoers were burning Beatles records after Lennon told an interviewer that – for good or ill -- rock stars (not the Beatles in particular, as is commonly reported) were more popular than Jesus. The audacity of that statement is comparable to Pres. Bush claiming today, “I am more popular than root canals.”

I’m glad Lennon didn’t have to update his songs to fit the world of the 21^st Century. We didn’t really need to hear “I Saw Her Standing There (So I Notified Homeland Security),” “Strawberry Fields Forever – Or Until I Get A Subdivision Deal,” “Give 19 Confusing Medicare D Plans A Chance,” and “I Want To Hold Your Choirboy.”

Lennon fought personal demons, but I’m glad he had good points for us to emulate. Have you paid tribute to Lennon in the way you’ve lived the past 25 years? Do you experiment and innovate with your career/hobby, instead of stagnating? Do you strive to balance work and family? (Lennon was the world’s most famous stay-at-home dad.) Do you go through the motions of griping, or do you seek attention-catching ways to take a stand? (Remember John and Yoko protesting the Vietnam War from their bed?) Have you tried to leave something that lives on after you, whether it’s a well-adjusted child, a tree, or a donated book? Do you use your mind to imagine the best instead of the worst?

Let’s be happy that Lennon inspires us and will inspire generations to come.

And let’s rejoice that he didn’t have to compose an anthem about the looming Social Security crisis. (“Imagine there’s no trust fund/ It’s easy if you try/ Congress blows our money/Retirees only sigh…”)

Rock 'n' Roll Over! Good Boy!

According to the “New York Times,” one of the cleverest sites on the Internet is DogCatRadio – a radio station dedicated to keeping pets from becoming bored or lonesome while their masters are away at work.

The need is obvious. You can’t turn on the TV without seeing commercials for the “When Animals Shoot Paper Wads II” videotape. And who wants a beloved feline suffering the emotional scars of being left alone with thoughts such as “I wonder if I can stay awake until What’s His Name gets back from…ZZZZZZ”?

History backs me up on this. Animal boredom was one of the leading reasons for the fall of the Roman Empire. (“I am so tired of devouring Christians. Say, Simba, I bet them pagans is good eatin’!”)

DogCatRadio gallops to the rescue with intellectual stimulation for cooped up pets. Leaving our four-legged friends home alone with the company of the Internet makes them ponder deep philosophical questions, such as “How am I supposed to switch this to a porn site?”

DogCat Radio plays a lot of soft rock favorites, mixed with cutesy requests such as “Who Let The Dogs Out?” and “Hound Dog.” I suppose the anti-neutering crowd would go for M.C. Hammer’s “Can’t Touch This.”

If DogCatRadio continues growing, enterprising songwriters will inevitably come up with customized music for the station. Songs might include “Leaving On A Jet Plane Baggage Compartment,” “The Sounds of Silent Dog Whistles,” “I Fought The Leash Law,” “Flea Drops Keep Fallin’ On My Head,” “This Old Heartworm of Mine,” “Gainesburger In Paradise,” “Jive Barkin’,” “Fetch Like An Egyptian,” “That’s What Litterboxes Are For,” and “She Works Hard For The Hairball.”

Branching out to attract pets who prefer country music, the station would find plenty of room for songs such as “Coal Miner’s Canary,” “Live Like You Were Being Euthanized,” “He Stopped Vaccinating Her Today,” “I Remember The Dog Year That Clayton Delaney Died,” “You Were Always On My Leg,” “There’s A Stranger In My House. Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! No, Wait, Never Mind. It Was Just The Cuckoo Clock.”

If the station wanted the demographic of puppies and kittens, they could play songs such as “The Wheels On The Bus Go Round and Round. Bite ‘Em!”

The station already reaches out to animals other than canines and felines. There could even be programming for ferrets. Partnering with C-SPAN, DogCatRadio could broadcast the antics of those lovable weasels in Congress.

DogCatRadio does not currently carry advertising, but the potential is there. We would probably hear pitches for things like the new books “Heloise’s Hints On How To Get Stains Into The Carpet” and “Secrets of The Throwing The Stick Scam.”

Prize contests (“Pick up the phone and be the fifth caller”) might be a tough sell, except in households with monkeys. The inequity would be addressed by radio evangelists. (“The opposable thumb: the mark of the Beast?”)

I’m not sure how well traffic reports would work on DogCatRadio. (“Observers are reporting a collision in the park. A Chihuahua has rear-ended a poodle. No, wait –that was no accident….”)

The next time you’re worried about leaving your pets unattended, give DogCatRadio a shot. They might even be playing that country classic “Rollin’ In My Sweet Baby’s Possum Carcass.”

Trying To "Stirrup" Some Trouble

Ladies, do you really need a whole cheering section shouting “Push!”?

According to the New York Times News Service, there is a growing trend toward allowing multiple guests in the delivery room during labor. Some women even move their baby showers to the delivery room.

Rejecting privacy and modesty, proponents of this cultural shift insist that a circle of family and friends can make a birth even more wondrous than it already is. Yeah, so can hiring David Copperfield to help the baby make its escape, but ya gotta draw the line somewhere.

Contemporary mothers squeeze more and more guests into the delivery room because they can’t stand to slight anyone. Then, once they’re back on their feet, they resume playing tennis at their all-white country club.

Hospitals use the trend as a marketing tool. Visitors who get a warm, fuzzy vibe from the delivery room experience will turn to that hospital in the future, whenever they’re considering elective surgery, or just have a hankering for five dollar tongue depressors. (“Jim, I saw your kid today and it reminded me of my ‘roid troubles…”)

Be that as it may, some people just don’t belong in the delivery room. Grandmothers-to-be would have a captive audience for their nagging. (“Hmph! If you had married that nice young doctor instead of What’s His Name, I’ll bet we’d be in the hospital Express Lane now, instead of waiting 12 hours for delivery!”)

Invite your best friend to the delivery? Sure. Just don’t expect a moratorium on catty comments. (“Judy was really brave during her entire delivery. She kept a stiff upper lip. If only she had thought to wax her lip…”)

A bunch of typically rowdy male spectators can ruin the blessed event. (“Hey, you gonna let him slap you on the rear end like that, ya little wuss? Lay one upside his head, Junior!”)

Some women even invite their bosses to the birth. This can really blow the boss’s mind. (“It’s like I’m looking in a mirror! That’s the same expression I make when I grant a five-cent raise!”)

Why stop with the boss? Why not go for broke and invite the president? (“How was I supposed to know the pregnant woman’s water would break? Besides, this is a local issue, not a federal one!”)

There are just too many variables in childbirth for a woman to invite all her friends and acquaintances. What if there’s a breech birth? The baby would get off to a bad start in life if his first official act was “mooning” the preacher.

Do we really want childbirth to be a community event on the order of funerals? What puffy-faced, stringy-haired, groaning woman wants well-wishers commenting, “My, doesn’t she look natural?”

Those glamour photos for Christmas cards become sort of pointless after everyone on your list has seen you in labor, don’t they? It’s like installing a home security system and then leaving a neon sign that announces, “Here’s the pass code, and a can of ether for the guard dog.”

You’re entitled to your own opinion, but I’ll point out the simplicity of the most famous childbirth in history. The “Wise Men” were wise enough to show up long after the action. It might have been ugly otherwise. (“Frankincense? Myrrh? I want Demerol! Surely there’s room at the inn for Demerol!”)

Be True To Your Skoal

It’s the sort of thing that makes you mad enough to spit!

I speak of Tennessee’s attorney general (Paul Summers) bullying country singer Gretchen “Redneck Woman” Wilson into toeing the politically correct line. Wilson had been waving a can of Skoal smokeless tobacco during performances of her new song “Skoal Ring,” but pressure from Summers caused her to snuff out the routine.

I’m not a user myself, but I still think smokeless tobacco gets a bum rap. Here are 11 good things about smokeless tobacco:

1. No more having to haul fabric samples to the store when shopping for paint. Just flash your “pearly yellows” at the clerk.

2. Smokeless tobacco has spawned some other great country songs: “Stand By Your Spittoon,” “He Stopped Brushing Them Today,” “I’m Mopping The Floor Over You,” “I Go Out Expectorating After Midnight,” “I Was Pre-cancerous When Pre-Cancerous Wasn’t Cool,” and “You Were Always On My Gums.”

3. By giving the term “smokeless” a warm, fuzzy meaning, smokeless tobacco opens the way for other benign products, such as smokeless rear-end collisions, smokeless alimony payments, and the whimsical smokeless kick in the groin.

4. It gives the Average Joe a chance to keep up with the bragging at class reunions. (“I’m trying to see how fast I can run the marathon.” “I’m trying to see how fast I can make microchips process vital defense data.” “I’m trying to see how fast I can get nicotine into my bloodstream.”)

5. It’s always neat to have products whose chief selling point is “This is a perfectly legal product, darn it!”

6. Smokeless tobacco holds out hope for men who might otherwise have trouble finding women. If Gretchen Wilson is turned on by a man who still needs an oral pacifier, she’d probably go wild over a guy who throws temper tantrums and uses adult diapers.

7. . It gives recognition to the real he-men who don’t take any bull from anyone, except, of course, from tobacco industry executives.

8. Smokeless tobacco teaches humility. You become better at eating your own words, because, hey, they taste pretty much like everything else.

9. When they find crossword clues for “oropharyngeal tumor” and “gingival recession,” can-a-day Copenhagen users can crow, “Ha! I knew those without blowing five bucks on a crossword dictionary!”

10. If smokeless tobacco can hold on to respectability, nostalgia buffs may yet see a resurgence of the fine art of emptying the chamber pot in the street.

11. Smokeless tobacco lures all 34 carcinogens to your stomach lining so you can fight them there, on your own terms, instead of on American soil. (Thanks for that one, Dubya.)

And thank you for letting me vent. As a reward, we’ll close with a musical number. . For your listening pleasure, it’s Willie and Julio. “To all the girls I’ve grossed out before/By spewing my saliva on the floor…”