So we travel to Kansas City, Kansas - not Kansas City, Missouri which is right across the Missouri river from Kansas City, Kansas. How confusing, how many ales did the city elders consume before they agreed to these names. And it's Missourah, not Missouri, because these hillbillies don't know how to talk as they are practically Southerners. Accents, I don't have one. Midwesterners speak in a bland, stretched-out fashion and in my town we still have German remnants like "Yah (yes), zinc (sink), crick (creek), and my favorite, warsh (wash.) My well-traveled son cringes at some of my words, "it's produce, not prahduce and say soda, not pop," but we are always understood, I remind him, and nobody asks us to repeat anything.
We are visiting my son-in-law and daughter-in-law and they do not fall into the pre-mentioned category, they do know how to talk, and well. They have degrees from Colorado and their children's bookshelves are bursting with good titles and my daughter-in-law's blogs give reference to their children being trained in etiquette, a strong Christian faith and a straight forward integrity.
We go to an amusement park to be amused, I guess. The majority of the afternoon I spend walking around soaked clear through to my bloomers from sitting in rides that mimicked white water rafting. I didn't mind, it kept me cooled and I am glad I did not choose a thin white fabric for my blouse today.
I don't care for the South. The fact that many Southerners sport a Confederate flag in the back windows of their pick-up trucks offends me. I dated a boy from Tennessee when I was 16 and he was an obnoxious cad. But he wore tight lemon yellow pants over his nicely chiseled buttocks and for me that excused his lack of character. He had a jaunty attitude with an enticing pirate's sneer, a real bad boy and I found him adorable but every time I spoke he would ask me to repeat. I finally stopped the repetition and he would answer me but always a few seconds later. I asked, why, you're obviously hearing me. "Well," he answered, in a sultry drawl, "we Southerners just don't talk slow . . . . we think slow." Well, there you have it.
We go to an amusement park to be amused, I guess. The majority of the afternoon I spend walking around soaked clear through to my bloomers from sitting in rides that mimicked white water rafting. I didn't mind, it kept me cooled and I am glad I did not choose a thin white fabric for my blouse today.
I don't care for the South. The fact that many Southerners sport a Confederate flag in the back windows of their pick-up trucks offends me. I dated a boy from Tennessee when I was 16 and he was an obnoxious cad. But he wore tight lemon yellow pants over his nicely chiseled buttocks and for me that excused his lack of character. He had a jaunty attitude with an enticing pirate's sneer, a real bad boy and I found him adorable but every time I spoke he would ask me to repeat. I finally stopped the repetition and he would answer me but always a few seconds later. I asked, why, you're obviously hearing me. "Well," he answered, in a sultry drawl, "we Southerners just don't talk slow . . . . we think slow." Well, there you have it.
1 comment:
Huh? Could you please repeat that?
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