Monday, June 6, 2011

Life in the Redneck Riviera....

So I woke up viciously hung over this morning.  And I rolled over to find a tall, beefy redneck I apparently brought home with me!  Shit.  How had this happened?  Where had it all gone south?  He was even sporting a mullet.  A crudely smudged tattoo of a clown...a CLOWN...glowed in gaudy reds and blues between his shoulders.

Which led me to contemplate, what sordid events led to his getting a clown tattoo?  Had it been a drunken dare?  Perhaps something more noble?  Like being in the military and stationed overseas where clown tattoos were the "in" thing?  But, let's be honest, the real question was right in front of me.  How had I let this into my bed?

It probably started last night when I was with Bobby and Kelly on the beach with our Cuba Libres while we sparked up a few joints.  We like to go out there while the sun sets and get ready for our evenings out.  And who am I?  Well, they call me Dixie.  I do a lot of things...right now I dance and I shake my ass and the money, lord, it comes rolling in!

How did I end up in Panama City, Florida?  Long fucking story.

Here's the nearby wharf though...



I'm a girl with humble beginnings.  My parents breed dogs and my mom works as a waitress at a Waffle House.  I grew up near Rome, Georgia and I guess its claim to fame is a big Christian college and a road called Seven Bridges Road.  The thing about this road is it has seven bridges when you drive west on it, but if you turn around and head back east, you only cross six bridges.

I was raised in the Bible belt and all of that has conspired to make me a complete heathen.  An atheist, even.  Although, I AM an ordained minister.  No, seriously I am!  There's this church in Seattle called the Universal Life Church Monastery that totally let me ordain myself online and voila!  I have the wallet card to prove it.  Oh, and a Clergy Parking Pass.  I keep waiting for a useful moment to whip that out and use it.  Is it like handicapped parking?

Anyway, last summer, I married one of my professional dancer friends to a Jewish guy who came down here on vacation and stayed.  They got divorced a few months later, but she made out like a bandit anyway.

So I moved here to Florida for the ocean and sun, but also because I ended up in a little bit of trouble when I told the local Baptist minister to go fuck himself after he got a lap dance from me and didn't tip.  Thing is, I didn't tell him to go fuck himself where I worked at the time, but rather in a very public place when I ran into him a week later.  And well, the cat was kind of out of the bag as to what I did for a living and all.....

But apparently, I have yet to escape the rednecks.

What I remember about last night was getting a text from Bobby.  Then rum and coke and limes were appearing at my front door.  Then we were on the beach drinking and fending off the humidity.

This was all well and good, but the sun set.  And we just had to go out..and so we did to the Back Door.  And that's where I met the redneck.  His name was Johnny.  Which was fine until he pushed it further by stating his name was really Johnny B. Goode.  Really?  You'll have me believe your folks did that to you?  But he stuck to his story which was helped along by many more Cuba Libres, shots of tequilla and joints smoked back out on the beach later.

And if y'all are wondering how to get rid of a redneck in the morning....NPR is the answer.  I turned that shit up real loud and he looked baffled, mumbled something about a great time and scurried out the door.

Such is life in the Redneck Riviera.

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