I live in a town most cannot even conceive of. A town of condemned buildings, welfare-induced comas, and eventual left blinkers. A town of good-ole' boys with rebel flags raised taunting anyone to come against them; "yes the south will rise again," they proclaim.
Yesterday, upon our departure of the town's bountiful bossom- Walmart, the sound of mother's screaming absenities at their children and old men in wheel chairs complaining about the price of gas were no match for the wonderment that sang ever-so-out-of-tune into oversized microphones. There they were- a gangle of over-the-hill gospels singing their hearts out; their accompanyment a foot-tapping country band.
Raising money for a cause, and no doubt raising awareness of the ever-popular baptist church community, these lively nymphs were on a mission (appearantly to burn our ear drums raw). I half expected a gap-toothed man in long johns to come out and play the spoons, but alas, my hopes were dashed as they began to sing the last stanza of the song. And as the 80-year-old bass held out his last note, I looked ever-so-lovingly at my husband and said, "Only in the South."
Ya'll come back now, ya hear?
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