Thirty-five signs that show you’ve destroyed your heritage

enhanced-buzz-3479-1369234571-19Over at Buzzfeed, they worked up a mighty powerful post on “38 Signs you’re from North Carolina.”

It was described as “spot on” and “this is hilarious” by my North Carolina friends.

Well, Buzzfeed, you’re a failure. The ONLY thing you’ve succeeded in is getting attention and hits on your site. But your list sucks.

I opened the article, and read with great hope and tenacity. I figured I would love the way it made me relish in my North Carolina upbringing.

Upon reading, of the 38 signs I’m from North Carolina … I qualified for about 2 or 3 of them.

Insert tail between legs.

Number two is about Cheerwine. I loved Cheerwine growing up. Number two got me.

But I’ve never fought over the best barbecue. I’d argue for my Texas friend’s recipe for beef brisket over NC BBQ any day.

I left NC before Asheville became the beer brewing capital of the state. I didn’t really drink much when I lived there either.

I grew up in a Michiganer’s home, so while we had a firm religious hold, we didn’t say “Y’all.”

Number six is about sweet tea. And while I loved it growing up, that shit is bad for you. It eats your teeth, and makes you love guns and churches with huge stages, drum sets and awful music. Or something.

Number seven is about NASCAR, which is the dumbest, gasoline-wasting, brain-cell depleting “sport” ever. You know how kittens love to watch a toy go around and around in front of their face for long periods? That’s NASCAR. Only cats know when to say “Fuck off” before scratching your hand and taking a nap.

But number eight appeals to my long-guilty pleasure of loving Bojangles. It’s the best fried chicken biscuit … ever. No argument. Shut up.

They are so bad for you, but so good.

Mmmm.

Then there’s a series of things that don’t appeal to me. Collard greens, burgers all the way, the fight over first in flight. Who cares. I never got too upset about Florida license plates. I don’t have a basketball team I love over another. Carolina blue and Duke blue can screw themselves.

Pro sports were not a part of my upbrining.

But the one that hurts the most is the last on the list.

Number 38.

“And even when the state disappoints you, you still ardently defend it.” 

I’m guilty for dragging North Carolina under the bus. It’s responsible for the term “Yeshua Fog,” a place so densely disturbed by unfounded religious tenacity that its citizens often can’t see three feet in front of them.

But what do I know? I live in the Diversity Fog, blinded by all the different views from different ideas. A place that made me turn on my heritage and whine endlessly about it.

 

 

Deep in the Heart of … Texas photos, day 2

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When I woke up Saturday morning, a headache was knockin’ on my cranial door.

Friday night was long for me, and I went to bed hours before many of the other guys.

In the morning outside the main door, I found the above flag waving around. It was tied up sometime that morning. One of the Texans was carrying a bottle of Honey Jack Daniels and a PBR. He said, “What do you think?”

“Looks pretty cool,” I said.

“Right?” He responded with a thick Texas dialect.

In the morning, there was also a guy there whom I faintly remember from the night before. He was an interesting looking guy with a balding skull cap and hair circumventing the edges as far out as Einstein’s.

It was just before noon, and he was drinking a beer. He told me he was leaving in 10 minutes and it was nice to meet me.

Three hours later, he was still drinking beer and telling stories of following Phish on tours, showing off his space rock, dropping acid, and going from atheist/agnostic to full-on God believer. It seems that during one acid trip, a fellow tripper (or a hallucination, you choose) proved God exists through math.

And you can’t argue with math.

You also cannot argue with LSD.

Saturday the group shot a variety of guns, including a sniper rifle, an AR-15 (I think) and a very womanly 38-special. It was a pink jobber with a kick and a pow that would scare the shit out of any perpetrator (seen below). After that was a game of skeet shooting. Every time I nailed a clay pigeon, I hollered like a local (or a fanatical muslim, you choose) shaking my gun in the air and screaming.

That night, we all cooked. I grilled dogs and asparagus on one grill. Another grill carried a big-ass loin covered in a weave of bacon.

The night ended (for me) with s’mores and a campfire.

Sunday morning, I rounded up what was left of the groceries, made a pot or two of coffee, and cooked breakfast for everyone. I made scrambled eggs, sautéed asparagus and onions, bacon, and jalapeño-infused kielbasa.

“I love cooking for that many people,” I kept saying.

What a great weekend.

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How can anyone prove they’ve been good?

Apparently Yeshua’s torturous death and resurrection covered the ticket to heaven for heretics like me.

This news is blazing like wild fire.

So says Pope Francis, whoever that is.

And Julie Ferwerda.

Pope says:

He told the story of a Catholic who asked a priest if even atheists had been redeemed by Jesus.

“Even them, everyone,” the pope answered, according to Vatican Radio. “We all have the duty to do good,” he said.

“Just do good and we’ll find a meeting point,” the pope said in a hypothetical conversation in which someone told a priest: “But I don’t believe. I’m an atheist.”

There’s a ton of atheists on my Facebook wall screaming, “Hallelujah.” Or, “I guess I like this guy.”

I’d like to think I’m not “good” for any reward. I’d like to think that everyone isn’t good for rewards.

Hey, right-wing fundamental Protestant Christians … ball’s in your court. What do you think of this Catholic statement of inclusion?