Monday, February 27, 2006


I'm getting new neighbors in the apartment building and I feel like I've suddenly been transplanted into an episode of Blue Collar Comedy.

Saturday morning, five enormous pick ups pulled up in front of our building, including one that drove the wrong way down our one way street. Only one of these trucks was loaded with furniture. The others were mostly empty, though one had several orange traffic cones thrown in the bed. The five trucks disgorged eight of the most glorious mullets I've seen in ages, as well as several Carhartt jackets. Had it been a warm day, I suspect at least two of the mullets would have been barechested. I base this suspicion on nothing more than my lifetime of experience with redneck relatives. (Most people who've met me as an adult are utterly mystified when they meet my extended family. I like to tease my mother that if I didn't already know I was adopted, I'd demand a DNA test. My extended family is just as mystified by my love of books as I am by their love of NASCAR.)

This morning, as I left for school, I noticed that they'd put their name on their mailbox. With duct tape.

All I know is, if I hear anyone yell "Hey y'all, watch this!", I'm getting the heck out of the way.


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