Proud To Be A Hillbilly
By Ron Marr (02/13/03)
By birth and by choice I'm about two thirds Hillbilly. I come by it natural, having grown up on the northwest corner of the Missouri Ozarks. Though I did time as a city boy, establishing a few writing credentials that allow me to make a living without really working (indicative of Hillbilly blood in and of itself) I left the pretentious, politically correct population centers as soon as humanly possible.
My reasons for leaving "civilization" are myriad, but one of the biggies is that towns over 500 people are rarely civilized. City folk often have no sense of humor. They work themselves into a tizzy over burning issues such as self-esteem enhancement, diversity, tolerance and discrimination. They champion these causes not on behalf of themselves, but on behalf of people who don't give a flip about self-esteem enhancement, diversity, tolerance and discrimination. City folks engage in this practice because it allows them to brag about their humanity. More times than not they're just bored.
Hillbillies neither have nor want representation by activist groups. We might get worked up enough to form a tractor brigade or join a militia, but only if the opportunity arises between wheat harvest and deer season.
So I have to laugh that a group calling itself the Center for Rural Strategies is pitching a hissy fit over plans by the CBS network to air a program entitled "The Real Beverly Hillbillies." The proposed show would take a redneck family and drop them smack in the middle of a California mansion with all the trimmings. Real Hillbillies think this is hilarious. Unfortunately the head of the Center for Rural Strategies - a guy named Dee Davis - is appalled.
"Lets suppose some producer found an immigrant family from Mexico, put them in a Beverly Hills mansion, then went for laughs when they didn't know how to turn on the appliances," said Davis, whose group has spent $100,000 running ads protesting the show. "Maybe you could give a struggling black family from the Bronx a summer in the Hamptons."
Well...Hillbillies I know would be fairly tickled by such hijinks. However, that's not important. Mr. Davis's quotes reveal a salient point that any dyed in the moonshine ridge runner will see right off.
He's a city boy...and he suffers from terminal humor-impairment.
Hillbillies know they are the last group in America that can be made fun of publicly without suffering the ostracism of political correctness. And you know what? We don't care. We feel the easily-offended are a bunch of sissy whiners with skin less thick than Saran Wrap, folks wholly incapable of taking care of themselves without the aid of either a nanny or a nanny state. Most Hillbillies (self included) would be happy to appear on this show. And the reason we would do it is because we have massive superiority complexes. We couldn't give a tinker's dam what other people think; we are out to amuse ourselves.
However, there are a few conditions.
First off, CBS needs to remember that Hillbilly philosophy revolves around getting paid for doing nothing. We'll want folding green for this gig...and lots of it. The bidding can start at half a million. Cash please, up front, no credit cards.
Of equal importance, a deal will have to be struck with the state of California that allows us to bring along our guns and fire them in public areas. We won't register, we won't use trigger locks. CBS is having a hard time casting "The Real Beverly Hillbillies," and I suspect that a network aversion to firearms is a big part of it. If we're going to give up six months of our lives we want to be able to plink seagulls out of palm trees.
In return for these small consolations, here's what the American viewing public can expect. Because we Hillbillies will in fact be making fun of the audience, we will be witty, amusing and gloriously destructive. We'll take a cutting torch to the Rolls Royce, slicing off the back end and turning it into a flat-bed truck. We'll throw carp in the cement pond and fish for them with dynamite. We'll smoke a pig in the hot tub. We'll hold keg parties on the front lawn, which will be shared by innumerable sheep, goats, mules, clotheslines, junk cars and Maytag wringer washers. We'll load the porch with dogs and dog-eared furniture, get drunk with the neighbor's rebellious, poetry-reading daughter and use the Waterford crystal as targets during our Sunday afternoon skeet-shooting matches.
We'll go to fancy restaurants, guzzling out of the wine bottle with a bendable straw and using the lobsters as hand-puppets. We'll vomit in museums, shoot bottle rockets at celebrities and hang dead coyotes from the front gates of our palatial estate. Mostly we'll kill stuff...lots and lots of stuff.
Then we'll go back home and laugh ourselves silly, amazed beyond belief that anyone was dumb enough to pay us vast sums to drink like a fish, abuse left-wingers, wreck a mansion, blow through thousands of rounds of ammo and run the ultimate con on America.
Heck...I could be the next Joe Hillbillionaire.
I'm awaiting my call from CBS.
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