The Redneck Guide to Raisin' Children

by Annie Smith

  * * *

  Rednecks’ Five Favorite Names for Girls

  1. Audrey

  2. Annie

  3. Earlene

  4. Josie Mae

  5. Polly

  Rednecks’ Five Favorite Names for Boys

  1. Ray

  2. Earl

  3. Bobby

  4. Walter

  5. Sammy

  * * *

  The Significance of Bubba

  After redneck parents pick a formal name for their child, they always end up calling him or her by a nickname. But you’ve gotta be careful about that, too.

  For example, don’t nickname a little boy Bubba. In the South, Bubba is almost like a royal title bestowed on deserving people.

  A boy’s got to earn that name through heroic actions like carrying an old lady’s refrigerator across the street or shooting up a jukebox.

  And anybody named Bubba has got to be BIG.

  Alan Autry—who plays hard-muscled, soft-hearted Sgt. Bubba Skinner on In the Heat of the Night—never would be allowed to use that name if he was playing a pencil-thin conniving cop. Outraged rednecks would picket the Sparta courthouse!

  Don’t nickname a boy Shorty either, unless you’re pretty sure he’ll never grow taller than three and a half feet.

  And don’t jokingly slap Shorty on a kid because his zipper is longer than his private part. The boy will turn bitter and grow up to be a criminal or President.

  Shorty Perkins doesn’t mind being called Shorty because he’s really six feet tall. But we reckon he wouldn’t be happy today if he’d been nicknamed Skinny because that name fits. He weighs only about 115 pounds soaking wet with a 10-pound security chain on his wallet.

  We’ve seen our kids draw stick figures that looked fatter than Shorty Perkins. Better-lookin’, too.

  Dolls’ Real Purpose

  Most young parents think dolls are things to play with. But in redneck households, they’re used mainly to teach little girls how to take care of their own kids one of these days.

  Every girl should have six or more dolls. And you should make her wash, burp, dress, and fix meals for them on the hour—all through the night.

  Don’t buy your kids any fancy porcelain dolls. Get plastic or rag dolls such as Raggedy Anns so they can practice paddling without worrying about breaking the dolls.

  What this world needs is dolls that do what real kids do. It would be great if you could give your girl a half dozen dolls that cry, scream, hold their breath, demand candy, sneak cigarettes, and slip out of the house at night to meet dolls of the opposite sex.

  There ought to be “Baby Smart Mouth” dolls that contradict everything you say.

  And somebody ought to put out a “Baby Chore Helper” doll. When you pull the string, the doll won’t even lift a finger—then she’ll run out the door as soon as your back is turned.

  Until these hit the market, your kids will have to make do with regular store-bought dolls. Or they can make their own dolls out of cornstalks.

  To do this, cut a thick four-inch-long piece of stalk for the body. Cut a thinner one-inch piece for the head. Then slice off five slivers of the stalk’s hard shell and use them to make the doll’s neck, arms, and legs. Next, stick on half-inch sections of stalk for the hands and feet.

  Young’uns can even use cornstalks to make a pet dog or cat for their doll.

  Dating outside the Family

  Contrary to popular belief, most rednecks don’t marry close relatives.

  Why, half the couples we know ain’t related by blood in any way.

  Inbreeding leads to all kinds of problems. It can cause retarded kids, and a serious case of lead poisoning if your wife’s backwoods family doesn’t get along with you.

  It can also cause some people to lose all common sense and vote Republican, according to a 1989 study by Professor Harland K. Sampson.1

  And there’s one other problem: In some Southern states, even if you get divorced, you’re still legally brother and sister. Which means you’re still stuck with seeing your dratted husband or wife once a year at family reunions.

  So when your kids get old enough to date, sneak a sample of blood from each teenager and his or her date. It won’t be that hard to get blood; redneck kids play so rough, they’re always cutting themselves on something.

  If the dating couple have the same blood type, odds are they’re related—and it’s your beholden duty to squash that budding romance by any means necessary.

  If the blood types are different, give them your blessing. But don’t let them have that big, lavish shotgun wedding until they both turn sixteen.

  Explaining Eviction to Your Kids

  Rednecks are not just a mobile-home society, they’re a mobile society.

  It seems like the landlord comes around pestering redneck tenants for the rent every five or six months, so they have to regularly pack up and move in the middle of the night.

  We’ve got relatives who’ve moved so often, they keep their outhouse on wheels.

  Uncle Billy has lived in fifty-four different houses since fighting in Korea, and he hasn’t paid a penny in rent all these years. Landlords won’t even come within shouting distance of Billy’s home because he’s got a steel plate in his head, keeps his old combat carbine beside the front door, and riles easier than a pit bull.

  The property owners usually get rid of Billy just like they do a lot of uncooperative renters: They go to court and get eviction papers.

  When the sheriff’s deputy comes to your door and orders you to get out, here are some explanations you can give your young’uns:

  • “Sorry, kids, we have to move. Elvis wants to hide out here for a while.”

  • “The hound dog snatched the rent money off the table and hid it someplace. You kids seen him digging in the yard?”

  • “We just found out our neighbors are aliens and they’re going to beam you up to Pluto. There ain’t no Burger Kings on Pluto, kids!”

  • “Professor Sampson over at the junior college wants to use our family for a double-blind study. Now, we know you kids don’t want to spend six weeks wearing dark glasses and carrying white canes.”

  • “The feds are putting us in the Witness Protection Program because your daddy told on the men at work who kicked the vending machine to get free Pepsis.”

  Farting: Will You Go to Hell?

  Passing gas is common among rednecks because of the foods they eat. Expect your kids to start doing it early and often, especially if you feed ’em lots of beans.

  Professor Harland K. Sampson says his research shows the five biggest causes of natural gas explosions in humans are: (1) pinto beans, (2) October beans, (3) navy beans, (4) cabbage, and (5) anything served at Shoney’s.

  The worst, of course, are pinto beans. They give you so much gas you could open your own filling station.

  Farting is politely called “pooting” in parts of the South, probably because it’s a nicer-sounding term than the “F” word.

  Although passing gas in public ain’t as frowned upon among rednecks as it is among certain other groups, you still should teach your kids when it’s sinful. Tell your children:

  • Don’t let a big fart in church. And if you do, don’t fix your mother with an accusing look and say real loud, “Well, Mommy!”

  • Don’t poot in school, unless the whole class is doing it and you can’t get singled out as the villain.

  • Don’t pass gas at the dinner table. If you feel the urge, run outside and let ’er rip where the breeze can whisk the smell away.

  When Annie serves soup beans, onions, and cornbread for supper at our house, sometimes the kitchen table is plumb abandoned. We’re all out in the yard, just a-blowin’ in the wind.

  One night Rufus McKinney heard our loud poots and figured we was shooting off firecrackers. He ran outside and raised his American flag, thinking it was the Fourth of July.

  • Don’t fart in a truck or car when all the windows are rolled up. If
you’ve just got to ease out some gas to relieve belly pains, crack your window first.

  Somebody probably will notice the foul smell anyway, so be prepared to say, “Whee-ooo! Must be a lot o’ dead rats over at the dump this time o’ year!”

  Don’t worry about people on the street smelling the stink coming out of your car. Redneck pedestrians are used to drive-by pootings.

  Redneck drive-by

  Passing Gas for Fun and Profit

  Tell your kids it’s all right to fart on a date if they do it discreetly, or if they don’t really like their companion and never want to see him or her again.

  Passing gas also is perfectly acceptable once your young’uns grow up and go out socializing with buddies.

  After a few Buds at the bar, some rednecks even have contests to see who can fart the loudest—and the winner gets free beer the rest of the night.

  Farting is such a tradition among rednecks that Glen-Bob’s daddy even wrote a poem about it. Here are his actual words:

  How well I know—and you know, too—

  Just what a stinking fart can do.

  You’ve got two choices—to hold your breath

  Or breathe in and be gassed to death.

  I’ve let ’em myself; they smelt like a dead rat.

  I couldn’t stand to be where I was at.

  You take this polluted air, where did it start?

  It started from people letting soup bean farts.

  Our whole family is proud of that poem. We figure Henry Fartsworse Longsmeller couldn’t have said it better.

  Heed this warning, parents: If your young’uns don’t pass a little gas every now and then, they could blow up like a balloon and bust wide open.

  So don’t let anyone tell your kids that passing gas is wrong, or that it means they’re not refined and cultured.

  We’re sure Miss Manners would turn up her nose at this advice. But if she wasn’t constantly turning off people with her snooty rules, she’d be Mrs. Manners, wouldn’t she?

  Grime and Punishment

  When our son Wimpy once borrowed a neighbor boy’s bike without asking permission, we punished him by making him cut that family’s grass all summer with a push mower.

  Some people thought that was a little harsh for Wimpy’s first offense.

  But Aunt Alma—who, God bless her, sometimes gets her thoughts tongue-tied—sided with us. She said, “He knows which side his bread is buttered on, and now he must lie in it.”

  So we stuck to our punishment. And guess what? After that sweaty, terrible summer, Wimpy never again ventured into the dark underbelly of the criminal world.

  The point of this here story is simple: When your kids cross the line, make the consequences hit ’em as hard as a Mack truck. A slap on the wrist ain’t going to keep any young’un straight, but a trip to the woodshed sure might make him think twice the next time.

  However, don’t be too cruel when you physically punish your young’uns. Our saying is: Children should be seen and not hurt.

  Also, teach your kids to respect the law. If it wasn’t for deputies, police, and game wardens putting their lives on the line every day, not a single human being or deer would be safe anywhere in the USA.

  These brave men and women deserve to be called “sir” by kids. Drill that into your offspring until they do it automatically.

  If they don’t, they could head down the wrong path and their high school yearbook pictures might have front and side views, with their height clearly marked on the white background.

  When Grandpa’s in Prison

  Garth Brooks’ song saying “Mama’s in the graveyard, papa’s in the pen,” always brings a tear to our eyes when they play it on the radio. That’s because it’s so true in our household.

  Glen-Bob’s mama, Mae, passed away six years ago. And his daddy (who asked not to be identified) is serving a year and a half in the state penitentiary.

  But unlike Garth’s tune, our two tragedies ain’t connected.

  Poor Mama got whacked by a runaway cotton candy wagon during a visit to Five Flags over Alabama. She was so flattened we had to bury her in a big Domino’s pizza box.

  Then a second catastrophe hit our family when Daddy got put in the slammer after a run-in with a neighbor.

  This low-down drunk was beating his wife and she ran over to Daddy’s house to get away. Her husband tried to go in the door after her, so Daddy—who’s pushing seventy, but still has his bricklayer muscles—laid the fool out cold.

  Daddy always taught us: “Any man who hits a woman ain’t much of a man.” And he proved it that night, because he purtnear killed the wife beater with just one punch.

  So Daddy went to prison for “excessive use of force.” And we got stuck with the job of explaining his incarceration to his grandkids and great-grandkids.

  This is a ticklish situation. It’s embarrassing when you’ve got a relative in prison, and unfortunately this happens now and then among redneck families.

  How do you help your kids cope when Grandpa’s in prison?

  Here are some ideas we came up with:

  1. Hide the awful truth—turn Grandpa into a hero. Tell your children he went looking for the real killer of JFK and mysteriously disappeared from the Texas Book Suppository.

  2. Say that Grandpa got a job out of town at a license plate factory, but he’ll be back as soon as they get up to z.

  3. Tell your kids the truth, that Grandpa’s behind bars. Then stretch the truth a bit by swearing he was framed—and you’re looking for the one-armed man that really done it.

  4. Pretend Grandpa’s still with you. Set a plate for him at the table. On his birthday, buy a cake and join the grandkids in singing, “For He’s a Jolly Good Felon.”

  5. Make up bumper stickers for your kids’ lunch boxes that say PROUD GRANDSON OF A TRUSTEE AT ___________ STATE PRISON.

  Just Say “Hell, No!” to Drugs

  Drugs are ruining America. Look at all the crime and violence in the big cities. You and your kids ain’t safe on some big-city streets unless you’re all wearing Middle Ages armor and carrying a four-shot howitzer.

  We agree with ol’ Charlie Daniels when he sings about taking drug dealers out in the swamp, tying them to a stump, and letting the alligators and snakes do the rest. Crack pushers, especially, are killers and don’t deserve to live among us decent folk.

  Even Professor Harland K. Sampson, who’s as mild-mannered as Wally Cox, gets hopping mad when he talks about drug dealers. He says they ought to be put on the “endangered feces list.”

  But sad to say, these lowlifes are always going to be around and tempting your children. So you’ve got to educate your kids early in life about the dangers of crack, PCP, heroin, and other drugs.

  Pound it into your boys that if they get hooked on hard drugs, they’ll never be able to afford a pickup truck. That should be enough to scare the wits out of true redneck boys and steer them clear of brain-altering substances.

  As for your girls—warn them until you’re blue in the face that if they don’t resist the lure of drugs, they’ll never have a home with a nice new vinyl kitchen floor and genuine Kenmore appliances.

  Explain to your children all the good things that come with a drug-free life. For example, they won’t have to worry about being rushed by ambulance from the carnival to the hospital … they’ll never wake up in scary places with even scarier bedmates … they won’t have to run from some drug-crazed freak … and they’ll always have a job as long as Wal-Mart and Dunkin’ Donuts are in business.

  Sadly, despite all the good work being done by Chuck Norris and his “Kick Drugs Out of America” campaign, we’ll never completely stop people from using drugs.

  Even rednecks get hooked on drugs every now and then. One of the most damaging is uncoated aspirin, which leaves a lot of long-distance truckers with gruesome stomach pains.

  We’ve also known some people who were hopeless Coke addicts but recovered after therapy at the RC Rehab Center over in
Potato Ridge.

  And of course, the middle-aged redneck’s drug of choice is Preparation H.

  Stranger in a Strange Land

  It’s a plain fact that drug users can’t keep a job.

  Whenever we want to impress that fact on our kids, we just point to Herbie the Hippie.

  Herbie’s never held down a regular job in his whole life. He’s kind of a sad figure, really, all alone in the world.

  He used to live in Minnesota. Then, in 1969, he heard about the Woodstock Festival and decided to drive to it. But Herbie’s brain was so fogged by marijuana that he couldn’t read a road map—and he ended up in Woodstock, Georgia, just outside Atlanta.

  Well, Herbie kept driving around looking for the other Woodstock until his pink VW microbus blew an engine here in Chicken Neck, Tennessee.

  When Herbie first arrived in town he had a long ponytail, an earring, and a little mustache. A lot of people mistook him for Pauline Perkins.

  But now he’s got a full beard and has been here for nigh onto thirty years, marooned kinda like Gilligan.

  Herbie lives in a little abandoned fishing shack out beside Lost Gizzard Lake and grows his own vegetables plus a little “wacky terbacky” for his personal consumption.

  Sheriff Gardner knows about Herbie the Hippie’s illegal crop, but lets it slide because Herbie never bothers anybody. Potheads—unlike crack heads—ain’t violent.

  In fact, the only trouble we’ve ever seen out of a marijuana addict happened over in the town of Potato Ridge, thirty miles from here.

  This red-eyed, long-haired dude went up to an old woman in a supermarket parking lot, pointed a silver-plated hairbrush at her, and said very slowly, “Okay, lady, keep the cash—just give me all your Twinkies!”

  Surefire Cussin’ Remedies