Monday, March 15, 2010
There's an old saying about the state of South Carolina: "Too small to be a country, too big to be a mental asylum."
Just like Miss Scarlett O'Hara, I too am a prototypical Southern Belle. The Zenaidas of Virginia arrived to the New World from Scotland. As an alternative to smashing rocks in a debtor's prison, we journeyed night and day in steerage to fulfill our destiny: to become white trash. But then we moved up in the world, literally, to the steely rust belt of central New England to fulfill our true destiny: to become Yankee white trash. Mama, why'd ya ever take me out of Dixie?
This past weekend I flew to the Palmetto state, and boy are my arms tired! Here's South Carolina's favorite son, John C. Calhoun. When he's not rousing secession among his compatriots, he redefines facial hair and grimacing- two of my favorite things.
I visited a petting zoo. No, not the state, elitist scallywag.
I caroused with the thugs who loiter the rough and tumble streets of downtown Charleston, committing unspeakable acts for no other reason than "they like to be bad."
I encountered the two of the most unfortunate of drunken coeds on spring break, pictured here to my left. They were pleading for someone, anyone, to pay them the slightest attention by dancing atop their stools and begging the bartender for more Hot Fries. I indulged their overtures by taking this photo. As I exited this seedy den of unsavory characters, the pair were trying to fashion an ersatz stripper pole from a beleaguered mop resting innocently in the corner. The poor dears. But nothing captures the zeitgeist of this precious town more than the fellow below, the Charleston Hat Man. He is a man made entirely of hats, so the city's illiterate inhabitants know where they can acquire a bonnet of their liking. With problem solving skills these, who's to say South Carolina couldn't secede again and make their own republic?