Southern White Idiots

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Southern White Idiots. Two or three nights ago some Southern white idiots rode through the black section of a town about halfway between Birmingham and Montgomery, Alabama. They were waving Confederate flags and shouting obscenities and threats. This old, Southern, white boy invites you rude boys back again. I’ll be waiting for you.

You don’t represent the heritage of the South, you morons. You disgrace and shame it.

My eyesight’s not what it used to be, so I’ll have to hitch a ride down there. I do want to stop by the county courthouse for a small item to get ready for your return visit. No police, No black people. Just you and me. 7:00 P. M. sharp.

I’ll be waiting at the first straight stretch of street you drove down before. Line your pickup trucks up like you did on that night. Bumper to bumper. If you left any rabble rousers at home before, bring them all this time. I want everyone there, who acts like you imbeciles. By the way, these imbeciles are three grades below a redneck.

We don’t want to kill these Southern white idiots. They tend to want to come back and haunt you, if you do, and I’m too old to worry about haunting.

Just understand what’s important to them, and you know how to deal with them. You see their priorities are these in this order—Momma, their pickup trucks, God (Although God does not reciprocate), wife, kids.

I’ve known more than one Southern Momma who slapped their Southern idiot son up side the head to try and rectify him, but he strays when he hits 21, and goes out and starts actin’ like this.

That second one on the list is where you get them—their pickup trucks. If they are without their pickup trucks, these varmints don’t know how to act.

Well now, it’s almost 7:00 P. M., and I’m ready. That one small item I wanted from the county courthouse, I have positioned right smack dab in the middle of the street at the end of that straight stretch of street I’ve already mentioned. It’s aimed just below radiator high. It’s the county courthouse cannon, loaded with a triple charge of powder, and a cannon ball.

At seven bells those Southern white idiots will be coming down the middle of the street, they’re sure not gettin’ over on their side of the street, knowing they done whupped up on me, but they would be wrong.

I hear them coming. I see them comin’. Kaboom. That cannonball goes right through the engine blocks of the first three pickup trucks.

I reload with only one charge of powder and a cannon ball. This time my aim hits the last pickup truck in the procession, and that stops them in their tracks, because they’re bumper to bumper and can’t back up or move forward.

That second kaboom is when I asked the kind, black people of this town to come outside and stand on their sidewalks. Don’t do anything, just stand there.

Those Southern white idiots are bailing out of their truck cabs and jumping out of the beds of the pickups and turning tail. They’ve got to walk out of this black section of town, past those people they harassed, cussed, and threatened the other night. What a sight. I do hope the black people have their smart phones, so they can take pictures.

After the village idiots have been humiliated, and left the scene, I invite the black people back inside their houses, because I intend to demolish the rest of the pickup trucks, one cannon ball at a time. I would ask the help of these black people, but they have more respect for people than that, and I won’t put them in that position. I’ll do it myself.

I did forget one small detail. I picked out the person I thought to be the leader of this stupid pack, and told him this was my Plan B, and if they wanted to try and come through here again waving Confederate flags and shouting obscenities, and threatening people, or try the same in any other town, he would see my Plan A, and I emphasized to him he did not want to see my Plan A.

I did ask the black people out into the street again for one last chore I did not cherish. It was to burn the Confederate flags these weasels had been carrying. The flags were tainted, and I had no choice. I treated the flags with respect, and burned them in the manner they should have been.

One old, black gentleman made a comment which I will carry with me for a very long time. “I can understand what the Confederate flag means to you. It is an honor to know you.”

“Thank you,” I told him.

“No”, he corrected me, “thank you.”

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