Bubba doesn’t write checks, or use ATMs. Bubba’s ol’ lady keeps up with the money. Bubba prefers folding, front pocket whip-out.
Bubba doesn’t send emails. He owns a cell phone, but he only uses it during deer season. He doesn’t own a BlackBerry. Bubba likes blackberry cobbler.
Bubba doesn’t wear Crocs, or cook with olive oil. Or balsamic vinegar. Bubba doesn’t peel his tomatoes.
Bubba doesn’t think men ought to marry men, or women women. He’s got a cousin who’s a little bit light in the loafers, but everybody knows that’s ’cause his mama let him put on lipstick and play dress-up when he was little.
Bubba might call his mother-in-law by her first name, and he might not. It depends on whether or not she’s still alive. When he’s just thinking about her, the b-word rises in.
Bubba thought a lot of Jesse Helms. He wouldn’t vote for Hillary if she was the last man on earth – and not just because of the fat ankles. Bubba never had trouble with fat ankles. His mama and his sister and his wife have them. Too bad about ol’ Jesse.
Bubba doesn’t shop. His ol’ lady buys his clothes for him – she knows what to get – he likes logos and decals. Anything else he needs, his sister orders it from Cabella’s on her credit card and Bubba gives her the money from his whip-out.
Bubba knows some good minorities. He works with a few of them. The ones he knows are alright. He don’t trust the rest of them – and he don’t like it when they marry Americans. Bubba thinks folks ought to marry their own kind.
Bubba lies to the pollster. It’s none of their damn business. He don’t like McCain, or Obama, neither, but he’ll probably vote. He just ain’t decided how yet. Not for certain. McCain’s ol’ lady’s just got too much money. He wishes Dale, Jr. would run.
Bubba don’t like banks or insurance companies. He thinks they’re all sonsofbitches. He don’t like preachers, neither. He thinks most of them are sonofibtches, too – except the ones he knows.
Bubba believes in religion. He thinks everybody ought to believe in something, but he don’t get too tangled up in the details. Bubba thinks religions are all about the same when it comes right down to it – except for the Jews and the Catholics and the Muslims, the Lutherans, the Episcowhatyoucallems, and them high and mighty Presbyterians. And a ‘nother thang – he don’t trust them churches that run off good preachers every four years. Or them you have to go to on Saturdays. Or them that call the head man anything besides ‘preacher.’
Bubba thinks we ought to bomb the hell out of whoever is making gas go to four dollars a gallon.
Bubba doesn’t have a garden. Bubba’s got a garden-spot. He puts out beans, and taters and such.
Bubba doesn’t play golf. He sights in his blackpowder on the weekends. He’ll go to Myrtle Beach for a day or two, just to shut his ol’ lady up, but he prefers Buggs Island.
Bubba has never paid someone to change his oil. Bubba doesn’t have a job that pays mileage reimbursement.
Bubba drinks – a little, on the weekends – mostly beer. If he’s got a bottle of Old Crow – and he does – it’s in the tool box in the back of his truck. He’d drink water out of a mudhole before he would a glass of wine.
Bubba used to smoke – and he still does when his ol’ lady ain’t around – too much chin music now – but not in the house – out in his shop where he keeps his stuff.
Bubba ain’t had a physical in years – if he had insurance, they wouldn’t cover it, the sonsofbitches. Besides that, Bubba don’t like rubber gloves.
Bubba don’t worry about physicals. Bubba knows none of us get out of this alive – we all got to go sometime.
Bubba doesn’t know what ’empowered’ means. Bubba doesn’t know what “empowered” feels like, and hasn’t thought about it. Bubba doesn’t know his time has come.
Bubba doesn’t know what a “swing” voter is. He doesn’t know that’s what he is.
Bubba doesn’t know he’s going to elect the next President.
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