Georgia is a wonderful state. I'll stipulate that up front. From the Appalachian Mountains to the Coastal Empire to the Golden Isles to the Okeefenokee Swamp it is exquisite. Even Atlanta is great.
Then, of course, there is that primordial horror known as southwest and south central Georgia. They grow lots of pecans and peanuts down there, but the soil is poor, and the denizens inbred and insolent. I know. Half of my family comes from there. I'm relatively sure they still practice chattel slavery in those parts. Sherman didn't burn it because there was nothing worth burning.
And so: I have a job interview down there on Tuesday. And I'm desperate enough to take the interview. The way I see it, I can find a nice little dirt farm on five acres and grow some strange fruits. Practice my bowhunting and firearms. Perhaps cross that color line that so absorbs my waking days. Get a cat to keep the rats at bay. Domesticate a few swine.
I need a hook, though. Something that will tell these creosote-huffers I'm in the Club. I was originally thinking a vagrant's scalp would be excellent wampum to splay upon the interview table.
That might be a bit bold.
So: holp a man out: what prize does one proffer at an initial interview that will calm these peoples' nerves? Think The Hills Have Eyes, here. Anything less than a freshly-removed opossum uterus will leave them a bit cold. My family foreswore lynchings a full two generations ago, so that's a non-starter (legendarily known for the 1955 family reunion at Callaway Gardens, where this issue was resolved once and for all. It is also known locally as the Who Will Wash My Car? Summit).
It's actually close to the Folkston Funnel, too, so a rail-rider's liver might work. I just want to do the right thing, socially.
Posted by Velociman at April 15, 2011 8:01 PM