Last night, Liz and I had an encounter with a big reason why some people in the north and of a certain race don't like anything Confederate. He was just in from Alabam' and ready to party.
We were in Donovan's Reef, across the motel in Panama City Beach, Florida, (which my nephew refers to as the Redneck Riviera) when a person who could best be described as one came in, a real big burly, slightly pre-inebriated fellow.
He immediately began ordering shots and then demanded the bartender turn up the jukebox as he wanted to play some real country songs and he wanted them loud and proud. She refused because of a local noise ordinance.
I went over and put on the Zak Brown Band's "Chicken-fried" which evidently wasn't "country" enough for him. He grabbed a mitt full of dollars, headed over and proceeded to bump (at additional cost) my next song and put on his songs (which weren't bad). The other one I had played was none other than David Allan Coe's (and go ahead and tell me he isn't real country) "You Never Even Call Me By My Name" or in other words, "The Perfect Country and Western Song."
I have no idea how a fellow of this sort can not consider DAC or that song, "not country enough."
Let's Talk About Giving Us a Bad Name.
Wait, He's Not Through Yet. --Old B-Runner
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