It's Time for the South to Secede Again!

Now, I’ve always had my suspicions about southerners, but who hasn’t?

The first strike against them is these fascinating folks think that watching a bunch funny looking cars go around in endless circles is actually entertainment, or worse yet, a sport!

Then there’s their strange and exotic “cuisine.” Tea should never be sweet, I don’t want to have to say the word “grits” much less eat them, some things were never meant to be deep fried, and biscuits and gravy isn’t a meal, it’s a death sentence.

They don’t even speak the common tongue! Cattywampus, purdy, tarnation, and varmint? I refuse to wear “britches” and will someone please tell me what the hell “y’all” means and why it has ten syllables?

Why, southerners will even go as far as electing politicians with peculiar and unnatural names like Newt Gingrich, Jeb Bush, Trent Lott, and Saxby Chambliss. Saxby Chambliss? That sounds something you go to the doctor to get lanced.

But despite their vast and numerous shortcomings, in the spirit of brotherhood, love of country, and all that other crap, I’ve generally been willing to make an exception and let these peccadilloes go. But no more my Jeff Foxworthy enamored redneck friends. After the meteorological events of the past week, it’s finally time to draw a Mason-Dixon line in the sand.

(For my southern readers, “meteorological” means weather related.)

Because all it took was a mere two inches of snow to bring the entire metropolis of Atlanta to an utter and screeching halt.

Apparently, the second the southern flurries started, the entire state of Georgia, having contracted a collective case of the vapors (a strange southern disease), all dashed for their rusty red pickup trucks with the rubber testicles dangling off the back bumper at exactly the same time.

And as you might expect, that many southerners on the slightly slippery roads at the same time created the kind of havoc that can only be approximated to the biblical endtimes or a really bad B movie.

There were twelve hour commutes, a slew of abandoned vehicles, vehicles in the ditch, children stranded overnight in schools, and all sorts of the sky is falling general chaos.

When it snows two inches in northern Illinois, we grab our crotch, flip Mother Nature off, and ask if that’s all she’s got. Two inches of snow isn’t even enough to engage in that grand Midwestern tradition of writing your name in it without a stick. Chicagoans show their contempt for two inches of snow by taking off their shoes and walking in it barefoot.

But all it took was a mere two inches of the fluffy stuff to bring Atlanta to it’s knees faster than General Sherman could’ve hoped for on his best day.

Now we know why the South didn’t win the Civil War, though I wish they had because it would’ve spared the northern half of the country from this kind of unimaginable ignominy. My God! If Lincoln had procured just one snow machine that war would’ve been over in a week!

(For my southern readers, ignominy means humiliation.)

So we don’t wanna hear another word about southern pride; we don’t want to see another pickup truck with a Confederate flag flying through an open window; and we certainly don’t want to have to watch another episode of Honey Boo Boo. Because the sad truth is, y’all are a nothing more than a bunch of wusses, weenies and wimps.

But we don’t want you to feel too bad my weather challenged Dixie dwellers. After all, we northerners are nothing if not polite. So please rest assured that we’re not laughing with you, we’re most certainly laughing at you.

And should you feel the need to secede again, this time, you have our full support.