One good thing about the present economy...you don’t have to worry about moving into the higher income bracket.
Williamsburg County is a Banana Republic-there are people at Nesmith that still haven’t heard about global warming. Although they were smart enough to tell the world to take that mega dump and shove it.
Greeleyville is so far back in the woods they have to ride a pregnant mule to the mailbox, so they won’t have to walk home. And The Post and Courier they receive still has Little Orphan Annie on the comic page.
We are still waiting for our father who ain’t in Washington to send the pork chops. We may be too poor to paint and proud to whitewash but my mailbox is no pocket of poverty.
I still receive those slick catalogs with sport shirts for $195, Polo shirts for $100, shoes for $600, and jeans for $185. The magazine advertises, “The jeans are so soft I may never want to take them off.” At $185 a pair you better believe I would never put them on. An 82-year-old backside covered by a $185 denim makes as much sense as giving a hog a bubble bath. Can you imagine paying $600 for a pair of shoes? My feet are so old they remember when Sherman burned Greeleyville. To add insult to injury the damn Yankees roasted Marshmallows. Those $185 jeans are made out of the same material you used to pay $3 a pair for jeans at Belk, H. Fox, and Ruffin’s Department Store. Jeans that once were fashionable in the cotton field and tobacco barns are now worn at debutante balls and coronations. Peggy’s wedding dress cost $100 and they want to sell me a $600 pair of shoes. I may be a lima bean short of a casserole, but my rear-end don’t fit no seat on a Harley Davidson.
Spam may not taste like rib eyes but my taste buds wouldn’t know the difference. When your diet is five cans of Ensure a day your taste buds are waiting in the welfare line.
Reading catalogs that try to sell merchandise to people with more dollars then sense is better than watching reruns of Barney Miller on the tube. I still watch cartoons hoping that coyote will catch the Roadrunner.
Farmers Telephone advertised a cell phone where I could watch March Madness. If I’m not going to spend $185 for a pair of jean, what makes “the great connection” believe I’m going to buy a phone to watch somebody put a round ball through a hairnet? The reason they call it March Madness is because everybody’s mad because it’s not football season. I had rather play spin the bottle with Lena the Hyena than watch a basketball game.
So here in the gloom of my lonely room I turn the pages of a catalog and look at the beautiful garments with obscene price tags. Maybe that’s why men enjoy Playboy magazine. If you have an imagination that didn’t come from Wal-Mart you can dream the impossible dream. It’s the same thing you get when you are in the meat department at Food Lion, when you eyeball all those rib eyes. But then reality sets in and when you get to the checkout, and all you have are neck bones and Hamburger Helper.
Keep the faith baby...it’s only three months til football season!