Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Camp Tales: XIIII Welcome To Hillbilly Land

Did you know you could inadvertantly "Day Camp" in Hillbilly Land?

So What's Hillbilly Land?

The "Wait, Wait, Don't Shoot me" Camp Tale was an example set in Nebraska.

But the arresting thing, is that Hillbilly Land can be anywhere, unbeknownst to you. SO YOU TOO could be living in Hillbilly Land and not even know it.

Even in the Black Hills--boo!

Let me go back a few years to when I first moved here with my ex.

Back when we moved here, all we knew was that the Black Hills, part of the northern mountains of the Rockies, was BEAUTIFUL. Yet, we didn't know anyone here, but you have to start somewhere when it comes to making new friends, so what do you do? You get to know your neighbors in your triplex, right? Note: these were the first "locals" we met.

You ask them to go on a "Day Camp" with you to Steamboat Mountain park for a cook out. But here's the hitch.

1. You don't know them at all.
2. You don't really know the area you're living in because you just moved here. Maybe you're orginally from a much more cosmopolitan area. And you're shy, a touch embarrassed.

Signs You're Now Living in Hillbilly Land:

1. Dirty, strange, baseball caps on all men, and most women with the bill gently curved into a half arc. Caps are worn on all days, even overcast, and caps are worn indoors. The caps have logos and mottos like "NASCAR," "Broncos," "Dekalb: Feed-n-Seed," "Cabellas," or "I think the Teaparty is Neat!"
2. Weirdly dirty fingernails on people who haven't begun to start camping.
3. Alarmingly old jeans (Wranglers or 80's stone washed, Mom-Jeans that come up to the neck, white velcro closure tennis shoes.

It went like this.

"So we'd like to know if you'd like to go picnic with us."


"Yeah, just bring something you'd like to eat."

(barely discernible grunt)

So we met them at the agreed-upon remote spot.

"Here," said the neighbor's boyfriend, thrusting me a bag of fried pork rinds that were already opened. I have never seen a bag of pork rinds before, (have you?). FYI: they look like are bloated potato chips with a brown skid mark going down the middle (I don't want to know what the brown mark is).

"Wow, cool," I say and hand the bag to my boyfriend. "Do you want to get the coals going?" I ask our new neighbor. Everyone knows how to start a BBQ, right?

He brought a bag of charcoal and poured about half of a twenty pound bag into the tiny camp grate. He tried match after match. "I cain't get it goin' 'cause it's windy." My boyfriend's face twitches, but he says nothing.

Then a more alarming thing happens. The neighbor goes to his car and gets a can of either gasoline or kerosene (at this point, what does it matter?)

Woosh, goes the flame. Not only do his cuffs of his shirt get singed, but so do his eyebrows, which apparently he finds rather amusing.

OK, you can imagine how the burgers turned out. My BF, dumped his in the trash when no one was looking.

Then came the next part.

"Hey, I brought some dip I made," I said, pushing the pork rinds aside. "It'll be good with these potato chips," I added. Because, who in their right mind eats hog skid marks?

Then, they proceeded to "double dip." Double dipping is to dip your chip into the dip, slobber and eat half of it, then stick the dirty, saliva-covered chip, back into the dip.

Need I say we cut the "Day camp" with the NEW NEIGHBORS short and got a pizza on the way home?

There's more. But it's too disgusting to share. So know this. It ain't over til the fat lady sings, and just when you think you've seen a REAL hillbilly, you can always suprise your

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