Life takes all types, but I respect the customs of faraway cultures. We share some of the same traditions. I wear my trousers high. Pants are your bikini briefs. My cap is curved and the logos honor my hometown teams.
Nothing else.
No truck or lube or fishing references.
I drive fully-insured rented cars in the West. No worries. Even better if someone else drives you.
I eat dust until I pass a pick-up’s dusty rooster tail. Cows smelled like shit.
I like friendly too.
I wave to let other drivers know that I’m not asleep.
My cellphone is not a pet.
Motherfuckers will shoot at anything moving to spill blood. I stay out of the woods during deer season, but I like shooting trees. They don’t move. I don’t shoot anything else.
I leave the butchering to the butcher, but wild salmon is better than farmed salmon. A lot better.
I’m polite to all women, but only give up my seat to mothers with children, expectant mothers, and old ladies. At my age any further extension of etiquette tests my knees’ stamina.
Bacon is bacon and nothing else will ever taste like bacon. Pork is not the other white meat. It’s pig. Ketchup isn’t a seasoning and it’s not a vegetable either other than in the flyover where there are no vegetables.
There is no sport evening more important than a Yankees-Red Sox game, except for a Celtics-Lakers event.
I like my rock loud. If you want quiet, go to a Mitch Miller Band revival festival.
I might not be a cowboy, but I do like wearing boots and the hat.