In a few minutes, my leisurely drive had turned into a game of dodge the Budweiser, as aluminum projectiles came flying at my windshield from the bed of the pickup in front of me. Road tripping, southern style.
Pickups can tell you a lot about what part of the south you're in...the color of the dirt on the tires, the number of NRA friendly bumper stickers, the species of dead animal in the bed...Mostly though, they are a very expensive advertising platform for the favorite SEC team. If a truck isn't proclaiming the college loyalties of the driver in foot long letters, you're definitely not in Alabama (if it's not American made, you might not even be in the South).
Somewhere around the intersection of Hank Williams Parkway and Alan Jackson Boulevard (and no, not everything is named after country music stars...only the things that haven't been named for Bobby Jones already), the billboards start.
A popular formula is mixing guns and religion, like "God Created Man. Sam Colt Made Him Equal." or "Cain Killed Abel With A Rock. It's a Heart Problem, Not A Gun Problem." (follow the scripture verse for biblical confirmation)
Or guns and politics: "Vote. Win A Rifle." (Somehow I think that did more to draw in voters than the "I am a Georgia Voter" sticker that attempted to look like a peach, but really just came off looking like a baby's buttocks).
Heck, even guns and romance. What man won't buy his honey a diamond at D. Geller and Son when he can get a free hunting rifle out of it?
Some, of course don't have anything to do with guns:
"See Bud and Jean to Get your Bee Traps So They Don't Eat Up Your Rockin' Chairs." (Bud and Jean sound pretty vicious. Better buy their bee traps if you don't want them eating your porch furniture).
From the side of the road in letters 5 feet high comes the question, "Heaven or Hell: Where Are You Going?" At this point, my GPS has usually deserted me for greener pastures with cell phone reception, and I'm asking the same question, except hoping the answer is Birmingham.
Not to take it lightly, because as another sign reminds me, "Hell is Real." After driving through the panhandle in the middle of August, I don't see how anybody could doubt it.
"Got Salvation?" If you don't, there's a toll free number you can call to get it. Or just stop at any local gas station and pick up the bestseller of your favorite televangelist.
You can get salvation, fried chicken, tobacco, and a bottle opener that plays Dixie all in this one convenient place. One station somewhere in Alabama even has a complimentary washer and dryer for its customers...Southern hospitality at its finest.
Of course, it isn't always guaranteed that you'll get gas at one of these stations.
On a recent trip, I put 4 gallons into my tank when the pump stopped.
The cashier sighed when I walked up to the register. "I expect it's done run out again. Third time this week."
With the exception of a rusty pickup by the pumps (which, judging from the weeds growing through the floorboards, was not responsible for the run on the gas supply) there was no car in sight. Either I had just missed an exodus of vehicles, or they only kept enough fuel to fill up their clientele of two cars and a John Deere per week and I was pushing the quota.
Still, what's gas? You can spare the time to stop every 20 miles to pump yourself another gallon or so (especially if the boiled peanut supply holds out). In the words of a highway patrolman, whom I happened to have a ...ahem... casual conversation with, "This here ain't Pennsylvania, ma'am. Down South, we take things a little slower."
Pickups can tell you a lot about what part of the south you're in...the color of the dirt on the tires, the number of NRA friendly bumper stickers, the species of dead animal in the bed...Mostly though, they are a very expensive advertising platform for the favorite SEC team. If a truck isn't proclaiming the college loyalties of the driver in foot long letters, you're definitely not in Alabama (if it's not American made, you might not even be in the South).
Somewhere around the intersection of Hank Williams Parkway and Alan Jackson Boulevard (and no, not everything is named after country music stars...only the things that haven't been named for Bobby Jones already), the billboards start.
A popular formula is mixing guns and religion, like "God Created Man. Sam Colt Made Him Equal." or "Cain Killed Abel With A Rock. It's a Heart Problem, Not A Gun Problem." (follow the scripture verse for biblical confirmation)
Or guns and politics: "Vote. Win A Rifle." (Somehow I think that did more to draw in voters than the "I am a Georgia Voter" sticker that attempted to look like a peach, but really just came off looking like a baby's buttocks).
Heck, even guns and romance. What man won't buy his honey a diamond at D. Geller and Son when he can get a free hunting rifle out of it?
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| http://www.fieldandstream.com/files/photo/62609/riflesign.jpg |
Some, of course don't have anything to do with guns:
"See Bud and Jean to Get your Bee Traps So They Don't Eat Up Your Rockin' Chairs." (Bud and Jean sound pretty vicious. Better buy their bee traps if you don't want them eating your porch furniture).
From the side of the road in letters 5 feet high comes the question, "Heaven or Hell: Where Are You Going?" At this point, my GPS has usually deserted me for greener pastures with cell phone reception, and I'm asking the same question, except hoping the answer is Birmingham.
Not to take it lightly, because as another sign reminds me, "Hell is Real." After driving through the panhandle in the middle of August, I don't see how anybody could doubt it.
"Got Salvation?" If you don't, there's a toll free number you can call to get it. Or just stop at any local gas station and pick up the bestseller of your favorite televangelist.
You can get salvation, fried chicken, tobacco, and a bottle opener that plays Dixie all in this one convenient place. One station somewhere in Alabama even has a complimentary washer and dryer for its customers...Southern hospitality at its finest.
Of course, it isn't always guaranteed that you'll get gas at one of these stations.
On a recent trip, I put 4 gallons into my tank when the pump stopped.
The cashier sighed when I walked up to the register. "I expect it's done run out again. Third time this week."
With the exception of a rusty pickup by the pumps (which, judging from the weeds growing through the floorboards, was not responsible for the run on the gas supply) there was no car in sight. Either I had just missed an exodus of vehicles, or they only kept enough fuel to fill up their clientele of two cars and a John Deere per week and I was pushing the quota.
Still, what's gas? You can spare the time to stop every 20 miles to pump yourself another gallon or so (especially if the boiled peanut supply holds out). In the words of a highway patrolman, whom I happened to have a ...ahem... casual conversation with, "This here ain't Pennsylvania, ma'am. Down South, we take things a little slower."
Hahaha I didn't want this to be true, but I definitely have an SEC license plate on my truck, to this day my husband still regrets already having purchased my ring when the hunting rifle promotion started, and I have definitely tried (and failed) to make that boiled peanut recipe.
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