Redneck Refinement

“Lookee here, all you gots to do is take this yer pencil-looking stick—what does they call them thangs? Anyways, rub it kindly scrapin’-like ‘crost the shaller bowl of that there…”

“Nawww, he ain’t never gonna learn to work a outfit that complicated! What you need to do is put this here chunk’a plaskit in yer mouth and…”

“NO!!!”

“Well what’s wrong with plaskit?”

If you’ve never experienced the educational process as expounded by a pair of rednecks, count your blessings beginning now and continuing through this time next month. Don’t get me wrong; I happen to have a whacking admiration for rednecks. And even in this time of academic trial, I realize that they have my best interests at heart.

Probably.

In all candor, rednecks are my kind of folks; in fact, I am one. I’ve learned a lot from this clan because a redneck can be a really good teacher. That’s A redneck. One, and only one.

Conversely, put two or more together and you may well end up in a certain scene of peace and serenity—decked out in straitjacket finery. After all, my brain has a limited amount of RAM; bombardment from multiple points tends to comprehensively scatter it…

At this point, dear reader, let us take a momentary hiatus since I find myself curious about your RCL. (For those unfortunate few undereducated in this realm, that is Redneck Cognizance Level. To upgrade, it is imperative to procure one’s own personal redneck for tutoring purposes.)

Should your RCL fall below minimum standards, it’s even possible that you don’t have a clue what the above opening conversation was even about! As it happens, we don’t have time or opportunity to get you my special 11,000-strong Tutoring List­­—we call ’em Tutus—so please allow me to explain: a pair of rednecks—at the same time—was expounding, mightily, upon the methodology of turkey calling.

They know that I don’t know. Or at least they THINK that I don’t know. Be advised: maintaining one’s true RCL under the radar is always a wise move when dealing with multiple rednecks.

For instance, consider that “best interests” idea as it relates to “NO” and “plaskit.” (Stay with me; I realize that we may not be traveling an exact linear plane, but it’s simple if you’re a redneck or have one close by.)

On the one hand, I can see pure-dee angel innocence in a solo redneck instructing me in the fine art of using a mouth call made of plaskit—with which there’s truly nothing wrong in and of itself.

But two rednecks?

I can see it now: “Let’s dip this plaskit call in that cow pattie over there and tell him how to use it…”

“NO!”

Let’s face it: hurting even an innocent redneck’s feelings is far superior to three weeks of trying to get that taste out of your mouth…

Now, back to that there pencil-looking stick and “shaller” bowl…

How many pieces is that? Two, right? So, no redneck worth his salt will ever make it, in the dark, from the truck to wherever he’s gonna set up and holler turkeys in without losing at least a stick and probably a bowl, too!

When that happens, you two good ol’ boys pop in that patooey-tastin’ plaskit you’re a’totin’…

Meanwhile, my RCL level is optimum; at least where they’re concerned. Knowing whom and when to trust is a large part of that. So if a man wanted to come up with a hoopdeedoo of a turkey-hollerin’ tool, who could he turn to for advice? Truth told, I ain’t exactly sure I ever come across a totally trustworthy redneck. And as I was ponderin’ this, right out of the blue I got a present: a sho-nuf, can’t-miss, come-here-boy BOX CALL! ONE piece! NO plaskit! With my name burnt all fancy-like into the side of it! (For identification purposes, so that at least I’ll be sure which redneck friend stolt it when it turns up again…)

It happens that the presenter also inherently possesses a keen understanding of rednecks. Thanks, Mom! Even spelt my name right!

I’m tellin’ you, the first time I drug that whacker on top acrost that pill box bottom, that thang screeched just like a lovelorn hen turkey!

I think.

At any rate, the fine print at the bottom of my employment contract requires that I partake buoyantly, if not bountifully, in this turkey hunting business. Thus, off I hied into the treeline…

OK, it’s getting gray day (with both buns already threatening to cramp) and I need to remove the rubber band and start scratching with the whacker to get exactly the right screech. So handle with care and draw it j-u-s-t b-a-r-e-l-y…

GGGooobbbblleee!

Been a long time since I needed my diaper changed.

YUMPIN’ YIMINY! That fool sounded like he was in my pants pocket; the roar echoed off my ribs!

At the risk of sexual assault, I slide the whacker—and he bellows again, closer this time: yep, right there. Dude’s all blowed up, high, wide and handsome. My Beretta is now jumping round trying to get into the act, but this is just too great a show to put an end to.

Well, now. So THIS is what turkey hunting is all about. Like chasing bears: you ain’t gotta shoot a sangle thang to have a large time!

Gonna let him wander on off so’s I can get back to town; gotta haul a couple of truant rednecks into the classroom…