You might be a Kentuckian...

The level of the graffiti I find varies. I often question why somebody would write certain things. More often though, I applaud the unknown person for their doodle or witticism.

But this is just awful.

I live in Kentucky and unfortunately we are never going to escape the whole Jim Bob thing. No matter how hard I try, I am reminded daily that I live in Kentucky by some type of antic that can only happen here.

For example, here are three things that happened in the last couple of days that prove I live in Kentucky—America's Short Bus:

1. Cancer, is it in you?
Needed some cereal this morning. Instead of going out of my way and hitting a grocery store, I swung into a Walgreen's. Grabbed my breakfast and a bag of snack mix for lunch—with 60% less fat than potato chips, how could I fucking not! Stood in line behind a girl who bought two jugs of Gatorade and a pack of cigs.

I was not disturbed by her purchase combination. She was obviously trying to recover from a Wednesday night, tequila induced vomit frenzy. The kind where her vagina was used as a reverse human piñata for every frat guy in a five block radius. What was disturbing was the total of the sale—$5.27.

Really?

Are you fucking kidding? I can get cigarettes and two Gatorades for under $6! I'm gonna starting smoking and gonna get me one of those vaginas. (gonna)

2. Bocephus
Not more than a mile from me is a billboard for Hank Williams Jr. He's playing the Kentucky State Fair.

I have thought about going. Not for the music so much as the pageantry.

Bocephus at the Kentucky State Fair has to be the equivalent of World War II Victory Day for the slapnuts of this state.

Rednecks are gonna be out wearing their finest overalls, chewing the finest chewing tobacco and drinking Mountain Dew out of goblets.

I would have to think White Rain or Aquanet must be underwriting this whole event.

3. "Beards and Queers"
(I mean no disrespect to my homosexual/gay friends. I used this title only for the slight rhyming scheme. Please free to taunt me with chants of "Breeder, breeder, breeder!", if you like.)

During a Dirty Projectors show this week, my friend and I realized that Louisville has a love affair for two types of men—the bearded type and the dances and sleeps with other men type. Many of the latter also had beards, which created some type of superfecta.

No other state in the south would allow these two groups of people to mix. There would be fights, tears and glitter showered in the eyes of the innocent.

(again, no offense.)

And now—weak ending.