I don't consider myslef an urbanite. And I sure as hell am not a country boy. I'm more of a suburbanite. I was born in New York City. However before I had a chance of becoming a Gindaloon (Racial slur for someone who's Italian) from Long Island we moved to the 6th borough. That's right the 6th. Manhattan, Staten Island, Queens, Brooklyn, Bronx and number 6. Broward County Florida.
You doubt Broward County is the 6th borough? Have you ever been down there? There is enough chest hair and gold chains for a Denny Terrio look alike contest. Broward County is where former North Easterners go to kneel out the 4th quarter of life.
I didn't live in New York long enought to tell you which Ray's pizza to go to or what train is the local and which one is the express. But I was there long enough to acquire the accent and attitude to possibly play Tony Danza if there was a Taxi remake. So with that picture painted for you of how uncountry I am let me tell you about my trip into the deep woods of Georgia.
So for Thanksgiving we went to Georgia to visit Mrs. Mexico's family. It's always a good time when we go for a visit. This trip was going to be a little diffrent. We stayed at a few of Mrs. Mexico's siblings houses. One of her sibs who's name will be withheld to protect the innocent lives deep in the sticks of Georgia. It's the type of place where you could dump a body and nobody would know. Come to think of it
Mrs. Mexico just raised my value on the life insurance.......
I also failed to mention where we were going it does not exist on our sissyfied city slicker GPS system. So we used some old fashioned navigation techniques. I was using a hand drawn map on a paper plate. I shit you not! Not only drawn on a paper plate but were given to me under a heavy dose of tequilia. Thanks be to the patron saint of maps that my cartographer( guy who reads maps) skills were keen this cold wet autum day.
So we see the entrance to the sub division. It's not what my suburban mind had pictured. It' looked more like 21st century homesteading. All that was missing was a praire schnooner, 40 acres and a mule. And the names of the "streets" (dirt roads barely wide enough for cars to pass) were Coyote Circle and Bobcat Way. They were named this because these animals live around there. I found this out later. My suburban ignoance led me to believe it was cute theme that most civilized suburbs do to name their streets.
It's actually very peacuful there. An oasis in a sea of redneck jokes. We settle in and hang out. Fabulous home cooked meal, some booze and a comfy place to sleep. Good times. However our dog made the trip with us and I had to take him outside for some relief. Prior to taking him outside, during dinner I ask my inlaws about the coyote sign in their back yard. I was told that they have deer (which I actually saw) and the occasional coyote come through the property. I was also told coyotes are respectful and have an order to them. It's the pack of wild dogs you need to be careful of. WHAT!!!!!????
Where the fuck am I? Coyotes live in the desert and buy shit online from Acme and kill roadrunners right? Or did they immigrate to Georgia because of the road runner fammine of Arizona and New Mexico? Either way I only want to see that mother fucker on tv. Oh I also have to mention the next door neighbor has a 10 foot ladder with a kitchen chair sitting up in the tree. I was thinking man this guy is still pissed over the Civil War. He has a look out still for the Union Army.
With all that in mind I now venture out into the Blair Witch like darkness that is Western Gerogia. As soon as I step outside I see what I thought was going to be the end of me and my dog. Like Brave Sir Robin in Monty Pyhton and the Holy Grail I "RUNAWAY!" I could of sworn it was a dingo! Or maybe a hyena. Whatever it was this city slicker was not going to go nose to nose. So like a chicken shit I retreat inside. I call for my sis in law and inquire about the dingo. "Oh that's Scraps!" Scraps is not a dingo? Or a wild dog? Or the chupacabra? No he was a sweet Benji looking dog that was quite affectionate. Not the rabid killer my suburbanite upbringing had painted him to be.
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