|3/8/2014 8:34:00 AM|
Bubba calls from the Crawl-On-Inn
"Hey Timmons, did'ja hear, it's Bubba Day all over the world!"
I opted not to point out the fact that there probably isn't any other civilized country on the planet that allows their children to be named Bubba. You see, my redneck friend who proudly points out he wears a blue collar was on the other end of the phone. It was Monday, a day after a golfer named Bubba Watson won the biggest golf tournament in the country, the Masters.
"Didn't take you for a golf fan," I replied.
"Oh hell yeah," he said. "You've got to love a man named Bubba who owns the one and only General Lee."
"He owns General Lee?" I asked.
"The car," Bubba said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. "Everyone remembers General Lee from the Dukes of Hazard."
"The Dukes of who . . . oh, never mind. What can I do for you today, Bubba? Or did you just call to share the good news about Bubba Day?"
"Nah, I know you're a busy man. Just wanted to ask if you heard that Indiana got a new state flower?"
"OK Bubba, I'll play your silly game. What have they replaced the peony with?"
He paused, for dramatic effect, I assumed.
"The political sign!" he nearly screamed. "They're popping up all over!" He could barely stop laughing. "They was going to make it the satellite dish but found out Carmel had a law against 'em."
I looked at my watch.
"Bubba, this is fascinating, but I'm pretty busy here."
"Aw, c'mon Timmons, lighten up a little, would ya. I think there really is something important here about the political sign."
"What's that," I asked, already bracing for the next bad punch line.
"Well, me and the boys are having a cold one down here at the Crawl-On-Inn and Big Country was talking about how we're becoming accustomed to sound bites. That's all we get anymore. Ten seconds here, 20 seconds there. The politicians don't tell us anything of substance anymore. Then they just put out sign after sign after sign. The one who puts out the most signs wins the election. Seems to me, they ought to be using your newspaper to tell people why it is that we ought to vote for 'em."
I was stunned. Bubba was making good sense.
"You still there, Timmons?"
"Uh, yeah, Bubba."
"All they give us is their name and the office they want. Really? Seriously? Tell them politician types that they need to tell us folks out here who vote that we want to know more than what they can fit on a sign. And now I got to go. Bambi wants to use the phone."
"She's one of the bartenders at the Crawl-On-Inn," Bubba said. "I think she dances somewhere, too. And Tater says she drives a delivery truck part-time."
"Don't keep her waiting, Bubba."
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