Vote check at the backyard gate and turn away anyone who voted for Al or John, any Kennedy or any woman who ever wore even a single piece of “organic” clothing.
Extra points for guests that arrive one or two to a large, flashy vehicle, families with three or more children, snack items brought from Wal-Mart, and t-shirts reading “Iraqi Freedom Campaign”.
. . . The story which I never had quite the energy or desire to correct was that in the grand mythic Lamar tradition I had confronted the Kleagle in his den, “called him out” with some such Southern Western shoot-out ultimatum as “Now listen here, you son of a bitch, I don’t know which one of you is bothering Ellis but I’m holding you responsible and if one hair of a Buell head is harmed, I’m going to shoot your ass off for you,” and so forth and so forth. I put a stop to it all right, but in a manner more suited to Southern complexities and realities than the simple dreams of the sixties, when there were only good people and bad people. I went to see the Grand Kleagle all right, who was none other than J.B. Jenkins, a big dumb boy who played offensive tackle with me in both high school and college . . .