Nothing like an airport to mine for los gentes estupidos. As I come through security, they are wanding a buxom blonde, who looks like a cousin of Dolly Parton dressed up like a sorority girl. As they pass over her right boob, the wand squeaks.
“That’s me!” says the prepbilly. Ahh! A PIERCED preppy hillbilly. NIce.
The wand squeaks again on it’s journey past her left boob.
“Me again.”
I don’t wait to hear the rest, but gather my things and go to the lovely seats provided to put your shoes and accessories back on. But wait! Here comes the entire prepbilly clan! Turns out she’s a mom! Not exactly surprising given the fact that she’s a yokel and over the age of 13, but ya know, she WAS wearing some decent jewelry.
“You know,” she began, in her post-patdown briefing, “they have this thing back home in Tulsa that scans yer whole body and produces a picture that’s practically pornographic.”
Her offspring stare back, not surprisingly, slackjawed.
“YOU know,” she says more emphatically, “at the Tulsa airport. They have a machine that takes a picture of you that is practically pornographic!” Tulsa. That explains a lot.
Her daughter, probably almost of birthing age herself, says, “That’s gross!”
(NOTE: My standard response when anyone says that something sexual is “gross” is “not if you’re doing it right.” That was the thought that popped into my head.)
The son decided he needed to chime in, offering his expertise to the already heady mix. “I thought it just showed what was under your skin.”
I thought I heard grandma humming some tune on the banjo. Maybe Battle Hymn of the Republic.
You can take the family out of the holler . . .
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