Do you know where I went this weekend? Let me rephrase that.
Do you know where my darling husband dragged me this weekend?
To an animal auction. Out in the middle of nowhere in Arkansas, where they were selling chickens, geese, chickens, quail, chickens, ducks, parakeets, more chickens, rabbits and did I mention that they were selling chickens?
If you've never been to an animal auction in the middle of nowhere in Arkansas, let me explain how it works. First, you get in your car and you drive. For a long, long time. Then you drive some more. Then you get aggravated because you're driving so far to go see animals get sold. Then you drive a little more. A little more aggravation, this time with a loud sigh, and then you finally arrive. You park the car and tentatively make your way over to the auction arena, which is an arrangement of crappy folding chairs under a pole barn. Then, you decide to check out your surroundings, and this is when IT happens. Slowly, like the unseen, clammy hand of death reaching out to brush the nape of your neck, you realize that you're surrounded by all manner of fowl and rednecks. Oh! THE HORROR! THE HORROR! RUN! RUN NON-REDNECK PEOPLE!!!RUN FOR YOR LIVES!!! AAAAAGGGHHHH!!!
So anyway, for those of you fortunate enough to not know what a redneck is, here's a quick checklist. By the way, I detest the term "redneck", but I haven't come up with anything better, yet. If you have any ideas, let me know, okay?
- Uneducated. And, by this I don't mean a lack of a Master's Degree. I mean a lack of anything past the 4th grade.
- Appearance- MEN: Wrangler jeans with tell-tale Skoal ring on the back pocket, button-up shirt (usually plaid) with the sleeves cut off, ball cap with dirty brim, crappy boots. Has not bathed in at least a week. Reeks of the aroma of Skoal, body odor, beer, motor oil and some cheap-ass, knock-off cologne they think will cover up the previously mentioned odors. Hair is greasy, stringy and usually finagled into a mullet. Several missing teeth, remaining teeth will be outlined in chewing tobacco. Will spit once every 6.4 seconds, so watch how close you stand.
- Appearance - WOMEN: See description for men.
- Pastimes: Watching NASCAR and wrestling (simultaneously if they somehow manage to get the "bottom" television working again) hunting, fishing, listening to country music on the front porch while drinking the cheapest beer they can find, shooting random objects and being a Republican.
- Professions: Hahahahaha. Um, yeah. Part-time help at the carnival/fair when it comes to town or gas-station attendant.
After my initial chicken/redneck shock wore off, I became bored rather quickly. So, I decided to try and count how many chickens there were. But, that was difficult to do because they had about 50 chickens shoved into each 2' x 3' cage, and there were a lot of cages. So, I decided to start counting teeth instead, because I knew that wouldn't take as long. And, then, just to make things more interesting, I started giving IQ points to the people depending on how many teeth they had. For every tooth they had, they received 5 IQ points. Here are the final results on how the attendees fared on the Rachel Tooth IQ Scale:
47% of attendees received 30 IQ points .
26% of attendees received 40 IQ points .
23% of attendees received 50 IQ points.
The remaining 4% were either: lost, good country people who just needed new chickens, or dragged there by their husbands.
I also had to see 3 man nipples at this sale. I was not dragged to an animal auction to see man nips. The first one was on a guy who must have had some physical defect that kept him from being able to button the top 4 buttons on his shirt. So, as he swaggered through the crowd, his shirt flopped open and out popped a man nipple. As it stood flapping bravely in the wind, the man attached to the nipple sucked in a big gulp of air and looked around with pride smeared on his face like plum preserves, and he looked in my direction just in time to see me heave. The other 2 man nipples belonged to one of the guys that worked at the auction. I think his official title was "Professional Chicken Hauler", and he had on this article of clothing that I really can't call a shirt, because it was so, so much less than that. It was two little, tiny straps that hung down to just above his waist and then about 2 inches of fabric stretched below that to make up the rest of the "shirt". People, listen! If you're wearing a shirt that shows your nipples, don't bother with the shirt! To top it off, the pseudoshirt was purple. And dude had a mullet. A mullet-sporting, purple-pseudoshirt wearing professional chicken hauler. Now, that's something you don't see everyday.
Needless to say, I never, ever, ever want to go back to the animal auction again. Ever. Never, ever, ever. As much as I adore my husband, if he ever mentions taking me to the animal auction again, I will threaten his manhood with a rusty grapefruit spoon.
Just kidding, Sweetie. I love you and your penis way to much for such nonsense.
I'll bet there are a lot of you who are wishing you lived in Arkansas about now, aren't you?