Seeing red and making it out alive...
Matty, aka Cheers Heavy, and I ventured out of the St. Louis metro area and into red state territory this weekend for friend Smitty's wedding in Arkansas. Given that I am from a very small town and call many a redneck my friend, it takes a lot of ass backwardsness to befuddle my state of mind. Matt and I definitely weren't sure what to think of all the sights on the 6-hour drive through the Ozark mountains.
On the way down, every other building was either a strip club or a church. We saw billboards for every type of outlet store in which you'd never want or need to shop: knives, wooden bowls, Wisconsin cheeses, candy. When we passed through Branson, Missouri, I thought we had died and gone to hillbilly heaven. It was like Las Vegas without the casinos. When we saw the sign for "The World's Largest Banjo," we weren't sure whether to laugh or run for cover from the infamous first bars of Deliverance that haunted our ears. Armadillos, both alive and in the unfortunate roadkill state, scattered the pavement. Shacks on the side of the road offered wares such as strawberries, chickens, and baby goats.
Mapquest sent us on quite the journey when, following the website's questionable directions, we traveled for 90 miles on a 2-lane highway that curved every which way through the mountains. Matt's knuckles were ghostly white due to his intense grip on the steering wheel as he averaged 30 miles per hour through this tedious phase of the trip. Every few seconds, he muttered such things as "Fuck this!" or "Seriously, WHO lives here?" or "Hell of a commute to work for these people!" or "Fuck that!" or "This isn't even a state!" or "Where ARE we?" It was so ridiculous that it was beyond aggravating. It was purely laughable at that point. After approximately 40 miles, I read a sign that said "Steep and Crooked for the Next 37 Miles" and gasped. I was very scared to tell Matt what I saw; I didn't want to induce his first heart attack at age 26. We lightened the mood by singing along to ditties such as Alabama's "Dixieland Delight" and John Denver's "Thank God I'm a Country Boy." He definitely deserved a beer after this navigational feat.
Not only did the wedding take place in a dry county, but the bride's father is an elder in the Baptist church, so needless to say the daytime reception was booze-less. Smitty's parents rented out a bar in Little Rock for all the alcohol-loving guests later that evening, and it was a great time. By combining old college buddies, a Queen cover band, and a trip through the Taco Bell drive thru in the Holiday Inn shuttle bus, Saturday's events made the trip very worthwhile.
That didn't keep Matty from praising the Lord once we crossed the state line from Arkansas to Missouri. We're fairly certain that we'll never return.
On the way down, every other building was either a strip club or a church. We saw billboards for every type of outlet store in which you'd never want or need to shop: knives, wooden bowls, Wisconsin cheeses, candy. When we passed through Branson, Missouri, I thought we had died and gone to hillbilly heaven. It was like Las Vegas without the casinos. When we saw the sign for "The World's Largest Banjo," we weren't sure whether to laugh or run for cover from the infamous first bars of Deliverance that haunted our ears. Armadillos, both alive and in the unfortunate roadkill state, scattered the pavement. Shacks on the side of the road offered wares such as strawberries, chickens, and baby goats.
Mapquest sent us on quite the journey when, following the website's questionable directions, we traveled for 90 miles on a 2-lane highway that curved every which way through the mountains. Matt's knuckles were ghostly white due to his intense grip on the steering wheel as he averaged 30 miles per hour through this tedious phase of the trip. Every few seconds, he muttered such things as "Fuck this!" or "Seriously, WHO lives here?" or "Hell of a commute to work for these people!" or "Fuck that!" or "This isn't even a state!" or "Where ARE we?" It was so ridiculous that it was beyond aggravating. It was purely laughable at that point. After approximately 40 miles, I read a sign that said "Steep and Crooked for the Next 37 Miles" and gasped. I was very scared to tell Matt what I saw; I didn't want to induce his first heart attack at age 26. We lightened the mood by singing along to ditties such as Alabama's "Dixieland Delight" and John Denver's "Thank God I'm a Country Boy." He definitely deserved a beer after this navigational feat.
Not only did the wedding take place in a dry county, but the bride's father is an elder in the Baptist church, so needless to say the daytime reception was booze-less. Smitty's parents rented out a bar in Little Rock for all the alcohol-loving guests later that evening, and it was a great time. By combining old college buddies, a Queen cover band, and a trip through the Taco Bell drive thru in the Holiday Inn shuttle bus, Saturday's events made the trip very worthwhile.
That didn't keep Matty from praising the Lord once we crossed the state line from Arkansas to Missouri. We're fairly certain that we'll never return.
posted by quank at 12:20 AM
2 Comments:
I think, in some small way, funny that Wisconsin cheese was advertised on billboards as you went south.
you should visit elmer, nj where i used to live...all corn and deer. right down the road from cow town....yeah, a literal place called cow town. a big ass flea market that sold everything "ya' all" have mentioned.
congrats on making it back, too bad you missed the moon shine stand!
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