Bubba Land

(Okay, so I'm humming Beulah Land as I type. How appropriate.)

I read a comment recently on a blog I follow, and I was very dismayed at the commentor's apparent dislike for our regioin of the country.

I wish to move back to the beautiful Pacific Northwest and out of bubba land, she said.

As much as I wanted to say my wish was for her wish to be granted, I really wanted the green mixer that was being given away so I wished for something like world peace or whatever.

So what's keeping y'all here in bubba land, I wanted to ask. I know times are tough and you go where the work is and all, but really, we probably want you here less than you want to be here, so fly, fly away.

Then I felt bad for not extending that Southern hospitality we're known for around these parts (only for a little while, though because even though I am proud of that Southern hospitality, when you go calling my people bubbas, I get turned off real quick like.)

Look, can't we all just get along? I mean, what I love about my heritage might not be your cup of (sweet) tea, and I certainly don't agree with all your left coast ideas, but we can coexist without calling each other names like kindergartners on the playground, right?

So, DJ, if you're ever in my neck of the woods, come sit a spell. We'll get along or we won't, but it won't really matter because as much as I love my bubbas, grits, collards, mint juleps, azaleas, college football Saturdays, white sand beaches (come on, face it -- what's not to love about the South?) I'm looking to a land to which I've never been before, where time won't matter. And I'm even hoping you'll be there, too.

(You're humming it too, now, I know. Don't forget that small church choir twang, y'all.)