Introduction; or, Whaddup, Dawg?

Don't you hate it when white folk like me throw out the urban lingo? Almost as annoying as a buck-toothed teenaged boy with a line of dirt on his upper lip wearing his flat-billed baseball cap askew. But hey, even I've been known to crank up Fort Minor in my car. Must be all that collective guilt built up over the centuries. (Wait; their frontman is part Japanese.)

I mean, I don't see many black people going around in North Face jackets and Birkenstocks saying, "I'm so stoked about my new shark-tooth necklace!" I'm just sayin'.

Anywho, this blog will serve as an outlet for my redneckedness (that's a word in the South), which I must largely subdue on a daily basis, especially in my job as a sports writer. Hafta enunciate and stuff. I'm a torn man, indeed – I treasure my Southern roots, yet I'm a stickler for proper grammar and love big words. (Why is the word "big" not big? Not even as big as "small" or "tiny.")

FYI, I have a non-redneck wife (from St. Louis) and four children who I'm doing my best to indoctrinate. I'm a native of Oxford, Miss., but left a big chunk of my heart in Ruston, La. I love Jesus, and unlike a lot of Southerners, I'm not just saying that.

And now for a regular feature. Today's Redneck Moment: I bought a pound of potato salad at Sweet Pepper's. Nothing else.