Rednecks love stuff that blows up. Where does that come from? I have spent time at beaches all over the world. This is the first time I’ve been to a beach where every night, something blew up. Fireworks, mostly. But still. Symptoms of a larger fascination.
Monster trucks, NASCAR, guns, turkey fryers, demolition derbies, rubbish fires (slow burn, but still combustion in some form), ATVs, backfiring 1976 Chevy Impalas, muffler-less motorcycles and man-oh-man, those Army Navy surplus stores.
Tree Huggers in the Northwest abhor explosions. I am sure that Oregonians and Washingtonians have gone their entire lives without hearing the distinctive burst of gunpowder. It would disrupt their Zen. Northeasterners are very wary of combustion in any form and generally contact homeland security.
But Southerners, bless their hearts, they love the big kablewie. The payoff at the end of a short fuse. The bliss of explosion, cheap cans of beer, and the inevitable woo-hoo. And the woo-hoo is a big part of the bliss, let me tell you. The audible confirmation, the seizing of glory and responsibility for the detonation of some small combination of fuel and oxygen.
My current theory, andof course, I am qualified to opine on this subject based on my newly acquired status as blogger, is based on the Redneck’s stunted maturation on some Freudian level. The adolescent love for the fart joke. These grandiose displays of noise and occasional flames are nothing more than overgrown infatuation with the fart. Passing gas, for those of you who are not 5 years old, or a redneck, is HILARIOUS. I mean the sound, the accusatory glances, the wafting odor. Terrific. The apex of bodily function. The primeval proof that we exist. What better metaphor to extend a more existential affirmation of our existence than a manufactured fart? A synthesized, amplified cry to the world about one’s being. Ta-da. I am human. I am here. You can sense me. Woo-hoo.
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