I love southern accents.  I love them more than anything else in the South.  Nothing makes me happier than a lazy drawl or desperate diphthong.  When I was in Tennessee, I tried my best to fit in with the natives.  I wore flannel.  I grew out my beard.  I ordered beer – despite wanting a white wine spritzer.  And I spoke in my best Southern accent, y’all.  It was impressive, y’all. 

My friend Brock – who hails from North Carolina – joined me over the weekend.  Believe me, the only thing “north” about him is the name of his state.  He felt right at home.  He’s such a good ol’ Southern boy, he’s got sweet tea running through his veins.  All weekend, I thought I was in an episode of “Designing Women”.  (Of course, I played Suzanne in this scenario.) 

Brock was an absolutely charmer.  It was as if someone smacked him upside the head with the polite stick.  He sort of resembled Prince Charming.  That is, if Prince Charming wore a backwards baseball cap … and turned it around only for church or fancy-type dinners. 

The deep south is RIPE for mockery, but I somehow refrained from too much innuendo.  (I figured I’d blog about it later.  Duh.)  I must have spotted a dozen confederate flags driving in to town.  I pointed them out to Brock who said, “Oh yeah, those are Confederate flags.”  Really, Sherlock?  Thanks for the update. 

One of the funniest stories involved a restaurant called “Pancake Place”.  It was run with amazing efficiency.  The waitress swooped in and dropped off coffee before we even sat down.  I think her nametag said Mavis.  Or Vera.  Or Pearl.  Or Imogene.  Of course, she immediately gleaned I was not from there.  “You’re not from these parts,” she asked.  I countered with “Well, where are you from?”  She countered with, “Where do y’all THINK I’m from?”  I immediately said, “You’re British!?” 

Lucky the coffee didn’t end up in my lap. 

After taking our order she asked if either one of us wanted beeeeeskeeeeets with our meal.  I paused and asked what the hell beeeeeeeeeskeeets were.  Both Brock and the waitress (Gladys?  Lurlene?) looked at me with contempt.  She barked, “You know, BEEEEEEEEESKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETS!” — as if I were hard of hearing and not Southern accent-impaired.  Brock chimed in, “Beeeeeeeskeeeets … you know, as in with gravy.” 

Oh, biscuits.  Well, why didn’t you say so?