NEAL WOOTEN–Let Me Explain

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Einstein said that time was relative. Well, heck, everything and everyone are relative in the South. Heck, most of us are relatives. But we sure know how to explain time and just about everything else.
For example, if something is about to happen right away, we say “fixin’ to.” If it’s going to take a while, that means it moves as slow as molasses. Some things take a little longer so you can just hold your horses, wait a cotton pickin’ minute, sit a spell, and I’ll be back dreckly. Some things only happen once in a blue moon or it might take a month of Sundays.
We still understand the importance of manners and saying “Yes, ma’am” and “Yes, sir.” Always hug their neck, give ‘em some sugar, and say a blessing for them. We always go ga-ga over babies and talk about how precious they are, and I declare, they’re cute as a button.
Sometimes we are really surprised and let folks know by saying “Heavens to Betsy. What in tarnation is going on? Or rather, what in the Sam hill? Are you yanking my chain? Are you pulling my leg? That story does not hold water. That dog won’t hunt. You’re lying like a bug on a rug. Well, I’ll be. I guess you are shootin’ straight.”
Some folks in the South might be knee-high to a grasshopper, sick as a dog, proud as a peacock, wound tighter than a clock, too big for their britches, happier than a pig in sunshine (which stinks to high Heaven), tickled pink, or plum tuckered out. So just go hog wild but be careful lest you end up deader than a doornail.
So quit your bellyaching and raising cane. Don’t fly off the handle and get your feather all ruffled or you might be fit to be tied. If you throw a hissy fit or a conniption, you might get on someone’s last nerve and make them madder than a wet hen causing them to slap you silly.
Goodness gracious. I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I ain’t just whistling Dixie here. No sense beating around the bush, I reckon I am clearly barking up the wrong tree. You can’t make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear. Makes me want to slap yer mama. By the way, how is your mama’nem?
If you are having trouble understanding all this, you were probably raised in a barn. Don’t frown or you face is gonna stick that way. Little Miss Priss would probably argue with a fence post. All I can say is — you ain’t right so bless your heart.

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