If every moment the world dims darker than the last and you're still hunting for a Coors and a camouflage koozie... you might be a redneck.
If you travel through a dying world maintaining the fire even in the dark in order to find more dip... you might be a redneck.
If the only thing keepin' you from cannibalism is the idea of having to run to catch somebody... you might be a redneck.
If your breath is the breath of god passed from man to man through all of time but you prefer to breathe a BBQ vape... you might be a redneck.
If y'all are standing at a crossroads of a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay moldering and you start thinkin' about a rerun of Pawn Stars... you might just be a redneck.
If your first reaction to somebody trying to cannibalize you is to tell them to start with your butt so they can kiss your dang ass... you might be a redneck.
If y'all come upon the blackened skeleton of a monster truck risin' up like the bones of a mammoth from the clotted brackland and you get so excited you shoot off your suicide bullet in celebration... y'all might just be a redneck.
If you're just trying to be the last man alive so you can have all the WWE title belts to yourself... you might be a redneck.
If you're still scribblin' down ideas for tattoos even though you ate the last tattoo artist... you might be a redneck.
If you find the crozzled wreck of a car and you go huntin' in the rubble for cinderblocks to put under it... you might be a redneck.
When you sometimes thing about how bein' a truck driver is no different from bein' a wizard in that they are both impossible so you figure on just calling yourself a wizard from that point forward... you might be a redneck.
If once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery. And that was why those places were dang perfect for muddin'... you might be a redneck.
As we say in the podcast biz, "If Joe Rogan can do it, anyone can."
You want to pay a reasonable fee for access to every movie or tv show you could think of. You get a hundred services with a hundred uniquely clunky apps, and libraries that fluctuate more than a fluctuation machine.
Guess what's back? Frosty tundras! And me.
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