By Scott King
“Welcome to the show.”
“Thank you for having me, Stephen. I’m so excited to be here.”
“Now, we have something in common, something that I like to talk to my guests about. We’re both Southerners. We’re both from the South.”
“Isn’t my accent adorable?”
[Pause for laughter and light applause]
“It is! It is. It’s very charming. I lost mine during the war.”
“I gained mine during the war.”
“Haha! Is that so?”
“Well, good for you, young man. I guess that makes sense. You still live in the south, don’t you?”
“I do. I live in Atlanta. I see no reason to live anywhere else.”
[Applause and cheers from members of the audience from Atlanta]
“Wow. That’s quite an endorsement. What do you like about the South?”
“The biscuits. [laughter] I love the biscuits. I love the people, too. The laid-back culture. I love the trees, and the vegetation. And I love the men.”
“You love the men?”
“Yes. I love Southern men. They have swagger. They all walk around like they’re the sheriff.”
“But doesn’t that get complicated? All those sheriffs? How do things get sorted out?”
“That’s where I come in, Stephen. I’m the motherf****** deputy.”
AND … THAT’S A WRAP
That’s the transcript from a dream I had the other night. Don’t you dare call me a megalomaniac. I prefer the term “visionary.”
I have no idea what project I was trying to promote, but Stephen Colbert and I had a great chat.
He’s not my kind of Southern man tho. He belongs in New York, enlightening the masses and returning to Carolina at Christmas to bake biscuits and wear fluffy sweaters.
That’s not what I’m talking about, at all.
I’m talking about pickup trucks. That’s where you used to be able to find all the hot dudes. I loved summers in the South. All the hot virile rednecks driving around shirtless looking for trouble.
They never found any, though. Just dirt roads. And biscuits.
City life isn’t much different. The roads are paved and a little cracked, but the men are pretty much the same. Regardless of their gender or sexual orientation, dudes in the South are always up for adventure.
I’ve spent quite a bit of time in the North, and I lived in New England for a few years. Guys up there are always worried about something they refer to as “paying the bills.” Or shoveling snow. It never made any sense to me.
Southern men take their time. Back in the previous century, they used to chew and smoke things. This helped punctuate their charisma as they loitered in parking lots.
Even in modern life, I still can’t get enough. In the city, you can’t stand in one place for too long without attracting real trouble.
So I walk. Slowly. I walk through your neighborhood. I walk through my neighborhood. I look at the southern trees and their strange fruits. Sometimes I take selfies.
I’m not looking for trouble, though. I’m just looking. For biscuits. Hot, fresh, readily available biscuits.
Y’all know what I mean.