How to spot a faux redneck

If you’re making six or seven figures off of being a redneck, well, you may not really be a redneck in any positive sense of the word. (Arguably, there is a positive sense of the word. If you don’t agree, let me take you fishing and we’ll talk about it.)

In the meantime, Kenny Chesney is now sleeping single in a double bed.

Renee Zellweger, who played the lovelorn Brit in “Bridget Jones’s Diary,” and country music star Kenny Chesney will have their four-month-old marriage annulled, Chesney’s publicist, Holly Gleason, and Zellweger’s Los Angeles-based publicist Nanci Ryder, confirmed to The Associated Press on Thursday.

In court papers filed Wednesday, Zellweger listed “fraud” as the reason for the breakup but did not elaborate.

Maybe his tractor isn’t actually sexy.

BTW- I hate a faux redneck

Y’know, the only thing worse than a mixed drink redneck is a mixed drink faux redneck. So, Kerry went goose hunting this week and “Oh, it’s pandering,” and oh, how phony.


Let’s talk about grandma Rove’s boy going dove hunting because Ann Richards was a dove hunter, and she was clearly showing more real Texas grit than the our Yalie hero.

Bush shot a killdeer, an endangered songbird. Please.

Someone needs to put this election out of its misery. It’s gotten too stupid to live.

Rednecks, both real and faux

I sent a letter to Josh Marshall this morning, in response to his blog entry about Sean Vasell’s hunting adventure with his buddies on Montana, and said buddy’s own account of the hunt. (Josh-
Well, I have always said- it’s good to have at least one redneck friend. When your car breaks down or when you have to settle matters of hunting arcana, it’s good to have someone like me around.

To whit:
After reading on J.R. Reger’s website the account of Shawn Vasell’s little adventure, I can only conclude that the men involved are complete amateurs and a menace to public safety. The whole story just reeks of weekend warrior bravado punctuated with acts of profound irresponsibility.

First off, 10 am is in no way early for a hunt. 5 am is an early hunt.

“Mike and I have our spot to blast the big deer- the back yard.”
Might as well hunt cattle, if that’s the case. That’s not hunting, it’s shooting.

“Mule deer have much larger horns….”
They’re not “horns,” they’re antlers. Cows have horns. Perhaps they’re hunting cattle after all.

“We own some land on the river and we shoot a lot of deer on it (or near it).”
This kind of nudge nudge, wink wink shit is what gets people killed in the woods. Crossing property lines without permission in the middle of summer is really no big deal. During deer season, it’s trespassing, poaching and a menace to public safety. Especially since, as you will notice in the photos, no one seems to be wearing the legal amount of safety-orange clothing. This is how people are often mistaken for deer coming through the brush and how people die.

They eat lunch at a bar and play video games in the middle of a hunt. Now, I can see taking some time to eat lunch in a bar and play video games in the middle of a WORK day, but hunting is serious business. Did they drink alcohol at lunch? If not, what were they doing in a bar? Alcohol and firearms don’t mix. Who were these boys daddies? Didn’t they teach these guys anything?

It’s not a “heard” of deer, it’s a herd. I don’t know how someone makes a mistake like this unless he’s just making the whole thing up. If there weren’t pictures involved, I would think that perhaps he dreamed the whole thing up sitting in a cubicle somewhere. This guy likes to pose as a heap-big Northcountry hunter, but these bozos are acting like complete tyros and hunting in jeans and tennis shoes. That says a lot to anyone who spends much time in the woods. What’s the big deal about jeans and tennis shoes? It’s actually a VERY big deal. No matter how experienced a woodsman one is, there’s always a possibility of getting turned around, getting lost and spending a night in the woods. In a good pair of wool pants and leather boots, even if there’s a hard rain, it would be a miserable but survivable experience. In jeans and tennis shoes, once one is soaked to the skin after dark in Montana, things can get dicey pretty quickly.

“It was time for Shawn Vasell to blast his deer and finally become a man.”
Christ, what a poseur. Are they gonna have a sundance ceremony afterwards and circumcise him, too?

“Sometimes these guys aren’t willing to take a life. They are weak and will always be weak.”
Poseur, poseur, poseur. The decision to shoot a deer, every time but most especially the first time, is a hard one and a personal one, and unless you’re just an asshole, it’s a moment of profound reflection. This kind of chest beating, especially about a shot taken from the window of a truck, tells me a LOT about this guy.

And then Mike kills a deer after dark. Again, this is how people die in the woods.

These guys have no respect. They don’t respect the laws of the state in which they’re hunting. They don’t respect the danger of toting loaded high powered rifles around in the truck. They don’t respect the rules passed from fathers to sons for generations in families who REALLY hunt. They show up late, take a lunch break to play video games in the middle of the day, and then whoop and holler and beat their chests when they kill a deer illegally. I would hang my head in SHAME to carry on like this, but ol’ J.R. had to throw the whole story up on his website.

These guys really remind of the President- they’re willing to play cowboy, but at the end of the day, they’re just frat guys with guns.

This really seems to me to be a nice metaphor for what’s happened to our country, doesn’t it?

Canned fishing- Last refuge of the piscatorially inept

George Bush tells German paper Bild am Sonntag that the high point of his presidency was catching a 7.5 pound “perch” in his lake down in Crawford, Texas. Shakespeare’s Sister nails down all of the details…

Bush noted that the high point of his presidency was catching a perch in his lake. (That would be the 11-acre, 17-foot-deep manmade lake on his property that he stocked with fish himself; hat tip Digby.)

A couple of things about this kind of stink, not least of which is that the most commonly stocked perch in Texas is the Nile Perch, which gets to be about twelve pounds, so seven and a half isn’t much of a big deal.

I am guessing that there is a failure of translation, here, and that the fish in question is probably a large-mouthed bass. Either that, or Bush is even more of a faux redneck than we already knew. Perch? Big fucking deal. The fish everyone really goes for is the large-mouthed bass. Texas is crawling with those, and seven and a half pounds in a stocked lake is a decent catch…. but, y’know, you can bet that the President’s lake is going to be stocked with some trophy fish… which, y’know, kind of takes the real sport out of it.

I’m just saying.

(If you can’t trust Skeeter, Biscuit and Possum over at Powerline to catch this sort of redneck arcana, you’re gonna have to turn to a real redneck like myself.)

This kind of reminds me of Bush’s bete noire and how his latter days devolved into “fishing” and other irrelevancies as they relate to piloting the ship of state-

One of Saddam Hussein’s favourite pastimes was fishing, but in lieu of a fishing rod he used grenades, according to a French filmmaker who caught rare footage of the Iraqi leader and his lifestyle.

Mr. Soler also smuggled out footage of the Iraqi leader tossing a grenade into a pond.

“He loved fishing, but fishing with grenades. So when he went fishing he took a scuba diver and a grenade, and he threw the grenade into the water and suddenly you had hundreds of fish dead,” he said.

We should build a big theme park somewhere far out on the African Plains, and send these guys out there to fish in the big stocked lake, hunt pen-raised birds, and whack each other with chunks of firewood when they get antsy. I mean, the boys I was raised with like to hunt and fish and tinker with old cars, and when they get a little itchy to brawl, they go have a little whisky and invite someone outside to dance. It’s a lot cheaper in terms of lives and treasure than looking at a country six thousand miles away and saying “You fucking looking at me, sweetheart? You got some kind of goddamn problem?”

Business as usual, chapter 438

Twin brother TRex recently chronicled the appearance on some morning show or another of one of the larval members of the Bush cabal. I watched as much of it as I could stand.

It was some Bush nephew, all aw-shucks fratboy disheveled and mewling about having to be out of bed at the UNGODLY hour of six a.m.

Of course, by the time I was his age, which I estimate to be 19 or 20, I had been rising at 5:30 for all sorts of real (as opposed to faux) redneck reasons: hunting, fishing and just plain GOING TO WORK, which I suspect little Chip Hunter Blake Pierce Bush has done little of.

Most of us glanced at his appearance on Good Morning, You Shitheads and filed it away as some sort of Karl Rove-managed stagecraft at best, at worst, perhaps an appearance by the only person in the country willing to go on the record in favor of the UAE ports debacle.

However, I see it as something darker, oh DARK, dark indeed…

This was Little Chip Hunter Blake Pierce Bush’s coming out party. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the Bush Dynasty’s idea of who should be President about twenty-five years from now. Politics and money and oil (and managing Arabic alliances) are the family business. Ignore this guy at the peril of the country, I think. Yes, he’s a bit clumsy on camera, tragically uninformed, demonstrably lazy and leaning far, far too hard on the rickety bannister of his “charm.” So, has that, uh, stopped his fucking Uncle?

I’m just saying…