My mother used to say I could piss off the Pope. Admittedly, my outspoken nature has had that effect on people on occasion. Logically speaking though, pissing off the Pope would be very difficult for me to do. Given my proximity to Rome, his peaceful and religious nature, and wisdom, I would have to be the diuretic swallowed with his toasted fruity Pope-E-O’s cereal to significantly piss off the Pope. However, I would accept a similar conclusion: I could piss off a redneck.

"I’m not waiting all fucking day here", Jim Bob Ray shared fondly with the rest of us customers yesterday in the grocery store. Jim Bob Ray had cut in front of me and Rip Van Bodybuilder - the man in front of me in the cashier’s line. The cashiers were all pretty busy, so we had been waiting in line for at least seven minutes.

Confused in the chaos, Rip Van looked at me. I told him to "go ahead" of me, as a courtesy, while I scowled at Jim Bob Ray. After all, this is what civilized people do (make note of this, if you are a redneck). And in my Pope-pissing off fashion, I made the point to say this loud enough for Jim Bob Ray to overhear. At which point Jim Bob Ray deducted, "you’ll get over it, bitch".

Bitch?

Ladies and gentleman, I come before you today to tell you I have been to the Promised Land; I have succeeded at pissing off the redneck by arguing back, and lived to tell about it. You too, can piss one off. The secret is in your logic. You see, rednecks use their own logic. (It’s one of those things that make us different). I have concluded that Redneck logic goes something like this, based on my argument analysis:
If Redneck, then Redneck.
Redneck.
Therefore, Redneck.

"You know what, you’re right, I will get over it. Unfortunately, it’ll take you longer," I egged on.

"Whaaaaa? Why?", he stuttered. "Rednecks don’t get over much of anything without a can of beer in one hand and the other hand smacking down on their oppressed woman", I said.

"Bitch, you don’t know who you’re messing with", he shared with me fondly, reaffirming that which I had just argued. It was at this point that Rip Van Bodybuilder spoke up and told Jim Bob Ray he had taken this far enough, and to "please, just shut up man".

Jim Bob Ray concluded therefore, that was a wise decision.

Of course, showing no shame, I had to add, "Oh, I’m pretty sure I do know who I am messing with, ya’ redneck".

Anyways, Jim Bob Ray finished ringing in his white bread, potato chips, soda pop, Kraft Dinner, and other various complex carbohydrates he intended to digest that day, and burden the cardiac care unit of the hospital, on some later date. He proudly greeted the cashier "y’all have a great afternoon". Then, he gazed lovingly into my eyes once again, across the crowded line-up and shared, "except you… you go to hell".

Alas, Jim Bob Ray quickly gathered up his bags full of carbs and whisked out of the store before Rip Van could get a hold of him. I tossed my blonde hair back, smacked my lips, and peered over at Rip and Wendy, our cashier, with a kind of, "well was that as good for you, as it was for me?" look.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my left eye, I noticed Jim Bob Ray slip in the slush nearby his 1977 Chevy pick-up, and fall on his ass in the parking lot. Jim Bob Ray’s pop rolled out of one of his bags, with the Kraft Dinner following right behind it. He stood up, and presumably spoke Redneck tongue, then grabbed his bags, attempting to throw back in his pop and macaroni boxes. It was a sad finale for Jim Bob Ray, when the soda pop burst open, corking him in the left eye he had so lovingly glared at me with earlier, and sending him flying backwards, his ass sandwiched on his white bread.

I’ve drawn my own conclusion from this untelevised Human vs. Redneck pay-per-view debate: I can stand up to a redneck man because I am rational and smell nicer. (Seriously though, mouthing off anyone nowadays could turn violent in our mad society and that was not so smart of me). And so to ensure my safety, I’ve decided to use a statistical syllogism the next time I plan to go shopping. This way, I can predict how likely it is that an irrational redneck will completely lose what is left of his mind. Also, I can then adequately prepare even wittier comebacks to increase their likelihood of him becoming really pissed off - bordering on irate - and finally being arrested for uttering death threats. In this way, I would be doing the community a service by getting one more of these lazy, filthy, wife-beating, lottery-betting, uneducated bastards off the street. Here is the formula:

50% of all Rednecks smell like body odour and are irrational.
Jim Bob Ray (or fill in other 3 redneck names, such as Billy Bob Ray) is a redneck.
It is probable to the degree 0.5, therefore, that Jim Bob Ray smells and is irrational.

I’ll let you conclude a moral to this story:
1) Cynthia shouldn’t go shopping on Saturday mornings.
2) Cynthia shouldn’t open her mouth for any man – even if he looks like The Rock.
3) Rednecks shouldn’t breed.
4) Rednecks should learn manners the rest of us acquired in childhood.
5) Rednecks should learn human logic so they can reason more effectively.
6) Rednecks shouldn’t wear their Wal-mart sneakers to the grocery store in the winter.
7) Cynthia is racist. (If you believe this conclusion, you have to accept the notion that Redneck is a race, in which case, you have to strongly consider conclusion #3).
8) Cynthia and rednecks just don’t mix.

Ah well, I’ll get over it…