I had just left the local Wal-Mart (unfortunately the only thing open at midnight that sells both beer and cigarettes.) and was heading up Hwy-74 back to the house, gently patting the case of Budweiser Select (again, unfortunate. I’d much rather have a lager, but I’m on a budget here.) when a most foul odor pierced my nostrils with overpowering vigor. “Skunk,” I muttered to myself. I drove along half expecting to see a monochromatic corpse bloated on the roadside. Somewhere between four and six miles down Hwy-74 yet another overpowering stench invaded my nasal cavity. Except, this time I was jamming out to For Those About to Rock, muttered “opossum”, and instead of scrunching my nose, I started laughing at myself. I laughed because of my ability to distinguish the source of the different… aromas. And I thought about a week or so earlier when someone said they smelled cow shit and I corrected that they were smelling chicken shit. And Jeff Foxworthy came to mind. You might be a redneck… If you can name any animal by the smell of its feces.

I guess what they say is true, you can take a man out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of a man.