Git on yer dancin' shews...

...'cause it's time for the Winter Ball! I'm fixin' to ("about to" for all you dirty Northerners - to fit in another quick vocabulary word, one could say I just derided all them Northern-type folks for their lack of Southern phrasal knowledge) bust out them overalls and drive my eighteen-wheeler tractor to the barn for the hoedown, hootenanny, shindig, or any other ethereal country synonyms for a social gathering of the dancing disposition. Fortunately, I'm not nervous anymore about dancin's and wagglin' my feel all over the square-dancin' floor; to use a Dixieland colloquialism, one could say that every dog should have a few fleas, therefore a whistlin' woman and a crowing hen never comes to a vurry good end (Translation: nobody is perfect, so be who you are and dance like a fool if you must). Boy howdy. We sure do git lot'sa swell parties in this book-learnin' school of ours. Shucks, even my pet sow Duglass Makinzy'll be enjoying hisself at them festivities. Maybe he'll even be going hog wild....cause he's a hog? Get it? I mean, git it?

But honestly, the thought of wearing tawdry country clothins' is complete anathema to me. Not to be a foolish Northern hector, but the South just doesn't really do it for me....y'all. Anyway, I have learned to dance since last we spoke. I'm proud to say that I am now quite the force to be reckoned with on the dance floor; that is, if I happen to fall on or next to you. I'm hoping that nobody disparages me that night for my lack of dancing ability; if they even think about behaving in a deprecating manner, they'll be eating a knuckle-sammich faster than two shakes of a sheep's tail. Seriously. Why can't we all just get along here in the North? The Southerners are all kin, so why can't we be too?

In any event, I'm sure to be absolutely mortified attempting to dance next to my date that evening. I don't know if i mentioned it already, but she's been dancing for about fifteen years and specialized in ballet, tap, jazz, hip-hop, and others. As you can see, I have good reason for being a tad malcontent with my dancing inability; with credentials like that I can't even compete. Or, to quote the Southern population again, looking foolish will be as easy as sliding off a greased log backward in the middle of July. At this point in time, I've beguiled her into thinking that I'm actually a professionally-sponsored interpretive dancer; unfortunately, though, she'll soon find out that this is not the case. I figure if I make some cryptic comment about the need to leave momentarily to git back to the farm to feed my chickens and subsequently make a surreptitious dash for the door I'll be alright in the end. But as every good Southerner knows, I can't count my chickens before they hatch, so I guess I'll just have to play it by ear. Pretty ambiguous and amorphous plans, I know, but I have a great desire to exonerate myself from the poor display of footwork I already know I'll end up giving that evening.

Oh yeah. I also have a greater desire to finish up my obligatory vocabulary usage before the end of this entry. So, I suppose that I may have seemed to speak in a very supercilious way towards the South this sundown. However, this is not the case. I'm actually from the South myself; I lived there most'a my life, but I done gone back on my rasin (denied my nonexistent Dixieland heritage) in order to get a Northern edjumcation. But that's all fine and good. I don't want to abrogate the right to speak freely, but we'd all be happier than a dead pig in the sunshine not having to hear some Southern phrases for a large duration of time (or possibly never at all). But I digress. I done gone and let my mouth overload my tail (talked too much about something); now I'ma go be a bump onna log and get some shut-eye. Good night, y'all, and remember to go whole hog (expend one's complete efforts to...) and go hog wild (...go hog wild) the night of the Winter Hootenanny; it's guaranteed to be a night to remember for decidedly non-Southern reasons...y'all.