Cindy’s daughter, Erika, was married to a guy from Oklahoma. Soon after they both were honorably released from the service of our country, they moved to Oklahoma City. Erika’s husband, Dell, was sort of an okay guy, at least at the time, and I found him to be good-humored and funny. Erika lived there for seven years and unfortunately picked up some of the local, fucked-up, backwoods, what-the-fuck-are-you-saying dialect. Besides all y’all, which I really like and use as often as possible, my very favorite was this statement Erika stuck in the middle of a somewhat normal conversation: “Bubba and them’s mom.” First of all, Bubba, are you fucking kidding me? I recently discovered that Bubba is a term of endearment and is short for brother. This doesn’t make its use any better in my opinion. Seriously, Bubba??!! The rest of the sentence goes without saying.

The real kicker in this whole inbred mess is Dell’s extended family. Dell’s mom is known as Nana. Cindy calls her Nana Victim, which gives you some indication of her personality. Dell’s dad (picture ZZ Top), on the other hand, is now in prison for molesting his own granddaughter. Fuck you, you fucking fuck. In Erika’s defense, she was unaware of any of this when she married Dell. The hierarchy of extended family goes something like this: father = daddy, mother = mama, grandmother = nana, grandfather = paw paw, and great-grandfather=paw paw paw. I’m not sure about great-grandma, perhaps she’s great nana or big mama or some other dorky hillbilly moniker.

While visiting Erika, Cindy and I were invited to Nana’s for a breakfast of biscuits and gravy. This consists of a doorstop made from flour and water and pus-colored gravy made from the leftover meat and fat of a previously hooved animal. Son of a bitch. I told Nana I’d never had biscuits and gravy. “Lawd, girl, where ya bin?” Nana asked. “Um . . . Minnesota,” I replied with a doubtful eye on the offending gravy mixture. During breakfast, Dell’s dad was recounting a stupid redneck story which ended with, “Well, I’m not from Arkansas, ya know!” Huh? Cindy and I had just driven through Arkansas on our way to Oklahoma; believe me when I say you can’t tell the difference between a stupid, toothless, redneck hillbilly in Arkansas and a stupid, toothless, redneck hillbilly in Oklahoma.

Oklahoma may be the hottest place on earth. On one trip in July, the temperature in Kansas was already 107° F by 9 a.m. By the time we got to Oklahoma it must have been 950° in the shade, with the humidity hovering around 111%. Holy mother of God, I can’t believe everything doesn’t just explode. No one leaves their homes. Well, except us, we were on vacation and weren’t going to let the scorching temps and oppressive humidity ruin our fun. It’s a pretty state, though, lots of red dirt, green scrubby-looking shrubbery, and a huge blue, blue, blue sky. However, now that Erika no longer lives there, I’m pretty sure I’ll never go back. Spitting sounds, you are dead to me now, Oklahoma!