I had a Texan drawl as a child and on occasion, when I drink and get riled up, it resurfaces. No one seems sure how serious I’m being when the accent comes out, and honestly I’m not either, but my old poker crew came to accept (expect?) it when we were talking trash.
This Friday Night Lights binge has exacerbated the tendency. At a friend’s house over the weekend I found myself using one of my granny’s (above, middle) favorite sayings: “I wouldn’t piss on her if she was on fire.” And at a bar last week I told (sans accent) a joke she would have appreciated, one I learned from Philip Connors’ old n+1 essay on his stint at The Wall Street Journal: “Why is writing an editorial like pissing yourself in a blue serge suit? Because it gives you a warm feeling, and nobody notices what you’ve done.”
None of my companions seemed amused, but I laughed and laughed, which is, like the breaking out of the accent, always a sure sign it’s time to go home.
Previously: Talking Texan; like we used to say back home (including this Lone Star gem from Michael Schaub’s granddad: “If I ordered a whole trainload of sons of bitches, and they only sent him, I’d accept the shipment”); an amateur dialectician’s revenge manual; and NYC on a roll. See also is the Texan drawl disappearing?