MNZ: Oxford American Issue 57

The Oxford American has tricked me twice now with being some super-hip eloquent over-writing about awesome southern shit. This cover promised some bullshit on junkyards and owning a fucked up rural bar and a catfish stand and other shit that seemingly was gonna be awesome. Except all of it sucked, and was stupid unreal academic writing about the non-academic experience. I mean, the shit about the junkyard was a fucking poem. A FUCKING POEM! I don’t think the workingman has given a fuck about a poet since Ogden Nash died whenever that was, unless you count Young Jeezy as a poet.
The only good thing in this issue was the shit about owning a backwoods jukejoint, which of course, rather than being some dude looking for tenure in the English Dept. at University of Faggot Southern State in the quaint little Onlyliberaltowninthathalfofthestate, Faggot Southern State, home to the World’s best barbecue (because they use some fucked-up retarded condiment in their barbecue sauce which supposedly makes all the difference in the world), that piece was taken from the journals from some dude who did that shit for real back in the ‘40s or something or other. I don’t know. I didn’t care about the dates, I just wanted to read about people getting tied to trees and shot at by drunks who didn’t remember it.
There is an ode to the best fast food biscuit in here as well. What the fuck? Now don’t get me wrong, during drunken road trips, the sight of a Biscuitville has cured my hangover in advance before, but still… an ode to a fast food biscuit? Motherfuckers need to go get a real job for a month and work with some dirtweed rednecks and backwoods illegals and get a fucking grip. Then again, dirtweed rednecks and backwoods illegals don’t read, much less for leisure, so me reading this shit and expecting something other than the academic Harry Crews knock-off shit it is kinda makes me the dumbass. I should probably be down at the river with the dirtweed rednecks talking shit about how you can’t truly trust the backwoods illegals instead of trying to read a goddamned Oxford American magazine.