Redneck Jedis

There's an old redneck mind trick that goes something like this:  You go into, say, a chainsaw shop.  You're all dressed up for work, and on this particular occasion you're looking particularly dorky.  You've got on black pants and a white, button-up shirt.  You're cheap, so it's all you've got, and you're looking like a religious zealot showing up at there door.  You feel as out of place as you look, and it doesn't help there are three good 'ol boys gathered at the counter giving you the old-guy eye.  You approach them and ask if they sharpen chainsaws.  And then they pull the trick.  They look you up and down, painting with their glances a deep and unforgiving silence.  They somehow look serious when they say: "You want the chain on the chainsaw sharpened.  Not the chainsaw."   

If you had superpowers you'd slow down time to give yourself the appropriate comeback.  Maybe something like, "No, I'd like you guys to sharpen the plastic shell.  Maybe add some sparkles." 

But you don't have superpowers.  You can only stand there trying to process what they just said.  In that moment, with your mouth partially open, and your mind groping about the room, you've been judged.  This is when they make their opinion about you, your clothes, your hair, and your overall dumb city slicker-ness.  You could juggle the chainsaws, whittle a banjo and save one of them from a heart attack. Doesn't matter.  Your legacy is cemented while you try to figure out if they really said what they just said.

That's the redneck mind trick, tripping up superior looking folks with crazy spins on the obvious.  I grew up with redneck Jedis honed to asshole perfection.  They knew how to make anyone look dumb.  They would squeeze all the gray out of the conversation, all the wisdom out of the universe, and leave you on a cold, dry plain of ineptitude. 

And I'm sorry folks, I've brought you down with me again.  With my brow furrowed and my Neanderthal ancestry peering out, I respond.  "Yes, the chain sharpened would be good." They hook their thumbs in their suspenders, lean back and smile in a victorious glow.

I wish it were easier to combat this kind of thing.  But it isn't because when you're inundated with thoughts about job performance, daycare, computer issues, the election cycle, that bump behind your ear, if your wife really wants to go out tonight or if you should save the money for college, and global warming, you don't have the mental wherewithal to deal with a surprise attack.  That's why one of my dreams is to be that guy who doesn't seem to care all that much.  You know who I'm talking about.  They have there favorite professional wrestlers and aren't even ashamed to admit it.  They like their tires big, and they'll take up a good part of a conversation talking about exactly what kind of sports car they one day hope to have.  Sure, I'd love a spiffy car, but I just can't find it in me to core out the good part of a Thanksgiving dinner with the details of the Pontiac of my dreams.  I'd love to be that guy. 

And I hope they actually sharpen the chain because--and I know they doubt this--I really want to use it this weekend.  

Comments

[Meeker Cowboy]

Poor saps didn't know they were talking to an Ewy. Time to grow that beard.