Alabama is a special place, full of good homespun traditions and genteel possum vittles and a proud heritage. A vibrant economy flourishes there, with fancy liquor-makin' and coon-dog festivities and lumber trucks and such like y'all ain't never seen nowhere. Come and sit a spell, ya hear? Oh I wish I wuz in da land ub cotton!
They have a University, because they value education. O rebel dawg, don't laugh. It is the University of Alabama, where they instruct young adults and send them off into the great world to make things.
Things like peanut brittle, and inner tubes. Some of them will make slippers, or join a circus. Other "graduates" have been known to successfully repair machinery, or forklift inventory to and fro. They sometimes have colorful tattoos of famous people who died on their own vomit. Many of these proud graduates speak in complete sentences and work with simple tools (not at the same time, hello).
They once had a popular coach called Bear. He was named this because of his special hugs. Big ol' bear hugs! Come here you! And oh yeah also too he had a checkered hat which is now a delicate holy shrine. A moment of silence please.
Now, the Alabama football team is magic, see. They have twelve thousand national championships. I confirmed this with sources inside the state (boots on the ground). I roll like a pro.
Sometimes they say "we're Bama" and smile proudly, their ample bellies and droopy melons peaking out from beneath well-kept Ted Nugent concert shirts (Cat Scratch Fever Tour, 1979). I told you they were proud.
Alright now, let's throw it down clown. Bama doesn't rhyme with mama. It rhymes with Camaro. Bam-a-Lam, whoa Black Betty! Phi Slamma Bama!
Alabama is in the Bible Belt. Heathens beware, lest the heavenly host smiteth thou upon thy rod and thy staff. Verily this hurteth thine rod and shalt shameth thee forever and forty days. It is written.
Tailgating. We speak of flanges and lathes, GoJo and machinery solvent, enjoying Premium Saltines by the sleeve. (Oh hell yes, this reminds me: Bama men like their plump gals to wear tank tops so they can peek at boobies sideways through the large gaping arm hole. A word for this: sleevage.)
[FuzzyDreamSequence] Visions now of delicate, well-fed Bama hotty in corset and finery, lacy do-das and wee skirt. So naughty and free, bouncing partial-nude thru the farmlands, hither & yon. Cows and dogs scatter in fear. We lie in tall grass now, she and I, casually sipping YooHoo and nibbling cold cuts: no, not a care. I caress her rugged elbow skin. We play footsie and giggle all silly-like while I whistle soft strains of Dixie in her ear. She is mine. [/FuzzyDreamSequence]
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They have a University, because they value education. O rebel dawg, don't laugh. It is the University of Alabama, where they instruct young adults and send them off into the great world to make things.
Things like peanut brittle, and inner tubes. Some of them will make slippers, or join a circus. Other "graduates" have been known to successfully repair machinery, or forklift inventory to and fro. They sometimes have colorful tattoos of famous people who died on their own vomit. Many of these proud graduates speak in complete sentences and work with simple tools (not at the same time, hello).
They once had a popular coach called Bear. He was named this because of his special hugs. Big ol' bear hugs! Come here you! And oh yeah also too he had a checkered hat which is now a delicate holy shrine. A moment of silence please.
Now, the Alabama football team is magic, see. They have twelve thousand national championships. I confirmed this with sources inside the state (boots on the ground). I roll like a pro.
Sometimes they say "we're Bama" and smile proudly, their ample bellies and droopy melons peaking out from beneath well-kept Ted Nugent concert shirts (Cat Scratch Fever Tour, 1979). I told you they were proud.
Alright now, let's throw it down clown. Bama doesn't rhyme with mama. It rhymes with Camaro. Bam-a-Lam, whoa Black Betty! Phi Slamma Bama!
Alabama is in the Bible Belt. Heathens beware, lest the heavenly host smiteth thou upon thy rod and thy staff. Verily this hurteth thine rod and shalt shameth thee forever and forty days. It is written.
Tailgating. We speak of flanges and lathes, GoJo and machinery solvent, enjoying Premium Saltines by the sleeve. (Oh hell yes, this reminds me: Bama men like their plump gals to wear tank tops so they can peek at boobies sideways through the large gaping arm hole. A word for this: sleevage.)
[FuzzyDreamSequence] Visions now of delicate, well-fed Bama hotty in corset and finery, lacy do-das and wee skirt. So naughty and free, bouncing partial-nude thru the farmlands, hither & yon. Cows and dogs scatter in fear. We lie in tall grass now, she and I, casually sipping YooHoo and nibbling cold cuts: no, not a care. I caress her rugged elbow skin. We play footsie and giggle all silly-like while I whistle soft strains of Dixie in her ear. She is mine. [/FuzzyDreamSequence]
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