It looks like I’m moving to England. My papers have gone through, so now instead of sitting around griping about the Huns, I’ll be bitching about the redcoats. In about two weeks, the beer will be warm, the sausages weak and flabby, and the teeth around me like rotted tree-stumps in a putrid bog. They happen quickly, these changes in context.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been swapping emails with the high-powered London lawyering firm that’s taking care of my visa application. You got to know when to cover your redneck past when dealing with certain types of people. I try to keep the y’alls in the closet where they belong. And I really have to bite my tongue whenever I start to bring up all those tales about Pappy getting put on the peanut farm a short trick for moonshining. You’ve got to pick your audience when you’re bringing out the really good stories, you know. I mean, I can’t even put a picture of my family on my desk. My cover would be blown:


That’s Pappy in the dark jacket, just right of center in the front row. He wore shoes because it was Picture Day. How do explain that to an scone-eatin’ Englishman?

I just hope my future employers don’t discover that they’re getting billed $400 an hour to import some backwoods north Georgia hillbilly. At least not until the office Christmas party, when I break out the banjo and give ‘em a little Foggy Mountain. Then it’ll be:

RUBE: “Oh, your uncle’s named Earl, too? Wow, that’s interesting!”
LIMEY GUY: “No, he is an Earl. “
RUBE: “I’m outta scotch, be right back.”

Playing it close to the vest; that’s the new Rube.