Fixin' to

I am currently reading Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston (thanks, thrift store, for selling me so many classics for fifty cents! And thanks, David J. Whittaker for seemingly dumping your entire library of good books onto the shelves of Savers, but not before you used your personalized hand stamp on the front [and back and sides] of each of them).

Hurston's book is about this woman who is raised by her grandmother during--eh, you should just go read it. It might take you an afternoon. Tops. ANYWAY the whole thing is written in this deep southern dialect. The type of writing that, if you don't read it out loud, you almost suspect she didn't actually write a real book and was just trying to avant-garde us into liking her stuff. BUT I DIGRESS.

Here's an example: 'Thank yuh fuh yo' compliments, but mah wife don't know nothin' 'bout no speech- makin'...Ah never married her for nothin' lak dat. She's uh woman and her place is in de home.' This, of course, roughly translates to "My wife isn't going to make a speech because she's of the weaker sex, but she CAN make me a hoagie. Which would be delicious right about now."

Well, since I've been reading this for about half an hour a night for the past few days, my generic inner-head voice has been...slurring.Sort of sliding into a lazier, redneck voice. And I think I'm just gonna go with it.

People in Utah love a good bad Southern accent. Judging by the way they react, it's like an adorable puppy bounds out of your moth every time you talk like a redneck.I intend on faking my way into having one so that everyone will want to pat my head and open doors for me.
Wish me luck, mah friends! (See? Already.)