by Frank Rodgers

So it's Friday. We got paid and got the rest of the day off for Bills and Beer, so I head to Burger King in the Blue Bastard.

The Blue Bastard was something of a legend in my company. It was a 90 Chevy Cavalier, Blue, with NO reverse...and NO speedometer...and NO odometer...and NO gas cap, and 4 cylinders of raw power. It DID, however, have a Sony 6 Disc Player, which was probably worth more than the car.

I'm minding my own business as I pull into the parking spot at Burger King. 15 seconds later a 76 Trans-Am pulls in. The owner may have thought he was the Bandit, but the car was worse off than the Blue Bastard. The owner proceeds to get out and scream obscenities at me, all while his scantily-clad girlfriend is caking more and more lipstick on her full, supple, chapped lips.

Apparently, I'd "stolen" his parking spot unknowingly. How I'd managed to steal it a full 15 seconds prior to his pulling into the lot was beyond me, but according to his redneck logic, I was in the wrong. I calmly explained to him that, no, I hadn't stolen a spot and that he was not even in the parking lot when I pulled in the spot.

In response to what I thought was a reasonable argument, he steps forward in a threatening manner and decides to do the "Redneck Dance."

You know the Redneck Dance--Take a Redneck, add Mullet haircut (or in this hero's case, a long strand of hair hanging down the back of his neck on an otherwise trimmed hairdo), REO Speedwagon long-sleeve shirt...blare Led Zeppelin as loud as the 25 watt speakers can handle it sans bass, and have said Redneck step to ya, step back...step to ya, step back... in a threatening gesture similar to Ostriches looking to mate. Looks the same... without the "BRAWWWWK...BRAWWWWK" that Ostriches make when they want to engage in coitus interruptus.

"Oh, so you wanna STEP motha-fucka? You thank you'ze a BAYUDASS mutha-fuckah?!"

Anyone who's ever spent more than a week in any redneck town knows the type. That twang straight out of a NASCAR interview, that sounds at home in any truckstop bathroom. Well, being that I lived in Columbus, Georgia at the time (1999), I was used to this. Plus, I'm a modern man. I understand modern music, and style as well as the next man. Obviously this gentleman wasn't disgruntled with me per se, but with the fashion God who had banished him to an eternity of living in 1981.

But our young redneck hero decided to go further.

"Yew gawd-damn nigger Mexican shet bag. I'll plum whoop yer ass."

This more confused me than angered me, being that I am whiter than Casper the Friendly Ghost.

"Yew mutherfucking sester-fucker, you fuck yer dawg in its ass."

I'm not sure where he got this. I don't have a sister or a dog.

Mind you, I am standing there in BDU's, black beret on my head, as I was outside, and semi-polished jungle boots, so our young hero decides it would be most prudent to not only insult me over a parking spot, not only mock my heritage and my parentage, but make fun of my outfit and my career choice.

"You mutherfucker, you Armee aceholes thank you run thas place, well fuck yew!"

This whole diatribe has been going on about two minutes now. Tiring of the jovial interchange of pleasentries, I inform him that he would be better suited walking in for his food and departing post haste. I also inform him that his miniskirt-clad girlfriend might not think him so manly, picking himself up off the ground.

"Take your unshowered redneck ass inside before I beat it into puddle of grease. I doubt your girl would think your were hot if she had to scrape you off the pavement."

Ol' boy takes this as a challenge and steps forward, trying to knock my beret off my head and punch me.

In hand-to-hand training, you are taught to go for the closest target of opportunity. You see, you can waste time trying to do a bullshit Hollywood technical move on your adversary, while he kicks your ass and then kills you, OR you can take advantage of whatever is nearest to exploit, and beat a hasty retreat.

Speed and thoroughness being my ally, I spun him around, grabbed his pseudo-mullet/tiny braid of redneck hair, and YANKED as hard as I could. Apparently I'd yanked with more force than intended, as I took his scalp off with the hair.

So here I am, holding a bloody clump of redneck trophy, with skin still clinging to the follicles for dear life, and our hero is on the ground, screaming blood murder like I scalped him or something.

Oh wait. I guess that I did.

His lipstick-caked, tanktop-covering-her-drooping-size-B-boobs wearing, bleached-blonde girlfriend gets out hysterically screaming and trying to comfort him.

Suffice it to say, I make a hasty E&E (evasion and escape).

Three hours later, there is a knock at the door of the barracks. MP's and local municipalities are at the edge of the Day Room asking for the "Ranger who assaulted a local". Since no Ranger I know of would ever assault a local, the MPs and Police Officers were out of luck. The clump of hair and skin that I acquired were donated to a Ranger of Native American ancestory, and a coup stick was started. As far as I know, that coup stick is still in the barracks and has that scalp hanging from it.

The point? I didn't have to kick his ass. He thought he was willing to go all the way, but a quick taste of things to come convinced him that he'd misjudged this Ranger.