20 Ways to Know If You're An Alabamian

20 Ways To Determine if you are a real Alabamian

1. You can properly pronounce Arab, Cahaba, Opelika, Sylacauga, Oneonta, and Eufaula.

2. You think people who complain about the heat in their states are sissies.

3. A tornado warning siren is your signal to go out in the yard and look for a funnel.

4. You know that the true value of a parking space is not determined by the distance to the door, but by the availability of shade.

5. Stores don't have bags or shopping carts, they have sacks and buggies.

6. You've seen people wear bib overalls at funerals.

7. You think everyone from a bigger city has an accent.

8. You measure distance in minutes. (It's about 5 minutes down the road).

9. You go to the lake because you think it is like going to the ocean.

10. You listen to the weather forecast before picking out an outfit.

11. You know cowpies are not made of beef.

12. Someone you know has used a football schedule to plan their wedding date.

13. You have known someone who has a belt buckle bigger than your fist.

14. You aren't surprised to find movie rental, ammunition, beer, and bait all in the same store.

15. A Mercedes Benz isn't a status symbol. A Chevy Silverado Extended Bed Crew Cab is.

16. You know everything goes better with Ranch Dressing.

17. You learned how to shoot a gun before you learned how to multiply.

18. You actually get these jokes and are "fixin' " to send them to your >friends.

19. You have used your heater and air-conditioner in the same day!

Finally: You are 100% Alabamian if you have ever had this conversation:

20. "You wanna coke?" "Yeah." "What kind?" "Dr Pepper.

Day at the Auto License Office

Yesterday 2 ½ hours was spent in line renewing automobile tags. To serve others, this branch office has 14 service windows. At no time were more then four open. Waiting with 200 others made me realize, this is truly the great equalizer of mankind. There are people applying for Mercedes Benz tags as well as Ford Escorts. All are miserable.

Customers wait on former church pews, now refurbished for waiting on government workers. These pews hear language never intended for them. We cram together on these pews. To my left is a woman in her 12th month of pregnancy. My right, a sleeping elderly man periodically rests his head on my shoulder. I am number 79. Now serving number 12.

One at a time their number is called. A weary customer walks to the front counter. “Is it really me?” number 12 cries, limping to the front counter, his leg asleep from two hours of non use. Anxiously the euphoric driver pays his due and is issued a new tag. Congratulations, number 12 can legally drive anywhere in America. I saw number 12’s vehicle. The $89 dollar auto tag is more value then the 1973 Chevy Vega attached to it.

Now serving number 23.

“Hallelujah!” number 23, apparently a religious woman jumps to her feet. This isn’t her first time sitting for long periods of time on pews. I assume she’s Baptist. Shuffling through credentials the dear saint registers. Swing low sweet chariot, coming low to carry her home. Bless you number 23.

My turn, number 79. Symbolic because now I feel 79. On arrival I was fresh, clean. Now I need a shave. “I would like to renew my car license,” The clerk looks at me with well deserved amusement thinking, “Renew a car license? At the car tag office? What a novel idea.”

The dues are paid, four automobiles legally mine. Every February I vow this will be the last time enduring death by civil service. This time I mean it. I’m buying a horse.