I’m working from California this week. When our employee who lives in Germany comes to town, he always brings some tasty tall German beers or candy or some other nifty locale-specific treat. I’ve never done so, and I was thinking that for this visit, it’d be cool to find something that represents my home in some way and bring it to share. Unfortunately, the only thing uniquely Tennessee that I could think of was Jack Daniel’s whiskey, which is sold all over the place and so isn’t something that’d be new to my coworkers. So I’ve got nothing.
We often joke about how I must be a redneck, how I must play a banjo and chew tobacco, how I’m married to my sister, etc., as surely all southern folk do and are. I play along good naturedly and am pleased enough to have perpetual fodder for ice-breaking. It amuses me to let these big city folk think I’m actually a little closer to the stereotype than I actually (think I) am.
This morning, I was thinking about the stereotype and about my inability to think of anything to bring, and chitlins (actually chitterlings, but whatever) came to mind. I must also have had my travel experience (which was unremarkable) in mind, and it occurred to me that I’d probably get a pretty good laugh if I said something like “I brought you guys some chitlins, but they were confiscated during the body cavity search at the airport.”
Of course, I thought about finding an opening to say it, but I figured it’d come out sounding overpracticed or the opening I found would be a stretch, and it’s a little lame to think highly enough about some dumb quip that’s probably not as funny as it seems in your sleep-deprived inner monologue that you’d bother to find an opening. So I inflict it on you, dear three readers, instead.
Also confiscated: three kilos of cocaine, a Russian bride, 342 straight pins, a bowling trophy and (thankfully) a bottle of opened tabasco sauce.