Dueling Open Letters, Bluegrass Edition

To my fellow Southerners, fellow Americans (including Yankees), and even you shifty foreigners,

During the past week or two, I have come to a few seemingly obvious enlightenments:

Now that I have escaped the post-hurricane turmoil of my hometown of Gulfport, Mississippi and gained refugee status in the north of the state, I have access to media of all types. I have learned much from watching network news, in particular. After seeing extensive coverage of Hurricane Katrina’s aftermath, I now realize that I am either poor and black or blatantly racist. Not wanting to deny any inherent characteristic, I now acknowledge the fact that I am in fact an indigent racist Negress. Don’t try to take this away from me. It’s one of the very few things I have left. Also interesting to note is that, being a victim of said hurricane, I must hail from New Orleans. The news does not show the destruction in my area and so my long-held belief that I am from Mississippi must be a false illusion. I urge all my brethren to embrace this new truth. The media is adamantly denying that this is a racial issue, which means it is, and so we have to stick together to unite against the common enemy - John Tesh.

Much grief has been backwashed into the flood waters over the fact that corpses are being left in place to rot in the noonday sun. This is seen as an act of utmost disrespect by people all across the world, when in fact these glorious corpses serve a much more noble purpose to those of us left to muck it out, as it were. Ladies and gentlemen, tie these bloated babies together, add a little fan motor, and, let me tell you, you have yourself one upscale pontoon boat. This is especially helpful when boat-patrolling your turf to make sure no rival gang is taking over your hood.

FEMA wants to put money in my pocket – that is, as soon as I can remove myself to one of their makeshift stations. I haven’t seen one yet, but I’ll post the word once I do. When I was stranded at my flooded bayou home without ice or water, there were several 18 wheelers to the north, parked on the side of the highway and waiting for orders to deliver the goods. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for having once griped about my extensive thirst and fear of dehydration. I now understand the crucial importance of bureaucracy. Without it, I might have been spoiled by not nearly dying of thirst. I never want to take anything for granted again. Thank you, FEMA. In celebration of your miraculous arrival, I have decorated the rubble on my lot with bands of red tape.

The person with whom I really have a grudge is Jesus. Christ, this is the Bible Belt. One day several years ago over in the Middle East when people were feeling a little rumbly in the tummy because He was rambling on a little too long, He multiplied the fish and the bread so everybody could have a little snack. All I had was moldy cheese and He couldn’t even multiply that? Boo, I say. He did, however, prove that He has quite the sense of irony when he deposited one million pounds of frozen chicken and ten million pounds of shrimp all across the coastline, where they decayed, spreading stink and the potential for disease. Bravo.

Now, world, I have one last thing to add. Kindly shut the hell up. While you are bickering back and forth over who exactly to blame, your author has no home to speak of and won’t for quite some time. Your author has no running water or electricity. Your author doesn’t know where her next meal is coming from. I would ask for a group hug, but between no water for showers and no electricity for air conditioning, everyone here smells a little foul. Righteous indignation is a luxury. Grudges are gratuitous. I would say let’s bury the hatchet, but I might need it to hack through my roof should I be home when the next big one hits.

What do you think, did we get it right? Comment here...