Adventures in Redneck Karaoke

Yes, I am married to a redneck. At the time of our nuptials I was under the thrall of the unknown. Having had a chaotic childhood, the lure of the farm boy proved to be overwhelming. I innocently agreed to life-until-death, never knowing that one day I would enter a bar that would cause the author of Deliverance to cringe. This bar happens to be the local hangout of my husband's family and extended redneck network, positioned mere miles from his boyhood home (in which my sister-in-law currently resides). I enter the bar with my husband. Now, I am not a delusional woman, and I know my limitations, both physical and mental. I consider myself to be fairly self-aware, so I am astounded to discover that I am the hottest thing to ever make an appearance at said establishment. Two feet from the door, I am accosted by an over-weight bearded man in t-shirt with the sleeves stylishly hacked off, who speaks a dialect of hickish drunkenness so bedeviled that I must look to the barkeep for translation. Loosely translated he said "wat choo hangin out wif him for?". I nearly replied that I appreciated my husband's liberal use of deodorant, and thanks for asking. fat boy. As it was, I minded my manners like the souless woman I have become, and forced a smile that would dazzle William Shatner. this only seemed to encourage the poor slob, so I meekly followed my husband to the rear of the bar. This bar is about the size of my downstairs, so I wasn't exactly able to make a qualified escape. Immediately upon entering the rear (I just love typing that, I am so junior high), I am grabbed at the waist by local cowboy (sister-in-law's father-in-law, hey its a small damn bar). He drags me out to two-step to the strained sounds of a bra-less woman in her sixties crooning to an aged country song entirely unrecognizable to my rock-loving ears. I can't two step to save my life, which he knows, but persists in order to be close to my breasts (its that kinda world ladies, men don't hug for nothin). Its all Karaoke, all night. This happens to be one of the few nights we are able to find a sitter, so I am not about to waste it by remaining sober. After several beers, I am encouraged to sing. I flip through a song book that covers every tune I haven't cared to listen to when I come upon "Lola" by the Kinks. Surely this must be an anomaly, me thinks to myself. This has to be the most racist, sexist, homophobic crowd in the Midwest (I know, you are thinking "gee, I thought you were a liberal feminist, why don't you stand up for your beliefs?" I will reply by saying that I would rather not be clubbed about the head with a sawed-off saddle horn, thank you very much!) and I am most certain that not a word of that song had been heard by any of the bar-goers, or else they never would have included it. I debated a long while before deciding to sing that song of transvestite love before a crowd of ten rednecks. Thankfully, I don't think they understood a word.