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Sweet Home Alabama

posted by B on 4/21/01

I work at the Olive Garden. For those of you uninitiated, the Olive Garden is a middle-class upscale Italian restaurant. At least that's what it is in theory. If you visit the Olive Garden's Riserva de Fizzano in Trentino, Italy, you'll be greeted by rotund Italian people with handlebar mustaches who're just dying to make you a honkin' plate of spaghetti. Sounds like a wonderful dining experience, doesn't it?

I think about this every time a guy with a Rusty Wallace NASCAR hat and a confederate flag tattoo on his arm asks me for "sum sweet tay" with a "leemun." I think about this every time someone bitches to me about us not having "Ray-nch dressin'" for the salad. I think about this every time a sweet Italian love song plays over our dining rooms speakers and someone is upset that they can't listen to the Charlie Daniels band while they eat. It is a cancer that gets into your skull and scrapes away behind your eyeballs. It is a festering growth that starts at the back of your neck and covers you until you're left quivering on a fencepost somewhere and you're just DYING to beat up some black people and some homosexuals.

"It" is the "state" called "Alabama."

Dave said that New Jersey was the "arm pit of America." That's absolutely true. That would also make Alabama the "the mess you get on your leg when you're taking a crap and involuntarily squeeze your ass cheeks together."

A bit of background: I was born in Danville, Virginia, and grew up in Lynchburg, the bright shining buckle just above a limp crotch on the "Bible belt." Jerry Falwell lives here, so the entire community exists essentially so they can sit around fearing God all day. Kids who attend Jerry's school (Liberty University) aren't allowed to watch R-rated movies. Everybody has a "LVN MY GOD" or a "4 GSUS" license plate. We hold hooded bonfires every weekend where we burn Teletubbies and Joey McIntyre records. It's really creepy.

Turns out I moved from a place where everybody wants to have sex with Jesus to a place where everybody wants to have sex with Bear Bryant. College football, inspiring as it is (thanks, "Rudy"), consumes the already grievously underdeveloped minds of the Alabama pedestrian, wandering the streets in his overalls looking for a place to improperly spit. You drive down the road, there are big "A's" painted in the intersections. You go to eat in a restaurant, there are "Crimson Tide" stickers on the ceiling fans.

There are big elephant stickers on the windows in the grocery stores. The local pub is called the "Crimson Cafe." The Laundromat is called the "Cleansing Tide."

I guess I can't make excuses for a city that named their prize football team after vaginal distress.

So if the United States funnels all it's dumb people here down near the Florida panhandle, what does it mean to be FAMOUS in an area like this? Other than being the setting for the most glorified movie about a retard in history (Forrest Gump), Alabama's big claims to fame outside of college football are lame professional wrestler Bob "Hardcore" Holly and some race car drivers. Fun Fact! Bob Holly once wrestled as "Sparky Plugg," a wrestling race car driver. Fun Fact! "Race car" spelled backwards is "race car." Fun Fact! Bob Holly and race car drivers are all retarded.

Being a national celebrity from Alabama means that you have a mental disease. Okay, check, sounds good. So past that, what does it mean to be a celebrity in Alabama who is ONLY a celebrity in Alabama? Every state has their signature wacky radio guys, like Bubba the Love Sponge or John Boy and Billy. Alabama's is "Louie Linguini," who, believe it or not, is actually NOT a Super Mario Brother. Radio guys are always going to be inferior, so they don't count. My dad is a local radio celebrity in Virginia and, as great as his sperm was to fertilize my Mom's egg, he's got a mullet and gave me freckles and a big forehead. Thanks a lot, Dad.

Haha, just kidding, I love my Dad. Both of them. One is an artist who kind of looks like Jesus with a mullet and the other is a neurotic Jew. No matter where they go, they can count on me.

Regardless, Alabama has, in fact, shown me the single greatest, if not most useless, local celebrity duo the nation has to offer. I'm probably wrong, but I know that this is the "bottom of the barrel" people refer to when they're using hyperbole. When I moved here I had to get cable just to find something on television that wasn't football memories. Of course I tuned into "Pokémon: The Johto Journeys" because I'm a pathetic tool of the system and a repressed dork of dorks. During the commercial break a bright light from Heaven shot from my television and showed me the sign, a sort of divine cheese only able to be described by seeing it...or "them"...for yourself.

The Dubba Dubba Twins.

First of all, no respectable people should refer to themselves as the "Dubba Dubba" ANYTHING, especially not on television. But these two chicks (Shelly and Jennifer, I believe their names are) have risen to local stardom as WTTO's WB affiliate advertising wonders. They both (of course) attend the University of Alabama and are VERY talented. In fact, their BIGGEST talent was being born looking like each other.


That's their ONLY talent.

What did you think the Olsen Twins were going to grow up to look like? The way it's going right now it's gonna be the Dubba Dubba Twins. Looks like somebody cut Jennifer Aniston in half. As wonderful as THAT sounds, it may be the sound of the Dubba Dubba's that makes them so reprehensible.

"Hay, we're tha dubbadubba twee-yans!"

According to people in the know, the Dubba Dubba's are, in reality, twins who decided to get implants as Juniors in high school so they could make money without doing anything at all. Getting implants in the first place can be pretty questionable, but the idea that chicks would get them as high school students...probably before they've even finished a brain-freezing moral black hole. Who put the thought in these girls minds that the only thing productive they could do with their life would be to sit on the hoods of cars at car shows? I'm sure they're in college because they want to learn, and not because they enjoy having gross Alabama intercourse with the football players.

They aren't just on some commercial, either...they're on EVERY commercial on the station. If some idiot wants to sell a boat at his boat store he gets the Dubba Dubba Twins in the commercial.

Twin 1: "Hay Buddy, we RULLY think your boats are GRAIT!"
Twin 2: "Yah, and yur so cute tooo!"

Then Buddy pats at his heart (poorly) to simulate some kind of illicit sexual response from these animorphs who want to fake buy a boat. They do everything...they host a weekend "movie" show on the WB affiliate, they appear in car commercials, boat commercials, Renaissance fair commercials, even Pokémon commercials for Christ's sakes.

Twin 1: "For the kids, it's ev'rywuns fav'rit!"
Both twins, awkwardly: "POKEY MAWN!!!!"

The crowning achievement of their ignorance has to be the "Official Dubba Dubba 2000" calendar, which I've laced this article with. Their minds are WARPED if they think anybody would pay even a dime they accidentally swallowed and shat for a calendar featuring the Dubba Dubbas in bikinis.

Oh...wait. They aren't in bikinis. It's shots of them wearing ear muffs.

It's shots of them dressed as Power Rangers.

It's shots of them posing in a picture frame. TWO pictures of them posing in a picture frame.

My grandmother taught me that I'm not supposed to hit women under any circumstances, and to this day I agree. But if I can work at the Olive Garden long enough to pay for a stint at the University of Alabama I'm going to find the Dubba Dubba twins and kick them in the back until they scream. Maybe nothing really violent, I'm not violent by nature...I think I just want to kick them once, really hard, so I can say I was doing my best to get that whole "natural selection" thing rolling. We live in a world that murdered Martin Luther King, Jr. and John Lennon. Somehow the Dubba Dubba Twins have survived for twenty years.

They come into the Olive Garden every now and then with their skinny, pothead (read, "rich ass") boyfriends. They are demanding. They always want more breadsticks. They leave no tip. The staff crowds around in back to trade profanity-laced insults about them. Later, they are the laughing stock of the University. The boys who don't get to fuck them are busy drawing boobs and pubes on their calendar pictures. Or dressing up like them for Halloween and making out with a guy dressed like the Pope.

It's bizarre symbolism that is so underdeveloped that it is almost brilliant.

I can't watch Pokémon without seeing their Friends haircuts and hearing them scream out "POKEYMAWN!!!" during each commercial break. I can't go to community events without running the risk of them taking pictures sitting on the hood of my crashed-up 1989 Mercury Topaz. I can't drive without them cutting me off and waving. I can't work and earn money to live without having them give me the shaft.

I'm a mentally stable human being. And I think I want to kill them. Or at least watch them make out.

This is what your environment does to you. When I was a kid growing up in Virginia's tunnel vision I thought it was "against God" for gay people to exist and I thought black people had weird feeling skin. When I grew up I realized that the world is a lot more diverse than that...people who are different colors than you are more than less exactly like you, and that people with alternative lifestyles feel like it's right for THEM, not because a giant invisible man in the sky says it's bad. I went to college and hung out with people of all creeds. It was beautiful, and I loved learning like that.

Then I moved to Alabama.

Now I write about how much I think Steve Urkel didn't really exist and how much I want to kill some local celebrities. It is a cancer, and it's scraping against the back of my eyeballs. I have to leave.

And fast.


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