Moving to The South

I have a lot of problems with The South. Anyone who’s known me for more than a minute (or, in some cases, has seen me on facebook and nowhere else) can tell you that I’m prone to a long, rage-filled diatribe at the mention of grits, Garth Brooks, Strom Thurmond, South Carolina, Southern Baptists, South America, or the little-known Hitchcock film, South by Southeast.

One of the many things I despise

There’s a good reason for it–one that’s not xenophobia. See, there was a time when I didn’t live in Tennessee. When I lived in a region of the country that had seasonal weather and did not look on Democrats as a scourge to be smote by the power of the Tea Party. This place, which, I’ve learned, is heavily romanticized in my imagination, is Ohio.

How I see Canton, Ohio in my mind.

The Reality

And then, as it tends to happen, the Universe sneezed and my Mom, dog, cat, and I moved to Smyrna, Tennessee to live with my grandmother.

You probably don’t know about Smryna, but that’s okay. Most people don’t. Since there’s no representation of the town close to how I remember it, I’ve taken the liberty of drawing an AaronMap ™ of the town. Before you ask, no, it’s not to scale. And no, it’s not really in the shape of what the town looked like.

Pictured: rednecks, wannabe hunters, and churches.

And that’s when the fun began.

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Response to The First Letter

As you may or may not remember, Dear Reader, I started a chain of letters over the summer between two characters, one of which written by a friend of mine, the other by me. (You can read the first one here.) Well, slowly but surely, the letters are continuing and this entry is the response to the first and second letters. (You wouldn’t have read the second letter, as I’m still editing it. Going to put it up for publication, you see.)

All the backstory you need to know is that my character has recently claimed that he’s hired C’thulhu as a security guard.

Reginald St Smythe-Smythington Holst-Dulverton, B.A., Ph. D, M.D., J.D.

The Black Gate

Fizzlehurst

Fizzleshire

FZ1 7US

3 October, 2010

My dear friend, Mr Holst-Dulverton, B.A., Ph. D, M.D., J.D.

I owe you my sincerest apologies for my extreme delay in return to your August letters but simply put, my staff have been trying my patience.  Now, you see, good sir, that I usually have my butler, Clarence, write up my letters and send them off with the Royal Mail, as I like to support England’s (God save the Queen!) infrastructure. Recently though, we got into a bit of an argument, because you see, Holst-Dulverton B.A., Ph. D, M.D., J.D., he did not properly press my undergarments.  He had starched them too much, thus making them too stiff.  I promptly used the hard-as-a-board undergarments as a tool of punishment and smashed him in the face with it.  I must have hit him too hard, as he then stood up and threatened to quit.  This act of disobedience could not be tolerated.  As you know, I have a sizable militia patrolling my grounds, so I called in a handful of my most trusted men and told them to do with Clarence as they would.

The screams died down fairly quickly, and the issue was dealt with.

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