My Redneck Vacation

I know it’s traditional at this time of year to write about all the New Year’s resolutions I won’t be keeping, but something else has come up that is really more important.

CMT has a new “get rich hick” show that begins with a batch of very newly rich (the ink isn’t even dry on the money) hicks coming to, or rather invading, the Hamptons. The previews look like a bunch of unruly three-year-olds running NASA for a week. Their behavior is so crass, it makes me looks like a Duchess. I don’t know how they got passes to come the East End, but this has to be the one and only trip for the single toothed, two digit I.Q.ed people who still think flaming flatulence is funny. [expand]

I’m not, and never will be rich. I’m just a regular gal. Most people who are rich, got there via inheritance or their own hard work. And with a few exceptions, they appreciate their good fortune and are extremely nice and well- mannered people. We have plenty of rich people on the Island and we sort of corral them into homes on Shelter Island Heights and on Ram Island. This is for their own protection. If something too shocking happens, we can block access to these areas easily. We need them for employment and their very generous support of the Island causes. Sometimes I get envious of how easy their lives look, but then I remember that money only creates options, not happiness. Rich people get lonely, depressed, and just as scared as the rest of us.

The thought of the Island being overrun by rednecks from beyond the sticks is horrifying. We’d have to secure all the rich so they didn’t have seizures, while the rest of us held them off.

The regular guys on this island could go toe to toe with anything that could be dredged up from any bayou. They wrestle alligators. Big deal, we catch Great Whites off of Montauk that eat alligators like chicken fingers. They like to show off their big biceps in ragged sleeveless shirts. We got guys who work jerk rakes all day in the bay, they crack walnuts in the crook of their elbows. The hicks love their banged-up trucks. We live in salt air, our trucks aren’t just banged up, whatever rusts and falls off is replaced with plywood—which does not rust—and as long as it drives, it lives. The hicks think it’s a big deal to dip tobacco. They thrill to grossing people out when they spit the chew. Most of the people on this island can eat clams and oysters on the half shell, so don’t tell me who can put worse things in their mouths.

I feel bad for the nice Hamptonites who will be made to look like snobby fools on this upcoming show. I just want to tell all of them, it’s not you. You were probably doing your job and you couldn’t possibly be prepared for the invasion of the Cro-Magnon people. It’s all right. We all love you anyway. However, just to be safe, you might want to keep a crowbar handy in your desk from now on. This way, if they come again, you can hit them and drive them off, or hit yourself in the head so you can understand them.

BACK TO Sheltered Islander