Though he has only spent a total of maybe 3 months in the South, my son continually reminds me that half his heritage is from rural Georgia.
He regularly asks for me to make cornbread along with "a lick of honey."
When he says, 'Yes Maam' it is pronounced "Yes, Maaaaaaam" with about 8 a's. And, yes, he does say 'Yes, Maam' as well as 'Excuse me, Maam.'
"Gimme a, Gimme a, Gimme a Redneck girl" is frequently chanted to himself while he works on Legos in his room.
Yeah...that is a hole the dog dug in the backyard. The Barracuda promptly sat in it, in his nice clothes, and started piling dirt in his lap.
He loves his mom something awful with a rather fierce devotion and unyielding faith.
For a long time the alphabet went j, k, ELL. The word 'on' also contains a 'w', sounding something like "Ah-w-en."
One of The Barracuda's chosen grandmothers is in a biker gang. He's been riding bitch for a couple years now.
There are lots of sleeveless cut off shirts in his summer wardrobe, desires for sweet tea, and Chick-fil-a. (I can't blame him too much on the Chick-fil-a.)
The back of that shirt says "I get my muscles from my dad."
It is difficult for him to pick between John Wayne, Johnny Cash and John Deere for his favorite John. Uncle John frequently wins out here, too, partially because he owns a John Deere and resides in Georgia.
You fry it and he'll eat it. Quickly. You cover it in some kind of bread (preferably corn bread) before you fry it and he will sing your praises. You fry it in doughnut batter and he will never come home again. I don't exactly know what would happen if you fried BBQ. He might just combust on the spot.