I should probably create a new folder for these encounters. What it Sounds Like To Me or, Tales From The South, something like that. I'll add episode or chapter to it and then change it with each release.

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If you're new here, this is when I reenact a casual conversation between a couple of Southerners as it played out to me, a California native who transplanted in North Carolina six months ago. The South, they call it, where "fixn's" are side dishes like vegetables and potatoes and "fixn'2" means don't hold your breath, they'll get to it when they get to it. Ya'all means you all or everyone in your party. Children are yung'ns. Cheese grits means breakfast and sweet tea is served all summer. You know you're in The South when they alternate their cigarette between hands to give thanks at Pastor Billy-Bob's on Sunday where "you and the missus bring the kids down to the farm house this summer for breakfast, ok" is the same as: > Ya'all fixn'2 ring the yung'ns o'er yonder fer cheese grits di'sweet tea season ya'herd! Generationally developed slang. They have their own language. I'm often *excuse me? Say that again, please* like I'm back in England. But it's not just what they say, it's how they say it. Southerners have lazy jaws. When they talk, their mouth doesn't move. > Down'da golden on they gotsa hunted dolla awe shotty's dis'seekin. _{(ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴀᴛ ɢᴏʟᴅ & ᴘᴀᴡɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ɢᴏᴛ $100 ᴏꜰꜰ ꜱʜᴏᴛɢᴜɴꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴇᴇᴋᴇɴᴅ)}

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How it goes: Open your mouth slightly, just enough to get a straw in there, a small straw. Breathing comfortably - gap the size of a small straw. Now talk but don't move your mouth like your jaw's wired shut. Use only your tongue and the roof of your mouth to annunciate. You'll blend right in if you talk with a lazy jaw and ignore felonies and misogyny.

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Alright, so anyway, I'm in the checkout line at Hormone Depot. The sign says Home Depot. Anyone tuned in outside the US; it's a do it yourself construction / renovation / repair type warehouse the size of an amusement park that sells every building material you can think of. I call it Hormone Depot cuz the ladies who work there have some sort of pact amongst themselves to wear the tightest, shortest shorts. A warehouse stacked floor to ceiling with building supplies lined with unshaven construction dudes assisted by ladies in big huge fake boobs and Daisy Dukes—Hormone Depot. Anywho, checkout line, dude at the counter's abnormally huge—six foot six'ish, probably weighs 250 - 300 pounds. He's not your typical Mountain Dew and Chik-fil-A Southerner. He's a corn fed, offensive lineman Southerner dressed in hospital smocks, those 2-piece pull over type surgical uniforms doctors wear. He's purchasing a set of box-end wrenches. The cashier's older than both of us, probably mid 50's. Round glasses like John Lennon, longer than average hair. Greasier than average, too, and a matching mustache. He rings up the wrenches. They engage in small talk. I can't hear everything they're saying. Giant doctor guy's typing his PIN in the card machine when the cashier acknowledges whatever medical facility is embroidered on the front of giant doctors shirt. I didn't catch the name but for this story we'll say he said Covid Carnegie Hall. > Covit Carnegie All aye? Utcher filled? Giant doctor's a humble guy. He's not trying to draw attention to himself. Probably just ended his shift and would appreciate skipping the part about small talk with a cashier at Hormone Depot. He gives a fake smile and nods, quietly responds so only himself, the cashier and an eavesdropping DanDays can hear. "Neurosurgery." *Dayum,* thinks me. Neuro—brain and spinal. Not just science, either, or department, giant doctor is a giant brain surgeon. Probably why he's humble about it. No idea how many awkward conversations he's entertained once word's out he's a neurosurgeon but I know how this one goes. > Izya a doctor? "That's the rumor," giant doctor says, still making an effort to talk quietly and avoid drawing attention to himself. Cashier points to the embroidery on his shirt. > Betcha thought Iza doctor 2 cuz I know'd air'ya work but I ain't. Says Covit Carnegie All ight'der. They fake laughed a little bit. Not me! I looked the other way **:stat:** and held in an authentic laugh cuz that shit was funny. Giant doctor's trying to get out of there. He's paid up, tool kit's in a bag, but the cashier isn't done yet. > Ya'all ever figger outta way 2 fix stoopit o'er dare? He said that. And he said it just like that, "stoopit" with a T. I can't make this stuff up. How in the hell is giant doctor supposed to answer that thinks me and then, without hesitation, giant doctor fired off a clever response like this isn't his first rodeo. "I fix stupid paperwork every day." *Good one, giant doctor.* He steps away from the counter, bag in hand, faces the exit doors that are less than 10 feet away, "thanks! Have a nice day," whatever other cordial formalities and heads for the exit but the cashier isn't finished—one more question. Giant doctor created some distance between himself and the register so the cashier raised his voice. Not only he and myself heard him that time. The whole front of the store heard: > Ya'mean if I cutcha a bad check ight'now you could ache'it a good'un?! I laughed out loud. Eh, whatever. I held it in the whole time. Giant doctor is giant red doctor now, he wasn't ready for that. Center stage, paused in a headlight stare like they just announced he holds the seed phrase to Satoshi's wallet. He didn't laugh. Giant red doctor vanished quicker than a Blurt stakeholder. > Guess gnawed. The cashier turned and confusingly said to me while shrugging his shoulders like little man who doesn't know why his sister has a bloody lip ***or*** why his hand hurts. *Nah, brain surgeons..* I stopped myself. I almost cracked a joke about they give me a headache but didn't want to ruin the moment.

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