BILLY JOE RAY JIM BOB JUNIOR AND THE WHISKEY DOLLYJan 24 '03 (Updated May 09 '05) Write an essay on this topic.The Bottom Line Don't you just find travel an enlightening and educational experience. I'll let you in a little secret; I like Americans, or more accurately "Murricuns." Actually the truth of the matter is I tolerate them. Of course I'm talking about travelling here. That is to say I can tolerate Yanks abroad. I know there is the stereotypical image of the standard "Ugly American" abroad. Basically the overweight, ill educated, obnoxious buffoon clad in garish polyester. You know the type that is convinced that all "furreners" should speak English or more accurately "murricun." In the absence of that they've convinced themselves that every local does speak/understand English. All you have to do is yell at them and/or speak it really really slowly. They're of course also convinced that no matter where they go, the standards of home must be maintained. This translates into weak watered down bland beer, fast food joints and antiseptic air-conditioned Wal-Mart’s. Hey that's why they put down the remote down and got off their oversized duffs in the first place right. To explore the world and it's myriad differences. As I said I can tolerate them. It's not like everyone carrying a US Passport one meets abroad is Homer Simpson's twin brother now, at best it’s more like 95%. Besides other countries to have their equivalents, right? Lord knows I've bumped into more than my fair share of macho arrogant buffet line cutting upper-class Latino snobs, drunken obnoxious anal retentive Germans, overweight gold necklace encrusted belly flopping middle class Dominicans, boozed up boring oral hygiene challenged Brits, and general Euro Trash. Even relatively staid countries such as Austria and Switzerland seem more than capable of exporting their fair share, or more, of the intellectually challenged. I of course do not exclude my home and native land from this international hall of shame. I often wonder, after shaking my head in disbelief, who was it that gave the ok for certain folks to leave Cum by Chance, Vegreville, Salmon Arm, Upper Wasagee, or wherever, let alone give em a Passport and send them abroad as good will ambassadors. In fact there is only way to tell the obnoxious hoser who considers the all inclusive bar a personal challenge to be overcome from his cousin from south of the 49th parallel. His insults directed at the hapless local bartender in a mangled form of the Queens English are usually punctuated with a surfeit of "ehs." Of course if he's from La Belle Province then it's even easier. Mind it then might be hard to tell him/her apart from the basic Euro Trash. The reason that one is more than likely to bump into a Harold Robbins packing, overweight, Nikon welding twit from the middle part of the North American continent than anywhere else is simple mathematics. The United States is a populous place, with some 300 million residents, most capable of obtaining a Passport, at least in theory. Sure there are more populous nations on earth, but who on that list have a citizenry with much disposable income. Lets face it when was the last time a tour bus load of loud mouths from the Indian sub continent interrupted your peaceful exploration of some ancient Mayan ruins. No odds are that when one is visiting the "olde country" or more likely some underdeveloped island in the tropics whose main exports are beach sand and potent alcohol, the Yanks will be in the majority. Also they'll make damn sure that you know it. Cuba is of course the exception that proves this rule. Not that Americans actually take their Government's ban on travel to this despotic island paradise seriously; an estimated 100,000 annually flock here for a little sun and sin. Nope here they adopt a relatively low profile in comparison to other visitors. It probably has something to do with the fact that the US Embassy in Havana hung a "back in 5 minutes" sign on the front door back in 1959, and it's still there. "Murricuns" visiting here are uncharacteristically quite as church mice. They're doing their best to blend in, and all pretending to be Canadians, complete with little maple leaf pins. I've always wondered why the gift shops at Canadian airports do a booming business in those overpriced little pieces of red painted enamel. They sell them by the bushel to Yanks changing planes at Pearson or Mirabel enroute to Varadero. It's not like they're fooling anyone either. It's easy to spot the real Canadians in Fidel land. In the official absence of their southern neighbours, they're the ones doing their best to bankrupt the country, one all inclusive beach bar at a time. They're almost succeeded too. In some parts of the island they've become even more obnoxious than the Euro trash. That is the Germans aside, but then nobody can be that bad. Anyway with that little rant, er preamble out of the way on with the tail, um tale. As you've guessed it's about Americans abroad, and not the sort normally sees on Peace Corps recruiting posters either. A couple of years back I was in Costa Rica. The first three days I'd spent in the capital city San Jose. I'd used this as a base while exploring the surrounding countryside and volcanoes and such. While at least that's what I'd been doing during the days. After nightfall it seems I spent most of my time devoted to exploring the seedier bars and dives of "Gringo Gulch" and elsewhere. The official work part of my trip over I decided to treat myself to a day or two, or five at the beach. That's why I'd spent the morning bouncing around in the back of a hotel shuttle bus that traversed the dangerous hairpin mountain turns from San Jose to the tiny town of Jaco on the Pacific coast. Our little fable begins there. I was minding my own business and involved in a detailed examination of the quality of Costa Rican beer, purely for professional research purposes of course, at the beach bar of the Best Western Hotel in Jaco. When the shuttle had dropped me off earlier at the hotel, my room wasn't quite ready. No problem, I left my bags there, and went off to explore the town. Jaco is a beach resort town. Its main business is catering to those who come to surf, swim, fish, laze on the beach, or other similar activities. As those are all basically daytime activities, there is more than a few establishments devoted to nocturnal fun, read bars. Hey that's why I chose to stay here in the first place. Many of the businesses are run by expats for the most part Canadians and American's. It fact one guidebook I'd read said that it was Canadians that "discovered" the sleepy little town and converted it into what it is today. I'm still not sure if that should be considered a source of national pride. It would probably explain the plethora of Canadian flags around the place. It also explained why many of the tourists there, local Ticos and Ticas aside were from Canada or the states. There were package tours from both countries staying at the Best Western. After an hour's stroll around the main drag I knew where all the important stuff was, the bars, the ATMs, the Police Station, the back alleys. I then headed back to the hotel where my room was finally ready. Shortly after that I changed into a bathing suit and hit the beach. That's why a few hours later I was perched at the beach bar. The sun was really hot and I'd taken refuge in the nearest shade I could find. Fortunately that shade turned out to be the bar. I have a basic rule that says never drink the water south of the Rio Grande, so I was forced to resort to the local beer. The only other two customers perched at the bar were at the other end, a couple of stools away. The majority of guests at the hotel as I said were either locals down for the weekend from San Jose, and/or Canadian or Americans for the most part on package trips. It didn't take a degree in rocket science to figure which group this duo were from. They were dressed in what I like to think of as the standard red necks abroad uniform. From head to toe it goes something like this. Baseball hat with beer and/or sports slogan, bonus points if worn back to front. Next was the haircuts, standard mullets. This was tastefully complimented by five o'clock shadow. Actually a little more than five I'd say. Matching T-shirts with colourful, read offensive, beer or other slogans followed. Sleeves are of course torn off the better to reveal the tasteful prison style tattoos. Baggy multi coloured shorts of course peeked from under the T-shirts. Topping all this off were never washed running shoes with the laces undone, and dirty sweat socks. Now if they'd been black dress socks, I'd have known they were Brits trying to pass themselves off as red necks. Even before they opened their mouths I could tell which side of the 49th parallel they hailed from. The beer and sports slogans were a dead give away. Your basic North American trailer trash is extremely loyal to his overpaid athletic heroes and even more so to his beer. I did have to wait however until they spoke before I could determine which side of the Mason-Dixon line they were from. With accents that showed they were the pride of "Thudphucker Missouri" or "Doyurcuzzin Arkansas" they ordered another round of beers. Of course they did this in Spanish, good correct "Murrican Spanish.” Silly me I know my Spanish is imperfect to say the least, but up to now I always thought the correct phrase was "cerveza por favor senor." I'm glad they corrected me in the subtle nuances of the local dialect. Next time I'd be sure to try the correct phrase. "Hey Paco another couple of F**** beers, pronto boy!" About this time they noticed me, and for some strange reason presumed I was a local. It might have been the "cerveza" crack, or the fact I was tanned and dark haired. Any ways I was soon being included in their running discourse along with the long suffering hired help. I'm not sure but I'm sure I heard the word "spick" once or twice. Again my Spanish is minimal but I'm sure it's a term of endearment along with "dirty greaser." Naturally this newfound attention made me more than a tad reluctant to introduce myself as a fellow member of the North American Anglo Saxon old boys club. I just sipped my beer and remembered James' first and second rules of travel. The first rule is always try and learn the language. I don't mean become fluent but at least master a few basic phrases. Therefore after many trips to Latin countries I have mastered the essentials of "banyo" "cerveza" "por favour" and "gracias." Those four are usually enough to get me through a weekend. More detailed phrases such as “let me live honoured cell mate and you may use my friend here as you would a woman” and/or “your honour I am an important man in my country and if not freed there will be terrible consequences” are also occasionally useful. The second rule is a lot more fun. After you learn the language, never let on you speak it. You can learn all sorts of interesting facts from taxi drivers, bartenders, chambermaids, and customs agents with this one. Earlier that day on the mini bus down from San Jose I'd had a little fun. The shuttle had picked me up at the Best Western along with a couple of employees. The only other two passengers picked up at the next hotel were two fellow Canadians. They were the typical twenty something politically correct Lonely Planet back packer types complete with little Canadian flags sewn on their packs. As I was sitting in the back, nursing a large coffee and a larger hangover, they just presumed I was a local too. They soon determined that no one on the bus spoke or understood English. For a couple of hours I was treated to their enlightened views on local politics, plumbing, and how their respective sex lives were going, including a blow by blow of the night before. It appears both of these charming young ladies had been doing their horizontal level best to improve Canadian Costa Rican relations in a local disco. All good things must come to an end though. When their stop arrived I helped them unload their bags and made sure they saw the nice big Canadian flag on mine. To make sure there was no doubt, I also bade them a hearty "have a nice day." I hope that the sun never made their faces as red as that did. Any way getting back to the dynamic duo at the bar. Enough was enough I decided so I casually dropped my paperback on the bar so they could see it was in English. Then just in case that was too subtle I added my waist pouch with it's Canada flag patch. Eventually one of them noticed it and pointed it out to the other one. "Hey that fellurs from Canada." I was impressed they'd recognised the flag. Well maybe they had a friend or loved one who'd been to Cuba and brought them a souvenir pin from the transit lounge. "Betcha he speaks that French talk just like them others." Well that determined what part of home the other guests at the hotel were from. "Mais oui Monsieur. Vous parlez Francais aussi?" I even managed to keep a straight Face when I replied. This resulted in me now being treated to a short but concise discourse on Canada. To be honest I was impressed with their knowledge of world geography. Now I've lived there all my life, trips aside, but I was obviously blissfully unaware of some basic facts. I mean I had no idea that my thirty million countrymen and I all lived in igloos, drove around in dog sleds, and whacked seals. Ok enough was enough I thought. “Would you gentlemen be more comfortable in English?" I then slid down to their end of the bar. I gave them a couple of minutes to pick their jaws up off of the floor while the bartender, who I suspected spoke fluent English all along, tried to suppress a smirk and almost dropped the glass he was polishing. I introduced myself formally; adding where I lived just so there was no misunderstanding that I too was a full-fledged member of the North American Anglo Saxon old boys club too. Translation I'd understood everything said up until then. They gave me their names but to be honest I've forgotten them. I'd already given them nicknames anyway. Maybe it was because they both looked as if they'd just stepped out of a casting call for "The Dukes of Hazard," but to me they'll always be Billy Joe Ray Jim Bob Junior, both of them. They were actually pretty nice guys, although maybe they were just trying to make up for their earlier comments, before they realised I was "one of them." They'd arrived in Costa Rica that day and driven down from San Jose earlier. They were both down to do some "deep sea fishin." To be honest I never did discover how or why they'd chosen Costa Rica of all places. I guess there must have been a two for one sale on US Passports at the local Wal-Mart that week. I seriously doubted either of them had ever stepped across the county line, much less travelled abroad before. It turned out I was mistaken. Billy Joe Ray Jim Bob Junior #1 had taken the kids and the missus to Disney World a couple of years earlier. His buddy was clearly envious of this, the chance to visit far off and exotic foreign places. The two of them asked me what my plans were for the evening. At first they tried to get me to join them fishing the next day as they'd already reserved a charter and put a deposit on it. I passed on that, not because of them, but I really intended on something less strenuous for the next day. I hadn't decided whether to eat at the hotel, or try one of the places I'd seen in town. After that all I had planned for the evening was soaking up as much local ambiance as I could while perched on one of the hundreds of bar stools that dotted the main drag of Jaco. However I did accept their decision to join them for dinner. I figured how bad could it be. I was pretty sure that they'd both mastered the art of using cutlery, and if not there was always a burger joint. After that if things got unbearable I was sure I could ditch them. I doubted either had bothered with a daylight recce as I had. Come to think of it I was sure the only things they'd seen were the front desk, their room and the bar. Well one out of three of those at least. We agreed to meet back at the bar in an hour or so and I headed back to my room to shower and change. Now maybe I was bit harsh when I noted their wardrobe earlier. After all I was in my normal beachwear too, bathing suit sandals and a T-shirt. After a shower and shave I changed into my normal eveningwear for the tropics. This is usually a dark coloured polo shirt, and lightweight jeans. I added a pair of suede dessert boots, commonly called brothel creepers. I like them because they're comfortable and quiet, which can sometimes be a handy thing. I also grabbed my black leather waist pouch and headed back to the bar. The pouch is a rather handy accessory. Despite its small size I can cram my camera, cigar case, lighter, flashlight and a few other little toys in there. Back at the bar the boys were waiting for me. Like me they'd used the preceding hour to prepare their toilet for dinner, well maybe not quite. They were still wearing the same clothes as earlier. The only concession appeared to be that their sunglasses were now perched on their foreheads, as the sun had just set. I don't think they'd even bothered to shower. Come to think of it I doubted they even left the bar. Well the hour hadn't been a complete waste I'm sure. The level of beer bottles in the cooler was lower than before I was sure. Then the four of us, myself the dynamic duo, and their big friggin neon sign blazing "dumb hick gringos," headed out of the hotel and down the street towards the centre of town. On the way they told me about this bar they'd seen on the way into town that we just had to check out. "So Jimbo, didya see that place out on the highway boy. We just gotta go there after for a good time." It was impossible to miss. First had been the billboards advertising it for the last forty-five minutes of the ride in. Then there had been the place itself. It was an average roadhouse tavern on the highway about a fifteen-minute drive from the hotel. What really stuck out was the giant neon sign that I'm sure at night blinked out "Come on in drunken hick gringo tourists and get rolled for free!" Ok it really didn't say that, but the place was an obvious clip joint and probably run by the local equivalent of the Hell Angels. Not that I'm averse to visiting strip joints per say, but I decided to give this one a miss. It was too far out, and I really wasn't in the mood. There had been more than a few in San Jose and I’d had a peek one night. places. Even if I was interested, there was no way in hell I was going there with these two. I tried to point this out to the boys but they didn't seem to get it. I then concentrated on the relative isolation of the place. A cab there wouldn't probably cost too much, but a cab back late at night after a few beers, well that was almost a licence to print money, our money. No problem they replied. They had a rent a car. We could drive out and back. Oh yeah nothing says cash machine on wheels better than a car with rental plates on it driven by a couple of drunken gringos. I could just see the local Polica wetting themselves at the prospect. Lets just concentrate on dinner first ok guys. After a couple of blocks we found a decent place and went in. The food was overall not bad, good cuts of steak and surprise surprise plenty of fresh seafood, and the beer was if anything colder than back at the hotel. There was even a patio overlooking the street that provided a nice backdrop to our dinner. During dinner I decide the boys weren’t bad guys after all, at least for ignorant dumbass trailer trash. I even decided to give them a little free, if hard won, advice on third world survival for the tourista. In fact I’d almost convinced them not to head out to the roadhouse at least not the first night in town. I said almost, but unfortunately we were sitting on the patio that had direct access to the street. After a bit a local tout came wandering by with a handful of flyers. Sure enough he showed up at our table the guys had one in each in their hands and the tout was off on his sales pitch. Naturally the flyers were from a club in town, a gentlemen’s club nudge nudge, wink wink the tout pointed out. If there was any doubt as to what the entertainment was due to illiteracy the flyer was well illustrated. “Very good place Senors. You like. Lots of pretty ladies, very exclusive too.” The boys wanted to go right then and there and the tout with visions of commissions dancing in his eyes was practically dragging them out of their seats. “Thanks amigo. Maybe we’ll check it out later.” “No Senor I should take you there myself in my friend's taxi. That way you will get the special admission price.” Translated that way I’m assured of my cut. “Hey it’s printed on the flyer (and so is the serial number which assures you get your commission)." I pointed out. "C’mon guys." I literally dragged them protesting down the street. The tout went off in search of other marks er tourists. We hit another bar about a block away for an after dinner beer. It was a laid back little place full of surfers and I was quite content to kill the rest of the night there. The guys though kept staring at the flyers. After a beer and a shot I submitted and said why not. I figured it was either this or the roadhouse. At least this way we could avoid a hefty taxi bill and/or “traffic fine.” The gentleman’s club it turned out was in the same building as the restaurant. A stairway around the side led to the second floor entrance. I knew exactly what was coming, but mere words wouldn’t convince these two. Seeing is believing though or so I hoped. There were the normal group of Neanderthal type bouncers clumped at the door that reluctantly let us in. The boys handed over their flyers, which the tout had assured they wouldn’t get in without. I’d tossed mine, but they let me in anyway like I knew they would. The special deal on the flyers entitled them to entrance for only a $10.00 US cover charge and this included one free drink. By funny coincidence that was exactly what it cost me too, and I got a “free” beer too. Some sleazy type showed us to our table, motioned for a waitress and then hung around dripping platitudes and waiting for a tip. One of the others must have slipped him some bills because I had no intention of doing so. Once seated and with our beers in front of us I began to check the place out. It was made up to look elegant and upscale. There were lots of dark leather couches, plush red drapes, and a long dark wood bar piled high with glasses and bottles. Nice try I thought. If this place was really as upscale as they were trying to portray it they would have given me a dirty look and grudging entry and outright refused the dynamic duo. There were a few other customers all in secluded booths against the walls. Draped entrances to private rooms were along one wall. Plenty of tuxedo glad gorillas were evident strategically placed about the room, but not too alert. Intimidating to someone straight off the farm maybe but that was it. Then again I was with two guys straight off the farm. Almost every seat at the bar was taken. The occupants were lovely woman, almost wearing the entire Victoria Secrets fall line. Their expressions reminded me of the crocodiles I’d seen at the farm on the outskirts of town around feeding time. On second thought the crocs had less teeth. We’d been given a table right up by the stage. On it was the entertainment, a lovely if bored young blonde, well maybe, who was going through the motions to a top 40 hit. The boys thought they had died and gone to heaven. I knew exactly what was coming. A quick glance at the printed menu card on the table confirmed it. I leaned over and tried to get the guys attention. That was easier said than done. A couple of the predators had left the bar signalled by our sleazy new buddy and were heading our way. They looked like a couple of sharks circling a life raft with a slow leak. I’ve been in a place or two like this in my travels. The very first time was twenty years before when I went to Germany with the army. I tried to tell the guys about it in hopes they’d catch on. Hey it wasn’t my wallet that was at risk here. Prior to being shipped overseas we’d been given all sorts of briefings and good advice both official and not. Naturally being an invincible twenty year old I’d ignored almost all of it. One piece little tid bit though stayed with me. Our first weekend off, three buddies and myself hit the local adult beverage establishment. It was a well known off base institution. In fact a Canadian Minister of Defence once lost his cabinet seat after a visit there. Personally I thought he was the best Minister we ever had. At least he went out of way to find out what the troops were up to. The place was similar to the one I was in now, although not as classy. Soon after we got there and had our drinks we were all approached by a bevy of young frauleins who were eager it seemed to welcome us to their friendly little country. They invited themselves to sit down, on our laps. Soon after they began letting it be known with some less than subtle hip movements that they were not amiss to improving Canadian German relations in a way I’m sure the NATO alliance had never considered. Then they asked us to buy them a drink. This is what we’d been briefed on and waiting for. The minute we said yes we, or at least our bar tabs, would find themselves the proud owners of a nice expensive bottle of champagne each. The ladies made their living doing this, among other things, and got a commission on every overpriced drink some poor inebriated grunt was nailed for. The ladies were of course commonly known as “Whisky Dollies” In unison the four of us grabbed our beer bottles and poured half the contents into glasses. These we presented to the ladies with our compliments. Shortly after we left this establishment quickly and with the overeager assistance of rather large but elegantly dressed German gentlemen. German bouncers it appears have no sense of humour. This I patiently explained to Billy Joe Ray Jim Bob Junior, both of them, was exactly what was going to happen. They of course refused to believe me. But then why should they, there were attractive woman hovering around the table, brought to them personally by a guy in a tux. The big heads had called it a night about four or five beers back. The little heads were in the driver’s seat now. I grabbed the menu card and shoved it under their faces. "There see, look at the prices. Now look at all the zeros on the prices.” “Yeah but Jimbo those prices are in those Colonee thingies, the locals use. They’re like Pesos right about a hundred or a thousand to a real American Dollar.” I pointed to the card again where it was written in English, in tiny print, that all prices were in US Dollars not Colones the local currency. This place catered to the guys who came down for a weekend of fishing on the company’s expense account and afterwards were not averse to a different kind of catch of the day. The boys were as out of their league here financially as they were every other way. “Guys its simple one way or another this place intends to separate you from your money, trust me. Yes the little booths at the back are available for private dances. Basically she drags you back there and milks you, literally for as much as she can get. That should set you back about $100.00 or so. Then she’ll suggest you leave and head back to your place. That’s going cost you an exit fee from the bar for her of say another $50-100.00 like it implies right here on the card. Ok get her back to the Best Western and you’re looking at another $50.00 or so to the night manager to get her upstairs. Finally after all that if you think she’s there just because she loves your mullet or your Razorbacks cap…well guess what.” That’s the best-case scenario guys. Worse case is she gets you outside or in the back and one of these goons knocks you senseless. Especially when she finds out you’ve only got a couple of bucks on you which I know is the case right?” That got me a puzzled look. I had a little less $50.00 on me in various pockets and an ATM card. Everything else was with my Passport locked in my room safe. Obviously I thought that was the case with them too. Nope Billy Joe Ray Jim Bob Junior #2, yanked out a roll of bills from his shorts that could have got half the town drunk from the looks of it. It was their deep sea fishing money. Actually it was probably their entire weeks vacation money. I told him to shove it away before sleazy or the girls saw it which was probably too late already. They could smell money I’d bet. Take it back to the room and lock it in your safe now was my suggestion. Unfortunately while I was explaining all this to the guys, the music was still on and it was rather loud. That meant I practically had to shout to make my self heard. Naturally the tuxedo sleaze heard everything and for some reason seemed to take offence at my trying to deny him of a chance to fleece a couple of gringos. Actually that wasn’t too bad I thought. Maybe Costa Rican bouncers had no sense of humour either. With any luck we’d all be tossed out in a minute. It didn’t happen. The girls and sleazy kept circling. Billy Joe Ray Jim Bob Junior #1 and Billy Joe Ray Jim Bob Junior #2 though were slowly starting to absorb what I had told them and were arguing the pros and cons of it. I’d had enough. I told the guys they were on their own and headed for the exit. Here I paused to light up a cigar. I gave the bouncers what I hoped was my best “I know those two are complete babes in the woods, but I’m not and I’ll take it personal if something happens to them” scowl. Something told me they didn’t get it. Outside and across the street I was just about to say the hell with it and go and find a quiet bar. I just couldn’t though. I found myself a perch where I could watch the club entrance and settled in. I’ll just stay until I finish this cigar, I told myself. After that they’re on their own. Besides whatever happens they probably deserve it. I hadn’t forgotten the cracks earlier at the hotel bar. Fifteen minutes later they both came down the stairs, alone and unescorted. They staggered off up the street towards the hotel. For all I knew they were heading towards the roadhouse or worse, but I’d had enough. I found a quiet bar up the street and toasted myself on being such a Good Samaritan I didn’t see the boys around the hotel the next day, but then they were supposed to be out fishing. From my perch at the beach bar I could see a couple of the charter boats out to sea. The waters looked rough and the boats were bouncing around like corks. I didn’t envy whoever had to clean up their boat. I didn’t see them again until my last night in town. There was a fiesta for locals at the end of town. Few tourists or even expats seemed willing to drag themselves away from the surfer bars to stroll around the booths and enjoy the live bands so that alone made it worth going to. I was wandering around totally enjoying myself and trying to figure out some way of staying another week or at least a couple of days. Suddenly someone yelled out my name. Well not exactly but “hey there Jimbo ole buddy” was close enough. There sitting at one of the beer tents were Billy Joe Ray Jim Bob Junior #1, and Billy Joe Ray Jim Bob Junior #2, and they weren’t alone. There were a couple of other guys with them who were quickly introduced as “some Dutch guys we met while fishin.” There were also four pretty Senoritas as well. They were small town locals who would probably not be caught dead in a certain establishment up the street. The guys seemed to be enjoying themselves and in good hands so I made my excuses and headed off into the night. Before I left Billy Joe Ray Jim Bob Junior #2, pulled me close and whispered “thanks buddy.” That almost made my week. 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