Reopening
Negotiations With the North - One Laugh at a Time
This is the home place of the Southern Humorists
We are Southern writers with a strong sense of regional heritage who laugh at our own shortcomings and make diversity into an asset. We are proud of our turnip greens, cornbread and rural past, but recognize football, country music, and car racing as activities of a new South.
We would also like to go on record as the humorist group with the most couches on the front porch and the greatest number of junk cars rusting in the backyard.
We welcome any Southern humorist, comedy author, funny writer, or cartoonist who creates humor of any sort, or aspires to do so, to join our newsgroup and become a part of the comedy organization that sponsors our official Southern Humorists website.
We welcome true southerners, former southerners, transplanted southerners - and even danged Yankees, as long as you know that you will be the one who talks with a funny accent and that you're treading on our sacred Southern soil here.
I
am privy to information which could change the course of human events, or at
least what you think about the next time you eat salmon. I've been harboring
this dark secret for at least five days now, and it's got me rattled. I need
to come clean with it, you know, get it "off my chest," because if I
don't I'm liable to forget about it and then when I remember it again it will
be too late to write a humor column about it.
Aside from omitting the detail about our house being located next to a cemetery, the real estate agent neglected to mention the way the front entrance to the house morphs into a revolving door whenever a neighborhood adult or child appears before it. The broken doorbell is actually clever façade for a thumbprint scanner, granting access to all in its database. That’s the best possibility I can come up with to account for the volume of traffic through my home. This would explain why I've been denied entry on several occasions, even when I was certain I heard children's voices coming from inside.
I never paid much attention to neat people other than to notice that they
annoy me more than an unscratchable itch. It’s even worse when they decide
to perpetrate an attack of neatness upon my messiness. It really screws up my
world and makes me non-functional.
I’ve worked with OCD types before but I always tried to
avoid their influence. Mostly I’ve been successful at keeping them at bay.
Your brain sometimes forgets to tell your lungs to breathe.”
There they go again, blaming everything on my brain. This time it’s a Lung Specialist. Sure he’s gonna take my lungs’ side, that’s what he’s been trained to do. What’s wrong with my lungs that they can’t just breathe, without bringing my much maligned brain into the situation? They’re standard equipment, aren’t they? It’s not like they were just added to the body. They should know the routine by now. Breathe, breathe, breathe, and breathe. What’s so hard to remember? If you have been following that routine for 63 years without any interruption, do you really need somebody to tell you when to do it again? Lungs, take some responsibility for your own actions. Don’t blame my buddy, the brain.
We
hold these truths to be self evident: that every mother’s spaghetti tastes
better than anybody else’s, and that every hometown has a hot dog dive serving
up the best hot dogs on the planet.
No argument on the spaghetti
issue, although honestly, MY mother’s spaghetti can beat YOUR mother’s
spaghetti. Also, the Dairy O hot dogs in my hometown, Orangeburg, South
Carolina, really are the best anywhere.
We are Southern writers with a strong sense of regional heritage who laugh at our own shortcomings and make diversity into an asset. We are proud of our turnip greens, cornbread and rural past, but recognize football, country music, and car racing as activities of a new South.
Aside from omitting the detail about our house being located next to a cemetery, the real estate agent neglected to mention the way the front entrance to the house morphs into a revolving door whenever a neighborhood adult or child appears before it. The broken doorbell is actually clever façade for a thumbprint scanner, granting access to all in its database. That’s the best possibility I can come up with to account for the volume of traffic through my home. This would explain why I've been denied entry on several occasions, even when I was certain I heard children's voices coming from inside. 
I never paid much attention to neat people other than to notice that they
annoy me more than an unscratchable itch. It’s even worse when they decide
to perpetrate an attack of neatness upon my messiness. It really screws up my
world and makes me non-functional.
Your brain sometimes forgets to tell your lungs to breathe.” 
We
hold these truths to be self evident: that every mother’s spaghetti tastes
better than anybody else’s, and that every hometown has a hot dog dive serving
up the best hot dogs on the planet.
"How about some hot wings from the new carry-out place?” My
honey asked one evening.
