Jeff Foxworthy
No Shirt. No Shoes…. No Problem!
For my uncle Jack—
a great guy who owns
a mountain of comedy records
and let me listen
to every one of them
To Gregg and the girls
for this and everything else
Contents
Special Thanks
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Welcome
Deep Blue Collar
Y’all Watch This!
Say It with Krylon
Hunting, Fishing, Chewing, and Other Turn-Ons
It’s Nice Work, If You Can Avoid It
Roommates and Their Habitats
From This Day Forth…
…Till Death Do Us Part
The Patter of Little Hooves
When Cousins Marry
Redneck or Not…Here I Come
The Road to Stardom Ain’t Necessarily Paved
About the Author
Copyright
SPECIAL THANKS
I don’t possess adequate words to thank David Rensin for the talent and effort he brought to this project. Without him, you would be reading a pamphlet, not a book.
When Hyperion approached me, I had just come off tour and had started a television series. I said I simply didn’t have the time to write a book and I wasn’t sure I had anything to say. Then, I was introduced to David. Because of him, I probably said too much. I knew he was a good writer. I had read his books and Playboy interviews (occasionally even glancing at the pictures). I just didn’t know the depth of his skills.
He would meet me at my trailer (work, not home) every day at lunch. He made me talk, he made me think, and we shared a lot of laughs. With his help, I found myself remembering things long forgotten—some of which probably should have stayed that way.
So what you read is my book and his.
Thank you, David.
Jeff Foxworthy
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest gratitude to J.P. Williams, Debbie Shaler, Maggie Houlehan, Nina Weinman, Malaika Vereen, Matt Labov, Paul Baker, Amber Gereghty, Mike Smardak, John McDonald, Anne Sibbald, Laurie Abkemeier, Bob Miller, Cynthia Lee Price, CAA, Jay Foxworthy, Mike Higginbotham, and Richard Gudzan.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Some names have been changed to protect marriages.
I’m still not sure it will help.
Welcome
I’m not ready to die just yet.
I have my reasons. Can you imagine the floral arrangements? When NASCAR driver Davey Allison was buried in Alabama, People magazine ran photos of the flowers at his funeral. There were black carnations in the shape of a race car, a big wheel, and who knows what else. It wouldn’t surprise me if someone had made a set of points and plugs out of rose petals.
My wife, Gregg (I call her by her middle name), and I were reading in bed at the time. So I showed her the funeral pictures and said, “Since people know me mostly as that Redneck guy, I don’t even want to think about the flowers you’d get if I died now. Rebel flags. Brown carnations shaped like a spit of chewing tobacco juice midflight. Huge bouquets set in tractor tires. And don’t forget the wreath that spells out You might be dead if…You know I’m proud of my Southern roots, but don’t you think I should get a little bit past this Redneck thing before I buy the farm?”
“Does this mean you’ll finally stop making jokes about my butt being cold?” she asked. (Because I say onstage that women’s rear ends are always cold in bed—and use Gregg’s as an example—people stop us on the street and say to her, “So you’re the one with the cold butt.” She’s tired of it.)
“But honey,” I said. “That material is funny.”
Gregg thought for a moment, then said, “Well, I think the worst thing about something bad happening to you—besides the kids and me being alone in this big house with all your stuff, then me having to date again and fall in love…”
“Hold on,” I interrupted. “I haven’t dropped dead yet.”
“…would be figuring out what to do with all the wonderfully tacky floral arrangements after the funeral,” she added, with a reassuring smile.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I said. “You know my family. They’ll beat down the door to get at those.”
Gregg closed her eyes and quickly fell asleep. I didn’t. The conversation made me wonder: What was going on in my life that I should have this weird fantasy? Why was I worried about floral arrangements when I should be concerned about more important things such as who would inherit my Ford pickup with the AstroTurf-lined truck bed. What about the pink plastic flamingos in our front yard? And my collection of stolen road signs?
It took a while before I understood what was bothering me. I felt a kinship with Davey Allison, a regular guy from the South who became a celebrity just doing what he did best. He pursued excellence at his craft and never forgot that he was no different from the people who cheered him on. Flowers in the shape of a race car were just his fans’ way of showing their appreciation. Even so, if he’d been standing in the crowd at his own funeral he probably would have felt just like I did at that moment: You never totally adjust to the peculiar things that happen to you when you’re famous. Or even semifamous, like me. Of course, I’m not complaining. Success is great. But one of my greatest gifts in life is being able to sit with a bunch of guys in a deer-hunting camp just as easily as with Johnny Carson—I’m comfortable in either place. I’ve always been able to fit in.
That started me thinking about where I’d come from and wondering what had happened to the little boy who grew up three doors down from the end of the old Atlanta airport runway. Believe me, I know I’ve come a long way. At least now I don’t have to pause midsentence every thirty-five seconds to let a plane go overhead. But otherwise, how much is that little boy still a part of me today?
I needed to ponder the changes I’d been through. I ponder on paper; that’s how I do my best thinking. The result is this road trip through my life. We’ll stop along the way to admire the scenery, answer nature’s call, steal a couple of road signs, and tell stories about growing up blue collar, about hunting, fishing, tobacco chewing, girlfriends, love, roommates, sex, work, crazy families, Rednecks, relationships, marriage, kids, comedy, celebrity, holidays, mooning, and a little something I like to call fishball.
I also asked some of my family and friends to add their memories, just to keep me honest. They graciously agreed. Then I changed my mind. It wasn’t such a bright idea. They remembered lots of stuff about me that I had mysteriously forgotten, and when they reminded me of certain incidents, I suddenly remembered why. But so what if I once rode a pig bareback. And a goat. Just don’t ask to see the pictures.
Since you’re reading this, I’m assuming that you want to come on in, kick back, and stay awhile. That’s fine with me. We’re casual here. No shirt? No shoes? No problem! There are no rules to remember, no obligations, no salesman will come to your door. You don’t have to kill or skin or gut anything. (The possum hunt comes later and is optional.) The idea is simply to have a good time. If that’s not possible, then the idea is to at least get really drunk and think you did.
Either way, I’m hoping that by the time you turn the last page, you’ll agree that however strange my life sometimes seems, it’s really not so strange after all. Whether you’re from North Dallas or North Dakota, I guarantee you’ll recognize many funny (okay, unsettling) similarities to your own life, family, and friends. Except for one thing. I’ll bet that you’ve never gotten a gift as weird as the fine home furnishing that Mr. and Mrs. Orville Storch of Sioux City, Iowa, recently sent me. Being who I am and hai
ling from where I do, I knew with absolute certainty that I was the proud receiver of a wonderful and heartfelt tribute. Imagine: a piece of wood that holds paper plates with the phrase “Redneck China Cabinet” carved crudely across the front.
See, I told you it was too early to die.
Deep Bule Collar
I grew up so deep blue collar that my mother had to wash my shirts separately, in cold water.
I was born in Atlanta in 1958 and lived in the small suburb of Decatur until I was about six. One of my earliest memories is of getting my head stuck between the porch railing posts. I tried putting my head between the posts to see what would happen—story of my life—and realized pretty quickly that God meant for my ears to bend only in one direction.
My father, Jim Foxworthy, worked for IBM. He’s a big man, so we call him Big Jim. Before climbing the management ladder, he just fixed machines. That meant we lived all over the place. From Decatur they transferred him first to Knoxville, Tennessee, and then to Greenville, South Carolina. Along the way, Big Jim and my mom, Carole, had two more kids: my sister, Jennifer, eighteen months younger than me; and my brother Jay, five years younger. We were happy, or so I thought, until I was ten and my parents got divorced.
By the way, their separation didn’t scar me for life. I’m not a comedian because I’m still trying to compensate for a bad childhood, being picked on in school, or having a prehensile tail (since removed). My childhood was okay, probably better than many. Divorce just happens, especially in my family. Between my mom and my dad they’ve been married nine times. As of this writing, they’ve got Elizabeth Taylor beat by one.
Anyway, we moved in with my mom’s folks, James and Mary Camp. They lived on Union Avenue in Hapeville, a small lower-middle-class town eleven miles south of Atlanta.
In Hapeville everybody knew your name. In other words, it was like hanging out at the Cheers bar. Such familiarity was mostly comforting, unless, of course, you were a kid who had done something you didn’t want your family to find out about. My parents called these informers “good neighbors.” We kids just called them snitches.
Hapeville was a great place. It was so small that our morning traffic report depended on a guy looking out his window and saying, “The light is green.” Our fire department didn’t have a truck, just a long hose. If an emergency happened, you just cupped your hand and yelled “9-1-1!” It was also a safe place. You could ride your bike or walk anywhere with no worries. Our home-security system meant latching the screen door. If our screen was ripped, that was still no cause for alarm. For extra protection we had a No-Pest Strip in the living room.
Our backyard was mostly dirt, but we filled it with interesting stuff like a beat-up basketball backboard and rim through which I could never sink a shot. My mother’s family is so tall that nobody ever bothered measuring how high to set the hoop. Standard is ten feet. Ours was more like eleven and a half feet. No wonder in school I was only good at football and baseball.
The backyard also had a pile of concrete blocks, a barrel to burn trash in, and a double kitchen sink turned upside down. My grandfather kept crickets underneath to use as fish bait. My uncles had turned the shack behind the garden into a clubhouse. Inside, they’d hung hardware store posters of women in bikinis holding tools. At the back end of the yard stood a concrete block storage shed. My granddaddy never allowed us inside and never told us why. He guarded that thing. But kids being kids, we eventually picked the lock, snuck in, and poked around. What a disappointment. No beer, no racy magazines, no old hunting dog skeletons. All we found was a garden tiller, fishing gear, a refrigerator stocked with bait, and two huge plastic bags full of rabbits’ tails. I think someone should have told Granddaddy that rabbits’ feet were good luck.
The Hapeville postal service must have figured my family for the stupidest people on the block. Why? My uncle Jimmy one day decided to paint M-A-L-E on our mailbox in big block letters. It was just a joke. We’re not idiots. Sometimes I think that living so close to the jet fuel fumes from the planes passing overhead might have had something to do with our odd ways. Every two years the fumes would strip the paint from our cars, so I suppose inhaling the stuff might have affected our brain cells. It certainly would explain the sixth toe on my right foot.
James Camp was Hapeville’s assistant fire chief. He didn’t have much work, though. Honestly, I don’t believe he ever answered a fire alarm. (Once, the high school roof was ablaze, but the firemen couldn’t find the school, even though it was just two blocks away. Kind of embarrassing.) Mostly, the firemen played Ping-Pong and cards, watched the Beverly Hillbillies, and made lewd comments about Ellie Mae.
Granddaddy was fun at home. As little kids, we’d bug him to death, but he never complained. I loved it most when he’d call the Wizard. He wouldn’t do it often, but when he did we’d all gather around. First, Granddaddy would get a deck of cards from the gun rack by the front door (we kept a pellet gun there, just in case). Then he’d say, “Pick a card.” We would. Then we’d show it to him. Next, he would dial the phone and say, “May I speak to the Wizard?” After a bit, he’d go, “Okay, hold on,” and he would hand the phone to one of us. The voice on the other end would say, “Your card is the six of clubs,” and then the line would go dead.
The Wizard was always right. It took me fifteen years to figure out the trick. Turns out…well, I promised my granddaddy I’d never tell. A promise is a promise. All I can say is that when I was a kid, the trick would blow my mind.
Childhood is full of mysteries. For me, one of them concerned the house next door, the one I could see from my bedroom window. No one ever lived there for very long. One great thing about transient neighbors is that they don’t sink much money into drapes. If they have curtains at all, they’re flimsy, thin, and always hanging open. This fortunate circumstance is how my brother and I got to see bras and panties on people other than those in our family.
First, we learned that the people next door couldn’t see into our room if we kept the light off. Peering across the side yard night after night we caught many a good bra-and-panty shot. Well, to tell you the truth, we weren’t really sure what we saw a lot of times, but as long as we spotted white cotton and flesh we counted it. For all we knew we could have been ogling a truck driver parading around in his Fruit of the Looms and a CAT hat. For us, it didn’t really matter.
On the other side of our house was a duplex. The McGuires lived closest to us. Mr. and Mrs. McGuire would sit in the living room and look out their window all day long. They knew everything that happened on our street, and even in our house. My uncle Jimmy used to say that he once called up the McGuires and invited them over to dinner, and they said, “Thank you, but we don’t like green beans.”
Mr. Cunningham lived in the other half of the duplex. He was a grumpy old man who kept any balls we hit over his fence. We’d have asked for them back if we weren’t so afraid of him. Cunningham also had a little white poodle named Susie. Nobody liked her either. Susie was one of only two possible old-people-type dogs. The first is the ugly little white poodle with the very pink belly and the lactating eye problem. The other is the Chihuahua with the gray nose and cataracts that is so obese its nipples stick out sideways. Tell me there’s not an old-people pet store somewhere where you can actually buy only these two animals.
I finally got brave enough to crawl into Mr. Cunningham’s yard one night with my trusty penlight. I was eleven and I wanted revenge for all the missing baseballs he’d kept. So I tore thumb-size pieces from all the leaves in his vegetable garden. My plan was to make it look like some rabbit, psychotically depressed at the loss of its tail, had gone on a rampage. Or maybe Susie would be blamed. Unfortunately, old man Cunningham never said anything. If he noticed at all, then, as with our baseballs, he just kept it to himself.
My family has always been funny. My dad has the classic Redneck sense of humor. I remember one weekend when I was ten years old. We were at his farm on the opening day of dove-hunting season. By
the time the shoot ended, thirty guys had gathered around the truck, and every one had a beer. (If you can’t mix liquor and firearms, what’s the sense of being outdoors?) As usual, my dad was up to something. He turned to one of the guys and said, “Hey, let’s have a contest. Let’s shoot each other’s hats.”
The guy put down his beer and said, “Aright.”
My dad took off his hat and said, “You can shoot mine first.” He threw it high into the air. The other guy wheeled his shotgun around and blasted it. The hat jumped a few feet higher, then floated down with fifteen pellet holes.
Then the other guy tossed his hat into the air. But my dad didn’t even raise his gun. He just waited until the hat hit the ground. Then he walked over, put the shotgun to the canvas, pulled the trigger, and obliterated it.
Everyone broke up laughing. But all I could think of was how my dad was pretty cool and smart and funny. I wished I could also be that way. I guess you have to be careful what you wish for.
My mother’s side of the family also had a few tricks to play. When I was seven or eight, Mom’s oldest brother, Uncle Jimmy, and I would do improv gigs at the family’s covered-dish Christmas parties at the Hapeville Recreation Center. Our act was simple. I’d sit in Jimmy’s lap and play the dummy while he played the ventriloquist. Today they’d probably arrest us both for doing that.
Grandma Camp was also a little loopy in a wonderful sort of way. She’d pile up the sofa with pillows, put blankets on top of you, and bring out a TV tray with a huge bowl of sweet coffee—which was just coffee with tons of sugar and milk. We’d take toast cut in strips and dunk it while we watched cartoons. Talk about hyperactive kids.
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