...if you call your dad on a Sunday afternoon and he tells you he shot a squirrel that morning. Right out of the tree next to the house. Apparently the squirrel was chewing big fat holes by the roof and causing thousands of dollars worth of damage to our beautiful old farmhouse with his dirty little friends. Naturally my dad grew increasingly annoyed, called his friend to bring over a pellet gun, set up a stake out and shot that sucker right out of the tree. When I asked him, through my laughter, if he was going to leave the little menace to society there as an example to the others his honest to God reply was "Of course." Yeah. To which my mom replied "He's such a hick. He goes up to the Michigan house to hang out with your brother and they're both just turning into straight up rednecks, shooting woodland creatures..." I love it.
You
really might be a redneck if the reason you called your squirrel-hunting father in the first place was because the dog you were taking care of rolled repeatedly in a dead seagull and you wanted advice on how to proceed from there (Yes, I gave him a bath. The last thing I need right now is bird flu). I mean, I still love him, but, gross, Barkley. Really gross.
Here he is trying to look all innocent, outside doing time for the bird incident and drying off after his bath.
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