I Love You, Honey Boo Boo

I’m not a very patriotic American. I never get worked up into a nationalistic fury, I don’t say ‘God’ in the Pledge of Allegiance (Mainly because I don’t think whoever the divine deity is cared much about a territorial squabble. And if he did, let’s be honest, he would have been team Native American.), I think of moving to other countries on a regular basis, and I don’t know if I actually own an American flag. This is really going to bite me in the ass when I run for President. This is not to say I don’t love America–I do, I’m just not very passionate about expressing it.

Very few things have made me feel super patriotic. One was when I watched the inauguration of President Obama while sitting on my couch in my ridiculously chic Parisian apartment. (I’m not an elitist, I swear.) I voted for him, but I wasn’t overly enthusiastic, I’m still a massive Hillary supporter. But, what struck me that day was, we are a big deal. Parisians cared hugely about our president and the United States. They love America more than me, they won’t admit it, but it’s true. So, as I walked by the huge posters of Obama plastered all over the Champs-Élysées, I was rather proud.

But nothing in all my life has made me more proud to be an American than Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. That little girl and her family are national treasures.

I’m not being at all sarcastic right now, they are a great portrait of what makes our nation great. They are proud of who they are. They are happy. They don’t have it all, but they don’t give a crap. They barely speak fluent English, but that doesn’t stop them from trying to achieve their dreams. But most of all, these backwater rednecks honestly love each other. Their kindness and honest simplicity makes them endlessly endearing. If I’m lucky enough to meet them, I’ll give them all a big hug because I adore them.

TLC, I think, wanted us to dislike them, to stare on in horror as we watch their antics, to talk about our disgust, but what they failed to realize is we are all a little Honey Boo Boo on the inside. Deep down, we’re all pageant queens wanting to be the prettiest. We all want to be loved for being ourself. We’re all burning with jealousy, we want to live their life.

[Samesies.]

Of course the show is ridiculous, but that only makes it more fun. These people shit genius. Remember Alana’s sneeze? Of course you do.

Remember the soul crushing sadness of saying goodbye to Glitzy? We all teared up.

Remember watching them cook sketti with margarine and ketchup and proceed to eat it out of plastic butter containers? We all gagged.

And then the quotes, sweet Buddha, the quotes:

“I likes to get in the mud because I like to get dirty like a pig.”

“My mama weighs the most in my family because she’s fat. Truth.”

“You better redneckognize!”

“When my belly hurts, it’s usually gas, or too many chicken nuggets.”

“My mother has told me in the past that if you fart 12 to 15 times the day, you can lose a lot of weight.”

“We’re gonna make you a pageant gay pig!”

“A baby does not come out of your butt. It comes out of your biscuit.”

“I wish I had an extra finger, then I could eat more cheese balls.”

“Baby Kaitlyn is so tiny…I POOP BIGGER!”

I’m going to stop, but trust me, I could go on for days, everything they say is comedy gold. I didn’t even mention: Uncle Poodle, Kaitlyn’s THIRD thumb, Shhh…It’s a Wig, the word ‘smexy,’ of the fact that Mama’s forklift foot is following me on Twitter.

I simply cannot wait for the next season. If you somehow missed it, catch up, you fool!

We’re all going to next year’s Redneck Games, right? June 1, 2013, darlings, see you there.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s