My basement-induced paranoia was running high the last couple days. Could someone at the Times-Union actually be aware of my sniping at their longest-tenured columnist, the 103-year-old Ron Littlepage? Ridiculous, right? But then Sunday the T-U ran the column I’ve been waiting for since I started this silly exercise in journalistic meta-criticism, the recurring one where Ron “talks” to Jimmy Ray Bob. It’s easily the most embarrassing thing the T-U runs on a regular basis, and the fact that I couldn’t find it online for several days seemed curious. But then I got a two-for-one on Wednesday: the T-U posted the column and the World Series started. Let’s go to the daguerreotype:
Being that Election Day draws nigh, I thought it was a good idea to visit Jimmy Ray Bob, the guru of all things political.
In case you’re unfamiliar with the lame gimmick here, the fictional political guru is a good ol’ boy. But ‘Jimmy Ray Bob?’ You couldn’t come up with a more appropriate good ol’ boy name? How about Ewell? Or Clayton? There’s two right there off the top of my head.
After missing him at the Blue Bird Cafe, I found him at his fish camp in East Palatka.
Set the scene, Ron.
He was sitting on an overturned 5-gallon bucket, drinking a cold 'un. He had several more in the ice-filled wash tub beside him.
So he’s a drunken hick. OK.
"What's up, Jimmy Ray?" I asked.
"Just thinking about my campaign."
Huh?
"Yep. I'm going to run for office. Could there be a more perfect tea party candidate than me?
"I'm a retired jackhammer operator. I'm not a career politician. And I can get as angry as anybody.
I’ll second that ‘huh?’ Ron’s good ol’ boy talks like a copy editor from Ohio. Where are the dropped ‘Gs?’ The ‘y’alls?’ The barnyard bestiality?
"Besides, have you seen how good these gigs are? Good pay. Great benefits. Free health insurance. Pension. Free travel. Free food.
No one talks like this. Certainly not North Florida yokels.
And once elected, you get to keep the job as long as you want, or at least keep moving up the ladder."
I had to ask, "Isn't it a contradiction for an anti-career politician to want to be a career politician?"
"Not if you're the right career politician," Jimmy Ray said.
Why ‘Jimmy Ray’ and not the full ‘Jimmy Ray Bob?’ The half-assed stab at local color just disappeared after the perfunctory bit about the beers. Maybe ol’ Ron has another angle he’s about to throw down.
I asked him if he had given any thought to what his campaign message would be.
"Right now I'm toying with this as a slogan: I'm not a witch.
I should have known. The hammered yokel gimmick is just a cover for Ron to vent his geriatric rage at the Tea Party, which at some point he will compare to the Brown Shirts.
"Or how about this: My boiled peanut company never had to pay a $1.7 billion fine.
Ding Ding Ding! We have the obligatory I-hate-Rick-Scott moment. I am now rooting for Scott to win the governor’s race just because it might make Ron’s beard explode.
"Or, why get to work when you can be an elected official instead?"
I asked Jimmy Ray if some of his past problems might not be dredged up by an opponent,
A glimmer of a hope for something entertaining from Ron and his fictional yahoo. Let’s see what he’s got.
such as the incident when everyone at the V.F.W. dance got sick after eating his boiled peanuts.
VFW dance? Is it 1952?
"As the CEO of Jimmy Ray's Boiled Peanuts, I take responsibility for that. Mistakes were made. I've learned from them. I should have hired more monitors to watch for bad nuts."
More Rick Scott hatred.
"And how about the time you were caught hunting deer at night at the state forest when it wasn't even deer season?" I asked.
"That's a private matter," Jimmy Ray said.
"But you're running for public office."
"I'm not going to talk about it."
Still with the Rick Scott hatred. Scott wouldn’t meet with the T-U editorial board, probably because he was afraid Ron would try to castrate him with a spork.
I caught a twinkle in Jimmy Ray's eyes. Once again, I couldn't tell if he was having fun with me or if he was serious.
This is one subtle redneck.
About that time, a big F-250 dually, crew cab pickup truck with a diesel engine came roaring up.
The driver was Jimmy Ray's wife, Sissy Lu,
Goddammit, Ron. Sissy Lu? Really?
and in the back seat was their son, Billy Bob Bob.
I’m starting to identify with the depth of your rage.
There was no mistaking that Sissy Lu was serious.
"Quit your foolish talk, Jimmy Ray, and get in," she said.
Jimmy Ray did as he was told.
So Jimmy Ray’s not just a drunken hick, he’s pussy-whipped.
"Where are you off to, Sissy Lu?" I asked.
"To my campaign headquarters."
Huh?
"That's right. The momma alligators are going to take our country back."
Of course you would end your unimaginitive, hacky column with an out-of-left-field but passive-aggressive reference to Sarah Palin. Fuck you, Ron.
Being that Election Day draws nigh, I thought it was a good idea to visit Jimmy Ray Bob, the guru of all things political.
In case you’re unfamiliar with the lame gimmick here, the fictional political guru is a good ol’ boy. But ‘Jimmy Ray Bob?’ You couldn’t come up with a more appropriate good ol’ boy name? How about Ewell? Or Clayton? There’s two right there off the top of my head.
After missing him at the Blue Bird Cafe, I found him at his fish camp in East Palatka.
Set the scene, Ron.
He was sitting on an overturned 5-gallon bucket, drinking a cold 'un. He had several more in the ice-filled wash tub beside him.
So he’s a drunken hick. OK.
"What's up, Jimmy Ray?" I asked.
"Just thinking about my campaign."
Huh?
"Yep. I'm going to run for office. Could there be a more perfect tea party candidate than me?
"I'm a retired jackhammer operator. I'm not a career politician. And I can get as angry as anybody.
I’ll second that ‘huh?’ Ron’s good ol’ boy talks like a copy editor from Ohio. Where are the dropped ‘Gs?’ The ‘y’alls?’ The barnyard bestiality?
"Besides, have you seen how good these gigs are? Good pay. Great benefits. Free health insurance. Pension. Free travel. Free food.
No one talks like this. Certainly not North Florida yokels.
And once elected, you get to keep the job as long as you want, or at least keep moving up the ladder."
I had to ask, "Isn't it a contradiction for an anti-career politician to want to be a career politician?"
"Not if you're the right career politician," Jimmy Ray said.
Why ‘Jimmy Ray’ and not the full ‘Jimmy Ray Bob?’ The half-assed stab at local color just disappeared after the perfunctory bit about the beers. Maybe ol’ Ron has another angle he’s about to throw down.
I asked him if he had given any thought to what his campaign message would be.
"Right now I'm toying with this as a slogan: I'm not a witch.
I should have known. The hammered yokel gimmick is just a cover for Ron to vent his geriatric rage at the Tea Party, which at some point he will compare to the Brown Shirts.
"Or how about this: My boiled peanut company never had to pay a $1.7 billion fine.
Ding Ding Ding! We have the obligatory I-hate-Rick-Scott moment. I am now rooting for Scott to win the governor’s race just because it might make Ron’s beard explode.
"Or, why get to work when you can be an elected official instead?"
I asked Jimmy Ray if some of his past problems might not be dredged up by an opponent,
A glimmer of a hope for something entertaining from Ron and his fictional yahoo. Let’s see what he’s got.
such as the incident when everyone at the V.F.W. dance got sick after eating his boiled peanuts.
VFW dance? Is it 1952?
"As the CEO of Jimmy Ray's Boiled Peanuts, I take responsibility for that. Mistakes were made. I've learned from them. I should have hired more monitors to watch for bad nuts."
More Rick Scott hatred.
"And how about the time you were caught hunting deer at night at the state forest when it wasn't even deer season?" I asked.
"That's a private matter," Jimmy Ray said.
"But you're running for public office."
"I'm not going to talk about it."
Still with the Rick Scott hatred. Scott wouldn’t meet with the T-U editorial board, probably because he was afraid Ron would try to castrate him with a spork.
I caught a twinkle in Jimmy Ray's eyes. Once again, I couldn't tell if he was having fun with me or if he was serious.
This is one subtle redneck.
About that time, a big F-250 dually, crew cab pickup truck with a diesel engine came roaring up.
The driver was Jimmy Ray's wife, Sissy Lu,
Goddammit, Ron. Sissy Lu? Really?
and in the back seat was their son, Billy Bob Bob.
I’m starting to identify with the depth of your rage.
There was no mistaking that Sissy Lu was serious.
"Quit your foolish talk, Jimmy Ray, and get in," she said.
Jimmy Ray did as he was told.
So Jimmy Ray’s not just a drunken hick, he’s pussy-whipped.
"Where are you off to, Sissy Lu?" I asked.
"To my campaign headquarters."
Huh?
"That's right. The momma alligators are going to take our country back."
Of course you would end your unimaginitive, hacky column with an out-of-left-field but passive-aggressive reference to Sarah Palin. Fuck you, Ron.
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