So, while not all of us qualify as “redneck” or even wish to be, we at least recognize the shade. We are Southern as grits so … How I define “redneck” is in the same ballpark as how I define pornography: it’s tough to put into words, but I know it when I see it. 

Some people are offended by the “R” word, but not the true redneck. True rednecks wear the label as a badge of honor. They are the “I’ve Been to Pigeon Forge!” bumper sticker crowd, the people who have kitchens that smell like Pabst and linoleum and cathead biscuits, the people whose jeans are ripped because they got caught on rebar, not because it’s the style. Their scent is Pledge and motor oil and Old Spice.

The rednecks I’m talking about are of the Jeff Foxworthy variety, the ones who put their new television sets on top of their old television sets. A friend from redneck lineage told me this week that back in the day, when their TV practically gave out and was down to getting picture only, Uncle Lester brought over his TV because – talk about a match made in Redneck Heaven! – it would get sound only.

Stack the two, and bam! — Redneck Entertainment Center. Just fry up the bologna sandwiches, adjust the rabbit ears, recline in the duct-taped easy chair, and stay tuned for “This Week in NASCAR.” Anybody got an onion?

I am hopeful that the Griswold Family franchise will eventually put out a movie called “Redneck Vacation.” There is a fertile field to plow here. The setting would be your greater Gulf Shores/Orange Beach area, I would hope. The Redneck Riviera.

The French Riviera has resorts like Cap-d’Ail and Beaulieu-sur-Mer, with yachting and real French people. The Redneck Riviera has Shoalwater Condos and parasailing off the fishing dock, and a real Cajun who’ll scream “Jellyfish!” just to make the guy standing next to him in waist-deep water spill his beer.