You May Be a Blueneck if
You've heard about Rednecks. Now learn how Southerners see their Yankee cousins.
For breakfast, you would prefer potatos au gratin to grits, if you only knew what a "grit" was.
Instead of referring to two or more people as "y'all," you say "you guys," even if some are women.
More than two generations of your family have been kicked out of prep school.
The farthest south you've ever been is the perfume counter at Neiman Marcus.
The last time you smiled was when you prevented someone getting into your highway lane.
The only cows you've ever seen were alongside a road.
To you, syrup means "maple" not "cane."
You call binoculars "opera glasses."
You can't spit out the car window unless you pull the car over to the side of the road and stop.
You do your laundry without quarters.
You don't have a clue when folks order "Georgia ice cream" or "Arkansas caviar" with their steak and eggs.
You don't have a single cap from a feed store or truck dealership.
You can pronounce "Worcestershire sauce" correctly.
You don't have bangs.
You don't have doilies. You don't even know how to make one.
You don't have multiple cans of WD-40 in the house.
You don't know anyone with two first names.
You don't know what a "mullet" is.
You don't know what appliqué is.
You eat fried chicken with a knife and fork.
You get freaked out when people in public places actually speak to you.
You see nothing wrong with putting a sweater on a poodle.
You serve iced tea unsweetened-and then only on a hot day.
You think barbecue is a verb meaning "to cook outside."
You think Heinz ketchup is really spicy!
You think universities should spend more money on scientific research than on the head football coach's salary.
You would never wear pink or an appliquéd sweatshirt.
You would rather have your son become a lawyer than grow to get his own fishing show "on the TeeVee."
You wouldn't dream of buying a chenille bedspread off'n a clothesline at the flea market.
You'd rather vacation on Martha's Vineyard than at Six Flags.
Your fur coat isn't homemade.
You've never eaten okra boiled down to mush in something your Grandma called "peas 'n beans."
You've never even seen a live chicken, much less chased it down, lopped off its head, plucked it (not forgetting the pin feathers), cut it up yourself, dredged the pieces in the family's "secret recipe" and then fried it up in a huge pool of Crisco until it's golden brown.
You've never had a "moon pie."
You've never had an RC cola, much less enjoyed one with a moon pie.
You've never planned your summer vacation around a gun-'n'-knife show or a gospel "sing."
You've never poured your package of Lance peanuts into a large icy Coca-Cola, sucked up the fizz, and then enjoyed some peanuts with each swig of the now somewhat flat Coke. Heaven!
You've no idea what a "bushel" means or how long it takes to shell one full of field peas or butter beans.
You've no idea what a "polecat" is.