BB....see what I mean by my last line in my post?

Actually, I aspire to the image of trailer trash sophisticate. Picture, if you will, a saggy mobile home still on wheels, sitting in a yard in dire need of trimming. Off to the left a huge sattelite dish points skyward. About thirty canines are underneath a rickety wooden porch, ill-fed and lazy, all of mixed heritage but sharing varying degrees of "hound" in their blood. Just outside the front door to the trailer sits a discarded washing machine, one of those old Maytags with the rollers for squeezing the water out of the washed clothes. To the right, sitting on blocks and surrounded by weeds is a rusty, tail-finned Chrysler that's big enough to double as a summer home. Behind the trailer, too, the weeds have grown so tall their flowers can be seen from the front, some of them being readily identifiable as illegal for recreational consumption.

And above the dogs on a broken-down couch next to the washing machine, shotgun at the ready, clad in overalls with one strap undone and no shirt, Jed Clampett hat, little brown jug marked with "XXX"'s sitting on the porch next to my bare feet, sits me, straw sticking out of the toothless grin on my face, reading History of the Peloponnesian War by Thucydides.

Paradise found.

Regards, Neil (with grateful acknowledgement to stereotypes, and a nod to David Allan Coe's "If That Ain't Country")