The Oregon Colonels

Eric and Chandra are hosting a party this weekend to celebrate the most important horse racing event of the year, the Kentucky Derby. The theme of the party is "Decadent and Depraved" (in the vein of Hunter S. Thompson), so we were encouraged to wear our finest seersucker suits, hats and other appropriate accoutrement. We will of course be drinking mint juleps made of the finest bourbon, or if you're an alcoholic like me, just the bourbon on a drip.

In preparation for the pending party, Robin became intrigued with the idea of a colonel. A colonel, for those of you who aren't aware, is a southern gentleman of stature and leisure. He is one of good humor and flushed visage, one who at any given time will refer to anyone as "suh," regardless of gender. He is often found in a rocking chair on his veranda, cigar in mouth, bourbon bottle on a table next to him and perusing the latest property offerings. His mustache is thick and distinguished, fully covering his upper lip, beads of liquor clinging to it and glistening in the afternoon sun.

At least, this is our idea of a Kentucky Colonel. In reality, the Honorable Order of the Kentucky Colonel is a charity organization that does many good things for their community. Famous Colonels include Bob Hope, Elvis Presley, Marie Osmond, Tiger Woods and Pope John Paul II. Their mission now, as stated on their web site, is "The Honorable Order of Kentucky Colonels, utilizing contributions from individual Colonels from all over the world, provides financial support to Kentucky charitable and educational institutions and organizations."

But enough with all that. It's great that the Kentucky Colonels have broadened their organization to include women, black people and popes, but let's cut the shit. The real purpose of being a colonel is to behave in the manner I described above - to watch people tend my crops and say "suh" to everyone. For this weekend, that is the stereotype from which I will draw my mannerisms and verbiage.

And I'm not alone. Robin, Evan, Eric and everyone else will be stammering around with their mint juleps, inciting duels, inappropriately grabbing others and everything else the grand colonels used to do. When asked what I think about the derby, I will say, "Why suh, I do declaya this the best duhby in the land, suh!" My genteel demeanor will not doubt impress the ladies, one of whom I plan to court by the end of the evening. "Why, my deeyah, why don' we take a little stroll in tha gahden?" Taking her arm in mine, we will stroll amidst the blooming apple trees and speak of the good life, the only life, the Kentucky life. I will no doubt have to defend her honor, a task I am more than willing to see through. I can hear that pesky Evan Burns right now, "Suh! I say, suh! I do believe you are courtin' my one true love, suh!" I will ask my lovely to stand aside for a moment while Evan and I duel with pistols in the orchard. It will be a gentlemanly affair, of course, and all proper etiquette will be observed. If he somehow misses me but hits my glass of bourbon, I assure you he won't live to tell of it.

I am confident that our shenanigans will be a bawdy mess of southern stereotypes. But when you think about it, "suh" is the only proper way to refer to someone while drinking bourbon and watching the derby. And what better way to celebrate the derby than how Hunter S. Thompson would have wanted us to? There is much shopping left to do. Eric and Chandra have a front porch, er, veranda, so I'm off to find us some rocking chairs...