A circular plate is logical. You could ration out the different locations on a circular plate. Every one of the Grandma Uncle's Country-Home-Cooked Barbecue Diner-type restaurants near my home used circular plates, and all the small-town, kick-your-boots-off-and-sit-a-spell, ain't-nothin'-wrong-with-hard-work-and-Jesus-Christ-Almighty food they served was arranged according to a sort of unspoken pie chart rule. Finally, and this is just aesthetics, but square plates stacked rigidly, while circular plates were warm, colloquial, and more likely to be enjoyed by Mark Twain.

Multiple types of the same kind of silverware also never made sense to me as a kid, as they were mainly reserved for slapstick scenes involving boorish men visiting the royal parts of England and not understanding that you can't talk about farts while at dinner with the Queen. Finding that I had the choice to not remember which was the salad fork and which was the dessert fork made me feel as if I had been thrust into the plot of My Fair Lady. The role of the redneck is used in the media as a way to either assert someone else's higher intelligence, or prove how much better the redneck lifestyle is than that of those boys from New York City, who might wear fancy suits and drink champagne but ain't never gazed at the beauty of the moon. Thus, many in the South assimilate this mindset, including my younger self. They become a living stereotype, because for their whole lives, they're either presented with the idea that they're being attacked by people looking to make a joke of them, or that they're fish out of water in the harsh, soulless machinations of an America that would be way better off if it had a Jack Palance character to impart valuable lessons to.

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"And that's why all the love you ever need resides in the heart of a lost calf."

I'm sure that if I had used square plates extensively, I'd be thinking about how weird it was that all those bumpkins ate off of ceramic Frisbees. But square plates were advanced technology, and they were perfect for carrying ...

In country music star Justin Moore's song "Bait A Hook," in which the ability to bait a hook is the primary indicator of not only masculinity, but of human worth, he sings "My buddies said he saw y'all eatin' that sushi stuff/Baby, that don't sound like you, that don't sound like love/Sounds like it sucks." Not only does he refer to it as "sushi stuff," because he's so fucking country that he can't be bothered to know about the apparently effeminate, well-known term "sushi," but he says that it "doesn't sound like love," which I disagree with. I know enough Southern girls to recognize that they don't interrupt makeout sessions in their Justin Moore-approved barn loft to ask you if a dragon roll is the reason for your limp handshake.

The South isn't exactly a prime location for raw fish. Many parts of it often have the kind of hot air and humidity that can best be described as "asshole at midnight," and when hot air learns that anything raw exists, that plate will turn into a mound of wasabi, flies and more flies. I'm not saying that the South, as a whole, hasn't discovered air conditioning yet, but I've been in enough poorly managed Dairy Queens to know that, if it's summer and the air conditioning isn't turned down to "absurdly cold," anything that you want to stay fresh and potentially unmelted is going to be dumpster-bound by the end of first shift.

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Keep those flies away from that sushi! It'll make them sick!

Sushi, because of the odd "sterile" quality that it seemed to have, was an item that the rich consumed, because only they could afford these combinations of unspoiled, recently deceased sea creatures. Now I'm old enough to know that sushi can be bought for suspiciously low prices, but my parents didn't eat it and neither did any of the older figures in my life. I didn't have a lot of exposure to it, and the sushi I did see had been shoved into the back corner of the local Chinese buffets, as if it was an eyesore and an embarrassment to the superior chicken and broccoli, and the fiercely lukewarm lo mein.

Adding to this notion of sushi as an unreachable status symbol was the ever-present childhood warning that, if something wasn't cooked (fried), it would kill me. The paranoia of any food that didn't drip grease was encompassed under the blanket term "salmonella," a mysterious disease that attached itself to every item that didn't have a breaded epidermis. If you ate raw fish, you would immediately come down with the salmonella, and your days of fort-building and backyard-wrasslin' would be over.

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"Why won't anyone accept my challenge?"

To be an effective "redneck craze," the fashion must, at all costs, emphasize simplicity. This is something that coffee shops and every portrayal of coffee shops refuse to do. "Venti mocha latte Frappuccino with cream, please. Can you use soy milk? And can you make sure that all the soy is local? Is this plastic cup biodegradable? Also, can I add a shot of organic, fair trade espresso?" Oh, every movie joke about coffee shops. You're hilarious!

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"Sorry, my order is kind of complex. I'll need a Mac to map it out for you."

Pfafftown is surrounded by neighborhoods and towns that look exactly like it. There may be changes in the population size, but there is not enough disparity to influence the basic layout of fields, forest, two houses -- repeat. There is also no real change in the accents, but if you asked someone from Pfafftown to imitate someone from King, North Carolina, they'd immediately take on a personality created by a single viewing of True Grit and a thousand head injuries. It's some kind of Super Saiyan redneck that exists solely to misconstrue the importance of Obama's middle name. Sweet King reference, though.

This obviously doesn't include the situation that many locations in the South face, where one town is right next to another that gets a bad reputation from the poverty it's riddled with. That only exacerbates the issue, and it is the much-lauded "Southern hospitality" that is commonly replaced by a mocking disdain. Famine and hardship? Those goofy hillbillies. When will they ever learn that you don't need government assistance when you have a cold glass of iced tea and a girl wearing Daisy Dukes?

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And if you call it "sweet tea," there's a good chance a redneck will punch you.

They also apply this "I'll drink anything, despite its disputable chemistry" attitude towards all other kinds of alcohol, which puts vodkas and liquors of all qualities on equal playing fields, as long as it can get you passed out in a lawn chair. This is problematic for the college freshman (who shall not be named) that decided to buy Burnett's Vodka during his first weekend of college, only to learn from the more knowledgeable people in his dorm that brands like Burnett's and Aristocrat are supposedly shitty. If some kind of liquid costs $20, it must have some kind of decency or at least be drinkable. And since it's drinkable, it should be worthwhile. Apparently not, because that college freshman's new peers looked at the freshman and his choice of beverage as if he'd just suggested that they get coffee from Starbucks.

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And then they all died of alcohol poisoning. The end.

The hackneyed South associates drinking with some kind of inherent manliness. It's a rite of passage. As long as the drink's title doesn't include the name of a fruit, it doesn't matter what you choose. If it does, well, you must be the kind of guy who likes sushi things.