Barnes Triple-Shock X Bullets 30 Caliber (308 Diameter) 180 Grain Hollow Point Boat Tail Lead-Free Box of 50 Bullet Weight: 180 Grains Bullet Style: Hollow Point Boat Tail Lead-Free ATTENTION RESIDENTS OF CALIFORNIA: These bullets are certified by the State of California to be in compliance with the California Lead-Free Ban and meet the criteria under the Condor Preservation Act. Why do we ask for your zip code? By providing your delivery zip code, you’ll allow us to: Let you know immediately if we can service your area. Tailor our selection to make sure you see only items that can be delivered to you. Inform you if the item is currently in stock. Offer you special pricing that may only be available in some areas. Help you find a local showroom in case you want to see an item in person. Show you estimated delivery dates without having to checkout. Value City Furniture respects your privacy and will not share this information with anyone.

I need an email address and password to continue. Remember my email address Restrict this session to this IP address (using this option improves security)fresh air globe purifier freshener ioniser humidifier If you don't have a Bugzilla account, you canecobox air purifier ebay create a new account.chungho air purifierYup siree, go to The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, the real deal and find some awfully delicious new… Southern Legitimacy Statement: Because read beans and rice on Mondays. Because gumbo with the leftovers every other day. I am from Southside Virginia, where Virginia and North Carolina meet in a red dirt tangle of back roads and… We’re working to restore font perfection.

It’s hard to find the right current. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Pancho and… I have a cat named Georgia. If that doesn’t work for you (e.g., too flippant, even though factually correct) how about … SLS: I shave and dress up to watch SEC football on Saturdays. On Sundays, I dress down to watch the NFL, stubble and all. My bio is simple: every dirt road in Lexington County has blood on it. I was born from that blood. I was born southern to a fading fall of split chins, calluses, and hog killing; every pine tree has my face on it. I didn’t grow up with poetry in my house, so I stole it. I carry the scar of South Carolina on my left knee. In my hometown, most of the farms were already ruined before I got there. We grew pot in the chicken houses, mixed mash behind the junk yard, shot wild dogs. This was long before mobile meth labs, long before we defiled ourselves with cornbread and copper wiring. And I always wanted more from boiled peanuts. I don’t want to be defined beyond a history that is not mine.

I am not the story of every kid who punched back the dust, pulled up re-election signs, and threw bricks through school windows. I am not the story of every broken bottle on the straw. I am the straw. Well, the toilet backed-up and tons of fonts and text fubarrs came flooding all over the Dead Mule today. As we diligently prepare a new website for all our Dead Mule readers and writers, we’ll attempt to keep you… It’s simply the best way to tell a story — photographs move dialog forward in some of the most spectacular… I’m John Calvin Hughes, son of a son of a preacher chased out of Mississippi for plucking the flock. I’m a southern boy who moved south and found himself surrounded by Yankees. There’s not a hill in sight and the restaurants that specialize in “Real Southern Cooking” put sugar in the cornbread. My own son told me the cat pushing on his chest was “making bagels”! Where I’m From (My Southern Legitimacy Statement) after George Ella Lyons

I am from a back porch, from Coca-Cola and accidental parallel fingertip slits from my curiosity of discovering our first air conditioner’s condenser coil. I am from the closetless, socketless, south-facing bedroom. I am from the chinaberry and the redbud, from the mimosa, the looper caterpillars dangling in fine, translucent strands from its branches. I am from first Sunday in May and first Sunday in June and close reading of scripture, from Byrum and Welton and Portis. I am from working by the job and not the hour and from finding the next thing to do, From “cry me a handful so I can feed the chickens” and “washed in the blood.” I am from the belief that “born again” is a change of character and a political liability. I’m from Cullman County and Morgan County, almond pound cake and corn meal dressing. From Uncle William’s fishing too close to the locks when the TVA decided to release water from the hydroelectric dam, Aunt Kate’s refusing to try the home-canned pickles until only one jar was left and her crying about it, my parents’ eloping across the state line to Iuka, Mississippi, on Easter Sunday, April 1, 1956.

I am from the middle kitchen cabinet drawer, below the medications and above the dishtowels, in an envelope box of snapshots with edges worn as hammer handles, smooth as seasoned skillets, frayed as pockets. “That was a nice cast, boy, your daddy’s been teaching you something right down there in Florida.” I am a true son of the South. I was born in Tupelo, Mississippi. My mother once said to me that myself, Elvis, and US Highway 45 were the only three things that ever came out of Tupelo worth mentioning. I was raised in Corinth, Mississippi. I graduated from Corinth High School and ventured forth into the big world beyond Alcorn County in 1983. I hunt and fish and purposely seek out mud holes to whip my pickup truck through, even though mud in California can some times be at a premium. I have a cousin named Larry Joe. I have been known to pick up fresh road kill on occasion. I believe barbequed Raccoon on a hot biscuit is one of life’s more special pleasures. I love my Mama and visit her twice a year no matter if I can afford to take the time away from my West Coast life or not.

I am Southern, first and foremost. Everything else is just, well…….extra. Testimony on “Oversight of the SEC’s Division of Enforcement” Read the entire testimony by clicking on the title. Help the best of “The South” stay as is. Let the bitter past be studied — not re-lived — and let us not seek to destroy a unique culture. I was born Paul Andrew Fogle in Norfolk VA and grew up in Virginia Beach, and as far back as I know all but 2 threads of my family in the U.S. are from either Virginia or Mississippi: my paternal great grandfather was from Philadelphia and it is rumored that my maternal great grandfather “had people from Maine.” As a Virginian since birth, I am fascinated by these two trickles of exotic Northern blood. As a temporary upstate New Yorker (10 years and running is temporary), I have noticed some quaint and backward ways amongst these people. They cannot seem to understand that I go by my middle name. I have signed work e-mails, “Andy” and have been replied to with “Thanks, Paul.”

Forgive my mid-Atlantic superiority, but I consider this the height of ignorance. I say “howdy” although none of my relatives ever have. I suppose I get that from the TV. My high school students think my accent and yalling is cute. They think I drink moonshine and they’re right, at least they were twice in my life. My son once asked my wife if I spoke English. The main thrust behind this query was my pronouncing “ham” as if it had two syllables. Apparently the vowel in my pronunciation of “pie” is also alien. What does the boy want from me? There is a devilishly good chicken place up here, started in 1938 by a woman from Louisiana. I hadn’t had my Mississippi grandmother’s fried chicken in years, and when I first had a bite of Hattie’s–by myself one cold rainy night–I almost cried it was so close. The Mule is still kicking but she’s a bit stable weary this month. We’re restoring databases from 2007 and then… Any woman who can bake a crawfish pie–and enjoy eating it–should be counted a Southerner no matter where she lives.

Southern Legitimacy Statement: I grew up on my grandmother and grandfather’s farm, where we ate fried potatoes, green beans (cooked for an entire day or more on the stove in a pot), and cornbread. Fried chicken was a treat we enjoyed, and it was really fried—not the carbon-copy fried chicken found frozen in stores today. We ate tomatoes from the garden (straight from the garden). My southern heritage isn’t limited to food, though—I have the most marvelous southern accent that I have refused to relinquish for academia. I’m proud of my heritage! Some Lovely Creative Non-Fiction. Moonshine Piedmont North Carolina Intro Nick Pegram, Nicholas Talley Pegram, my grandfather was born… SLS: Growing up in south Georgia, I have a Stockholm Syndrome-type relationship to temperatures over ninety degrees and one hundred percent humidity. But the devil can have his damned gnats. Southern Legitimacy Statement: I talk slow. I eat etouffee, jambalaya and boudin. I’ve clapped my hands to gospel in hot, crowded churches, and visited Catholic psychics.

I’ve gone through many Louisiana winters in short sleeves and shorts. I was born and raised in the North, but now have lived most of my adult life in the South. When I first moved my mother acted as though I were moving to another country and told me all the stories she had collected from the tabloids she loved. When she visited during the summer she rolled and tied a hand towel around her head, a desperate hachimaki, and stuffed tissues around its edges to catch the sweat before it fell into her eyes and down her cheeks. “Eight o’clock at night is the same as three o’clock in the afternoon,” she said. “That’s why horses go crazy and impale themselves.” SLS: John Davis Jr. is a sixth-generation Florida native. His poetry has covered the South like kudzu, including a prior appearance in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Now he’s trying his hand at a little down-home fiction. He hopes yall like it. SLS — Born and raised in Memphis, Diane Thomas-Plunk is highly skilled in the three B’s of Memphis — blues, barbecue and beer.