I posted previously about how some classrooms in public schools have the same qualities as the city zoo. As I rattled off some of the more dangerous beasts, I happened to mention gomers in passing. I failed to actually talk about them at that time. This was not a mere oversight or foolish mistake. This was a shameless hook meant to bait you like a sunfish in spring and bring you with a gaping mouth to this prissy post.
Gomers and goobers are not rare animals, but scarce enough to go unnoticed by those who don’t watch the classroom like a hawk. (Hawks and sunfish? Is that a subliminal connection of some sort? I think not.) As you have probably guessed if you are amazingly old and out of date like me, or had no clue at all about it because you never pay attention to anything from the world before you were born when everything was in black and white, gomers and goobers are named after the Pyles from Mayberry. Gomer Pyle and his cousin Goober, gas station mechanics and avid drinkers of grape Nehi, are the loveable bumpkins who can only say the dumbest things at just the right time to completely skewer the psyches of all the Sergeant Carters and Andy Taylors of the world. These would be the halfwit wits that always snipe verbally from the back corners of the room whenever they think someone is being dim and dumb, especially if they suspect the person is being dimmer and dumber than they are, and especially special if that person just happens to be the teacher.
These patriotic little rubes are the ones that say the pledge to the flag, and the pledge to Emperor Perry’s Great State of Texas, with such great feeling and pride, yet manage to call each other queers and steers, and sock each other on the arms during the moment of silence. They are FFA geeks who like farming because they get to see animals breeding (farmer porn). They are Republicans because their fathers are, and firmly believe that all our lives will be better if we reduce the government and give more money and tax breaks to rich people. Of course, they only mean the national government, because there is something sacred about Emperor Perry’s Republic of Texas, and we need more of that kind of red state hogpoop. Who doesn’t want to see red hogs? Especially while they are breeding!
I don’t mean it to sound like I hate gomers and goobers. They are actually kinda sweet and naive most of the time. They are all, “Aw, shucks, Miss Luanne, you sure is purdy!” and “I do not agree with any dang liberal thing you say, think, or even think about thinking, Mr. B, but I will defend to the death your right to utter that liberal commie bull puckie!” And they always add, “But don’t forget that my second amendment rights are the most important rights in the whole constitution because it means I can sleep with a BIG DAMN GUN under my pillow.” Sure. Sweet, but they can kill you without a second amendment thought.
So, now I’ve gone and done it. I’ve alienated almost everybody who loves Emperor Perry’s Great State of Texas because we don’t tax the rich or, God forbid, businesses, and life will be so much better if we give all our money to rich guys and own a BIG DAMN GUN (in all capitals)!
Never the less, gomers and goobers are real animals. We need to learn their habits and sounds from the handy field guide, and get ready to have an even better ol’ Bubba-time when we get to the monkey house.
Catch a Falling Star 