Confessions of a Southern-Fried Yankee by J.C. Dante
Category:	Humor	Publisher:	Smashwords	ISBN-10:	1458101606
Pages:	40	Copyright:	Jan 23, 2011	ISBN-13:	9781458101600

A collection of humorous essays inspired by my life in the South as a Yankee transplant. Buy your copy! Smashwords.com Do dumb people get on your nerves? Have you ever been horrified by the sight of folks in pajamas running around in public? Do deer heads and stuffed turkeys decorate your condo? If so, you are in good company, especially if you happen to be a Yankee transplant living in the South. From wacky neighbors and monster bugs, to pigs and polygamy, you'll laugh out loud. Excerpt My den/office/sewing/craft room hosted a garage in its former life. I needed a multi-purpose room to draw attention away from the décor. I am the proud owner of two deer heads (including shoulders) and an entire stuffed turkey poised on a log section atop the beautiful gun safe my husband insisted we buy. Yes, the whole bird. Okay, I can sort of see the pride thing from his side. But does he have to put them in my house? Don't serial killers keep trophies? Jeffrey Dahmer meets Martha Stewart. Couldn't we just have the antlers and a turkey feather? Maybe a beak? Have you ever seen turkey legs and feet up close? You'll never eat another fried turkey leg at a state fair. I try to discourage visitors. Well-meaning, innocent church members frequent our front step. Their reactions never vary. The men come in and say, "Wow! Look at that! Your husband kill those? He must be quite the hunter," jabbing their wives in the ribs. "How'd you like something like that in our house, Honey?" The women always stand in shock for a few seconds, mouths agape. They look at me with pity and say, "Bless your heart." I just smile and offer them a glass of iced tea.

Review of Confessions of a Southern-Fried Yankee
I read Confessions of a Southern-Fried Yankee with a hyper-critical eye, because, as an SFY myself, I was curious to see if the batter into which J.C. Dante was dipped before the frying was any tastier than mine.

Alas, it was. While I continue to struggle, after nearly 40 years following my transplant from Iowa to Virginia, to separate my oils from my awls and my you's from my y'alls, it is clear, unless Dante had a Dixie-grown interpreter assist her with this book, that she'd be a perfect choice as a vernacular coach should I ever endeavor to try a Southern voice myself.

On the other hand I must agree with Richard Brown's caveat in his highly critical forward to Confessions that a certain madness is also vividly evident in Dante's work - a subtle, dangerous mania easily the envy of a Lewis Grizzard or a Faulknerian Snopes, that I'd be courting lunacy myself were I to risk even a literary courtship with the likes of her.

Brown mentions a possible interest by Homeland Security in Dante and her stories. I would urge any federal agents so inclined to back off before they get too close and fall victim to Dante's visions of a hell so filled with raucous laughter even a stolid bureaucrat would risk provoking a raised eyebrow during his next job performance review.

Armed with these forewarnings, I nonetheless leaped into Confessions with a fatalistic curiosity. Here I am, still alive, yet nonetheless a changed man, lighter in spirit but laughably unstable. I shall probably never risk clearing airport security again. Besides, why fly on a machine when I can read Confessions and fly in my head?