Honestly, darling, the humidity in Alabama is so thick it's practically shouting "tacky" at my silk scarf! I almost worried about my hair, but the stench of this drama pulled me straight into a creaky, old farmhouse.
Inside, sitting at the head of a grease-stained kitchen table in an apron that says "Mama Knows Best," is Mama June—the Southern version of every nightmare mother-in-law you've ever feared.
She's scooping the best, tenderest cuts of venison onto the plate of her thirty-year-old "prince," Billy Bob.
Now, Billy Bob... honey, this man is thirty but still waits for his mama to crack open his cold beer. He spends his days playing video games and "working" on an old truck engine that hasn't started since the Bush administration.
"Eat up, my brave soldier," Mama June says in that gravelly, Southern drawl. "You're the pride of this family. Your genes are the only thing keeping this farm's legacy alive!"
