Let's milk this redneck caricature for all we can

AS A NATIVE Virginian whose ancestors hailed from Appalachia, I reckon I should be madder than a moonshiner during a sugar shortage at MSNBC correspondent Andrea Mitchell's less-than-flattering description of Bristol. That's the southwest Virginia burgh where Barack Obama recently made a campaign stop.

"This is real redneck, sort of, bordering on Appalachia country," Mitchell said of Bristol. "This is not the Northern Virginia, you know, sort of high-tech corridor. And these are voters that he would not logically be, you know, gravitating to."

Now, as a general rule, I refrain from writing about the dunderheaded things that TV news people do. Over the years, I've grown so weary of their babble and bombast that I no longer claim them as journalistic kin. They're not even distant cousins, of the marrying kind or otherwise.

But I simply cannot resist Mitchell's analysis of Bristol. I am, to borrow a phrase from her husband, Alan Greenspan, irrationally exuberant about her observations.

Truth be told, I agree with her.

Although it's been many years since I've been to Bristol, I think it's safe to say it is as "real redneck, sort of Appalachia" as it's ever been.

What's more, I'd argue that pretty much the entire state of Virginia - south of, say, the Rappahannock River - is populated by no-tech, lowdown, know-nothing layabouts who could use a good washin' and probably a whuppin' besides.

When I returned to my home state recently after 10 years in wild, weird, wonderful Florida, I was optimistic that I would find the commonwealth had been taken over in my absence by charming, civilized, intelligent, progressive people - the General Assembly excluded, of course. I held particularly high hopes for Norfolk and neighboring environs.

Alas, I met disappointment. If anything, Virginia has regressed. And my little corner of the state? Let's just hit a few of the lowlights: Its leaders cling to an obscure seafaring identity (Hampton Roads) that draws attention to the region's chief shortcoming (its roads), its citizens froth and fume over silliness like photos of pink shoes and modest paintings of nudes and its tourism officials inexplicably permit themselves to be lured into fights with, of all places, Myrtle Beach.

Now, before you pick up a crayon to start writing me a nasty note (or, as the case may be, search out a literate acquaintance to write one for you), please simmer down.

I insult you because I love you, because I'm one of you and - let's not kid ourselves here - because we're probably related somehow.

Here's the situation: Obama and his presumptive Republican opponent, John McCain, are showing extraordinary interest in Virginia.

They want our votes. Badly.

Now, we could gussy up for all the out-of-town company that's headed our way and try our best to act normal. Or, we could play this we're-just-ignorant-impoverished-hicks-from-Virginia thing for all it's worth.

Remember: We're looking at the first billion-dollar presidential campaign in American history. And that's not counting the wheelbarrows of money the Democratic and Republican smear groups are pushing around - or the bundles of U.S. Mint-fresh dollars that Congress has at its disposal.

These people will stop at nothing to curry our favor. They'll build us more tunnels, bridges and light rail. (Heliports, even.) They'll put the OLF wherever we ask. (Myrtle Beach, maybe.) And they'll truck in - or out - all the pink shoes our hearts desire. (Plus paintings of nudes.)

So, you may do as you wish, but I'm kicking off my shoes, kicking up my drawl and extending two open palms.

Cash, please.

 Daryl Lease is an editorial writer for The Virginian-Pilot. Reach him at (757) 446-2441 or daryl.lease@pilotonline. com.