You Are So Nashville If
You can’t figure out why we have more splits in the road than a divorce attorney.
Country music echoes through your being, and love radiates up out of the canyon of your soul.
You are a single female, wear 6-inch heels and nails, wear fake Chanel sunglasses and carry a fake Vuitton bag (both purchased at the Farmers Market), dress in a plus-size outfit from Fashion Bug and drive a circa 1988 Honda.
You are a gay male, wear real designer sunglasses and purchase Green Hills clothing whenever your maxed-out credit cards permit, have manicured nails and highly polished teeth, eat and drink at trendy cafes and drive a circa 1988 Honda.
THAT SONG IN YOUR HEART...MAGICALLY IS CARRIED ON WINGS TO OTHERS’ HEARTS.
You see a music celebrity in public and pretend not to care but secretly are SCREAMING ON THE INSIDE…and as a consequence, ignore your date while devising a plan to introduce yourself without appearing starstruck!
Your first thought upon running into Reba McEntire in line at the local Chinese buffet is “That girl better not have eaten the last of the noodles!”
You love biscuits and gravy.
You know the allegations against Pacman will all be cleared up as soon as his alibis, a Heffalump and Mr. Snuffleupagus, show up.
You’re fond of saying “God doesn’t play scratch-off lottery tickets with the universe.”
You’re left scratching your head trying to remember the new name of your phone company, your Internet provider, your bank, your pro football stadium, your hockey rink, your car dealership, your yearly country music Fan Fair, your favorite TV network, and your favorite skyscraper, but at least they haven’t changed the name of your favorite restaurant, Outback.
You have a smile, a warm heart and a twinkle in your eye!
It never occurred to you to put a sweater on your dog.
Your car seems to be very, very, very dirty lately. Very dirty. Papa needs a bath.
You go to Loveless Cafe to score a date with the server. To hell with the biscuits!
You smell like you’ve crapped your pants every time you drive by the Cumberland River.
Yo’ mama runs like a girl.
You enjoy country music.
You remember Dolly before Porter Wagged Her.
You and your wife did everything you could to talk your teenage daughter and her friends out of calling their all-girl country band, Ricky’s Skags.
You think making the Shelby Street Bridge a pedestrian mall is the greatest thing since cheese fries because if the cops spot you and your buds smoking a little bud of your own while crossing it, the Cumberland River is about as far from the evidence room as you can get.
You got so drunk at Steeplechase all day that you passed out on your friends’ floor that night and woke up with a Sharpie-drawn Hitler mustache.
You pray that in an ironic and tragic accident, a careless big truck driver crashes into the set of Coach Foster Episode 21, killing everyone and saving Nashville from anymore torture.
You hope that the Fonz isn’t disappointed in Mary Winkler.
Sen. Raymond Finney found a Supreme Being in your gun collection.
Your idea of global warming is a lap dance with Asia Carrera.
You have a theory that Buck Owens was the Zodiac killer.
You dress as though you were living in Wyoming during the 1800s.
You’ve ever said, “Hey, I got a cut on your next record, I sure hope it goes platinum like your last one. Did you want sour cream and guacamole on that?”
You work at Michael’s (crafts, etc. store) and get a call, then announce over the PA for someone in HOME DECKER (as opposed to decor) to pick up.
You can successfully convince family, friends and 74,892 people to cheer as you propel an ornate craft-like contraption off a 30-foot ramp...all in the name of Flugtag. (The other 108 were too drunk to notice.)
You wear your grandmother’s pearls to a Sounds game.
You Hate the Music Business and All it Stands For, but you’re still going to take one last shot at getting a record deal before you give up and quit Forever.
You drink coffee all day at Fido, take beer breaks and wine tastings and wonder what happened to the real hot weather we expect in Nashville this time of year.
You don’t use turn signals, follow close, stop signs?, merge (French waiter) if your wheels turn you are not in a traffic jam.
You want to dig an alligator-filled moat around Nashville to keep the people from Wilson County out.
You’ve been naked in a Waffle House, and no one noticed.
You’re a man suffering from menstrual cramps.
You’re a mullet shaver at Vanderbilt Hospital.
You fed peanut butter to your cat and cat food to your children.
Your Final Four picks were...Howard Stern, Larry Birkhead, Prince Frederick von Anhalt and ANYBODY!!!
Your John Hancock literally made you $477,000!!!!
You run for president for world peace and a blueberry muffin.
Your father spends more quality time at the Nashville Symphony Chorus practices than he does with the computer playing bridge.
You blackout from overdrinking, pee in the kitchen trash can in front of your mother while she says, “You’re peeing in the trash can. That is not a toilet,” while you’re saying, “Give me a minute,” and she’s the one to let you know when you sobered up.
You buy cowboy boots “buy 1 get 2 pair free!”
You think the turn signal is what you use when you think your SUV is going to flip.
You are angered that The Cosmetic Market doesn’t sell a lipstick color called Ass Kisser Red.
You think that manipulation is a sexual technique a girl performs on a guy.
You’re convinced that if you still call LP Field the Coliseum and the Sommet Center the GEC then they will change the names back just like they did with Starwood.
You consider Sundays at Percy Priest to be religious, by the way, was he a Priest?
You become the Exalted Ruler at the Elks Lodge, and I am.
You wanted to submit an entry but you were afraid you’d get shot if it were chosen.
You kicked Jordin Tootoo’s ass at the Tin Roof.
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