He plows the same field thoroughly worked by his fellow Atlantan, the late Lewis Grizzard, and a sort of yokel dybbuk appears to be at work as Foxworthy recounts yarns of his wayward blue-collar, redneck boyhood. Projectile vomiting seems to have been the most debonair of activities, and we are presented with enough instruction in the finer points of mooning to threaten the firmest of civilizations. What passes for Foxworthy's life story, thus far, involves fishing with granddaddy, life with oft-married mamma (a.k.a. Carole), encouragement of his sporting life by oft- married daddy (a.k.a. Big Jim), courtship rituals of Dixie denizens, and the manly art of maintaining a singles' apartment. The relationship between hunting and gender isn't scanted: "All men delight in pursuits that disgust women. Hunting is near the top of the list," he says. "You never see deer heads in beauty parlors." To complete the picture, add some talk about a lot of nasty relatives, a little attention to body effluents, and a discussion of the author's vasectomy. (He, like may gents down his way, is much concerned with his "package" and, one supposes, may some day have to be persuaded not to show you his operation.) Foxworthy, a slick Southerner who kind of likes his celebrity, provides simple fodder for his fans.
The hillbilly hijinks, to be fair, are mildly entertaining, but you might be a redneck if you take this text for anything more than showbiz ephemera.