In the event you absolutely must call someone a son of a bitch …

My great aunt Cora Lee was Southern Lady, through and through, and one of the most naturally witty people I’ve known. She could coax a funny story out of anything and craft a parable from most of her stories. Prim and proper, like all of the ladies of her generation, with youthful memories of “The Charleston” dancing in their heads. Forgive me, Aunt Cora Lee, for typing such words — but “hell” and “damn” were cursing and would make a flapper blush. Well, maybe.

One Sunday afternoon many, many years ago, the family gathered at the home of Cora Lee, her husband Elvin and her sister Ruth. At some point in the conversation, the subject of a brand new battery recently stolen from Cora Lee’s car came up. Someone asked Cora Lee’s reaction. Was she angry? What did she say?

“Well, I came back into the house and told Sister that whoever stole that battery, I just hoped that when he got home, his momma ran out from under the front porch and bit him.”


We believe in civility but if you have to call him one, at least be clever about it.
This shall henceforth be known as the “Cora Lee Rule.”

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