Upon hearing that I am a direct descendant of Lord Num Num, the peaceful ruler of Sugar Rainbow Kingdom which exists in a crusty sock under my bed, I'm often asked about the pride I must feel.
But I don't see pride. I don't even understand it.
I don't get gay pride. I don't get black pride. And I hate parades, whether they be Puerto Rican, Irish or those guys in the funny red cars and silly hats.
Frankly, I cannot be proud of anything — whether it's my heritage or my third nipple — that I had nothing to do with.
I only bring this up because a group of Southerners are planning to fly the largest Confederate flag ever, over a Florida interstate.
They say it's to celebrate something. But what? Defeat?
I mean, I love the South; I'd eat a briefcase if it was chicken-fried and I'd still do Minnie Pearl, even in her current state.
But why should a group pick the most problematic emblem of their past to represent their heritage? Pick something we all love about the South. Why not the world's largest wad of chewing tobacco? A "Hee Haw" waterslide? A pickup truck made of pork?
Either way, it's been 150 years — move-on-dot-org, folks.
See to me, it's like silly sports fans being proud of their favorite team as though its achievements mirror theirs. Look, my favorite team ever is the 49ers. Who can forget that moment when Joe Stabler completed that touchdown pass to Dwight Craig to win the 1988 Super Bowl against the Buccaneers? It was truly magical, but I had nothing to do with it.
And if you disagree with me, then you sir are worse than Hitler.