No I do not.

During a period where I was actually trying to sort things with my wife I received some comps to see Reba. Now while I could give a rat’s ass about her or her music my wife loved her, so I thought that I would be the dutiful husband and take her to Oklahoma City and see the show. My wife, being the hick-a-billy that she is, was ecstatic. We went to the show and when we got there I surprised her with backstage passes. Woo hoo! Yeah…Right…Whatever…

We are at the concert early, as requested, and I am dismayed to see myself surrounded by cowboy wanna-be motherfuckers everywhere I look. The only thing from making this the perfect “cowboy hoe-down” would have been the smell of manure and the circling flies that seem to infest every arena and barn in the history of mankind. Songs start running through my grey matter:

I’m a Rhinestone Cowboooooooy……

Sweet mother of God save me from this hell!

The two of us make our way to the area we are supposed to be in and to describe it all I can say is that it is a room jam packed with people and tables set up with food. The country twang of the south is filling my ears, and I just want to get through this sea of wranglers and grab a seat. To get to the food was a pain in the ass all by its lonesome. For some odd fucked reason they had the line starting in reverse. This created a total traffic flow problem, resulting in fat bastards with their Santa Fe styled shirts; bellies sticking out like a prize (How the hell can they wear those fucking belt buckles? That shit has got to be poking into the old gut and causing some type of internal hemorrhaging), and they have their plates so loaded down one wrong move is going to be disaster for some unlucky fucknut.

Luckily, I get my grub and move way to the darkened back section and sit down to eat. This joy of joys lasted all of 10 seconds, but at least I got a brief moment of respite, for a big ass black security man comes up to me and tells me to get in line Miss Reba is coming. Now like I had stated previously I do not give a rat’s ass, so I try to explain this to the big dude with the sunglasses on. He isn’t having any of it and basically tells me to get fucked. His job is to make sure everyone is ready when Reba makes her grand entrance, and we are all in line so she doesn’t have to wait on us to give her autograph and get our pictures taken with her. God Damn I feel special! Grumbling to myself, I get up and find my wife already in line way up front. She was as excited as Ashton Kutchner the night he found out he was going to be porking Demi Moore! There was this little I’m in awe look going on and she was motioning me to come stand by her side.

I make my way to the front of the line, food still in hand mind you, and then I am accosted yet again by big ass black security guard Ditch the food Miss Reba will be here momentarily I wanted to cuss that cock-sucker out, but realized an ass whooping just really was not worth it. The food went into the trash, much to my dismay, and I waited in line with the rest of the dorks to get to meet the goddess herself.

Her arrival was less than spectacular, and I could not have actually been happier to see that short redheaded woman. I wanted to get out of this damn line and get back to sitting down and eating my food. Oh silly me! My food is now in the trashcan because of some prick that thinks he is a tough guy. Resigned to getting this fiasco over with I put my head down in submission waiting for my time with the hangman. When we finally get to the very front and it is my turn I had somehow spaced out, and was fantasizing about what it would be like to not be there but to be at a rock concert where people were normal and if they weren’t, they were stoned. I am jarred to reality by the exasperated look of the photographer, and quite possibly the people directly behind me telling me to hurry up. Oh Yeah, I got to get my picture taken So I go stand next to Reba when the next thing I know she is holding out her hand. I grab it and shake it thinking that’s what she was wanting. No, hun what are you wanting me to sign? Confused, I just stand there waiting for the photographer to take the picture. She then puts her hands on her hips and asks the question again. By now I realize she isn’t going to give up so I politely inform her that I am quite fine and I don’t want her autograph.

Stunned silence from the room as everyone stares in disbelief

Before I know what is happening there are 10 markers being shoved into my face telling me to quit being an ass and just have Reba sign something. I really do not think these people understand who, or what, I am. I look upon their pleading faces as if they are small little children that have no concept of what they are asking me. I shake my head towards them and tell them It’s all right she can sign two for you.

Have any of you seen Reba get pissed?

Well I have, and she gets red-faced just like all the rest of the world’s red headed people. I got to see this first hand when I turned back to her after dealing with all the marker pushers. My only thought process by this time was that no one in the world was going to make me take her stupid fucking autograph! Apparently she has never experienced someone that does not think she is necessarily all that and a bag of biscuits. Her self-imposed importance was demeaned by my lack of worship. To be honest I have to ask myself Do I really give a Fuck? I am sure that the answer is pretty obvious here.

I resume my pose, but this time I lean into Reba (who is so short she goes up to my belly button) and in her loss for words I get my picture taken and move on into the world away from this mockery of good times.

Now where was the buffet table? Ah, yes…