I’ve fallen super far behind on these writing prompts (shocker) but when I was looking at the topics this morning for ideas (I’ve got the itch again) this one jumped right out.

I’m a great example of a person you would come to for precisely this kind of advice. “Hey Amy, what’s fun to do in Knoxville?” “Hey, Amy, if you had one day in Pigeon Forge, what would you do?” “Hey, Amy, whatd’ya think about ridin’ this horse?” But the monumental worst decision I tend to make is….”Yes! Cotton Eyed Joes sounds like a FANTASTIC IDEA!”

It’s not. It never has been. And I’ve not even been in more than ten years, but it was a terrible idea then, too. Cotton Eyed Joes is a bad idea of catastrophic proportions. It sounds like fun, let your hair down a little, have some beers, laugh at some drunk folks trying to dance or ride the mechanical bull, and then…..then it’s two o’clock in the morning and you’ve had two fishbowls, nine beers, and a line of cocaine and you’re the drunk girl on the bull….or you’re hunting “the queer in the yellow vest” to go the hell home.

See how it deteriorates? QUICKLY. And then you’ve gotta pretend to be sober long enough to get past the bouncer and then there’s always a cop out at the road so it’s just a train wreck all the way around. I’d hate to think how much vomit has been spewed in that gravel lot.

Perhaps I should explain what Cotton Eyed Joes actually IS. It’s a club, as you’ve probably gleaned. They teach line dance lessons until the sun goes down, then the older folks go home and by ten the place is throbbing with Luke Bryan wannabes in cheap cowboy hats and cowboy boots that have never been on either side of a horse. Used to, there was a van that you bought longnecks from as soon as you made it through the door. Turn right, coat check, then pool tables. In front of you is the wooden dance floor with a tiny elevated stage in each corner. Evidently it’s bad form to put dollar bills in their exposed g-strings as they gyrate in a very unladylike fashion. The whole smoky, dimly lit warehouse is anchored by bars on each end, with 2-P neon signs right off the edges. Tall round tables are scattered throughout, while benches covered in cheap vinyl line the walls. There used to be a smoking porch behind the mechanical bull in the back right corner, and beer pong nearby. Things have probably changed. But not too much. Lots of 21-year-olds that can’t hold their liquor, overly made-up girls acting dramatically, and some swerving going on from all walks of life on every square foot of space. The DJ, Boy Bill from Maynardville, as I recall, dispatched country remix tunes via a converted 18-wheeler cab on the back wall. It was just over the top redneck. And people circled, spilling their drinks and screaming they’d lost their friend, a contact, the love of their life. The bathrooms were a catastrophe, girls vying for space at the mirror, no toilet paper, just a damn mess.

It’s awful, every time, without fail. No matter who you’re with, you end up picking a fight. It’s hot, it smells, and it’s crowded. If you want to go to a place and just forget your cares, or if you want to feel pretty good about your life, this is still a bad idea. Go to Wal-Mart instead.