Blowing the Candles Out on the isms

UPDATE: Some of Grizzard's books are being republished. (h/t dawgmikey)

Today would've been Lewis Grizzard's 64th birthday. As I've explained before, the man was pretty high on my awesome scale. Still is, of course. That southern gentleman's grits never get cold as far as I'm concerned.

Grizzard's impression of Dooley

Last year I celebrated the occasion by reminiscing a spell, a close encounters of the Grizzard kinda tribute. Whiskey Nazis in the Night is still my favorite column, but today's feature is another one I hold dear. Those who know me know I'm not real big on political correctness. To Grizzard it was a true Pet Peeve.

At any rate, now all of us, including myself, must deal with petism. I can no longer refer to my dog Catfish, the black lab, as my pet dog Catfish, the black lab. Catfish is now my animal companion.

It takes a gifted writer to both prove a point and have fun doing it. Grizzard could tell a tale and keep you hanging on every word dipped heavily in sarcasm and generously coated in humor. Take the issue he's making fun of above, and just imagine how much hilarity would ensue had he been around for PETA trying to force the Seilers into a robotic model instead of an Uga in the red and black tradition. I may not have survived that column without an underwear emergency.

Even though Lewis Grizzard has long been gone from under the Grit Tree, for me there will always be Great columnists and Great Columnists Not Named Lewis Grizzard. I grew up seeing the South through his horn-rimmed spectacles. He made cheering for Georgia even more passionate and brought characters like Kathy Sue and Dorsey Hill to life. My laughter never ran short. My appreciation knew no bounds.

So today's a good day to read a chapter from your favorite book, or remember a column from his archives. God Bless Grizzard. And God Bless Catfish too.