I remember when my countrified rube of a third cousin happened upon one my family’s gentle Sunday soirees at the local Country club and asked for something he called “jelly”. Which I can only assume is some foul low food made from the leavings of a roadkill opossum he found while stumbling home from some dusty barn dance soused to the gills on his “lightning water”. The experience of dealing with this hill-folk barbarian was chronicled in small telefilms that I believe run on what the common folk call television. I think you will be amused.
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