acing charges of pandering to Southerners by affecting a fake drawl when speaking to audiences in the South, presidential hopeful Hillary Clinton responded to reporters this week with an angry retort of "Shoo, I ayne got no suuthurn assent, y'all" before spitting on the floor and leaving the room.

This latest incident follows a strong trend for Clinton over the last few weeks, leading pundits to suggest she's attempting to poach votes from Democratic challenger and authentic southerner John Edwards, knowing full well that a Democrat who can't carry the South has as much of a chance at the presidency as a black man from… oh. Nevermind.

Adding fuel to the fiery allegations, Clinton appeared at a rally in Raleigh last week wearing a NASCAR hat, and proceeded to pepper her speech with references to country music songs by Clint Black and Toby Keith. Even more strikingly, Clinton spoke to a group of campaign donors in Charleston a few days later, smoking a pipe and ordering around several people of color dressed as servants onstage.

"I don't know where she gets her ideas," questioned Tim Linenbrook, Professor of Cultural Studies at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee. "No one in recorded history, Southern or otherwise, has ever acted like Hillary apparently thinks we Southerners act. In spite of having lived in Arkansas for years, she seems to have formed her impression of the South from a mix of Deliverance and The Dukes of Hazzard."

Clinton's detractors insist this is not a new behavior for the senator from New York, citing numerous incidents in which the former first lady appeared to pander to African-American audiences by incorporating clichéd and very incorrect forms of Ebonics into her speech and adopting very broadly stereotypical behaviors. The most notorious example of which may have been an appearance in Chicago in March, when Clinton ended her speech by shouting "Fuck tha police!" and tossing buckets of KFC into the crowd.

Leaders from the Latino community in Los Angeles also took issue with Clinton's decision to issue her entire speech at that campaign stop in the form of graffiti spray-painted onto road signs above the 405 freeway.

Valley girl advocates (yes, they exist, and we found them) also charge that Clinton pulled the same trick when speaking at a fundraiser in Orange County three weeks ago, popping her gum loudly while speaking about Medicare and using the word "like" seventy-eight times over the course of four minutes.

"What-EVER," Clinton responded when questioned about her dubious Southern California speech patterns.

Political pundits across the spectrum, however, admit that they're on the edge of their seats in anticipation of Clinton's upcoming speaking engagement in Whippany, New Jersey, a town noted for its unusually high concentration of Kazak immigrants, since Clinton is rumored to do an absolutely killer Borat impression.

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OH MY GOD SNOW

Upon receiving this award, I have this prepared speech for you. Believe me, it's worth your time.

Ladies and gentleman who picked me, I have to say thank you. But I suppose I should really be thanking me. I'm the one who's put in the hard work and done everything possible just so I could be me. Do you think it's easy? For me it is. For anyone else, it could be really difficult, but for me, it comes naturally.

All I can really say upon receiving this terrific recognition is: it's about time. Other people get rewards for doing nothing, easy stuff like acting or hitting a baseball. That stuff isn't hard. I can hit a rock with a baseball bat, and I'm talking about small rocks. Baseballs are bigger than that. If I really wanted to, I suppose I could play baseball for a living and get rewards every day. It doesn't look all that hard. But I'm happy with the telemarketing job because I get Fridays off.

I'm not sure why it took you so long to get around to giving me something—I'm not doing your job, although I'm betting I could if I wanted to. I might shock you to say this, but I've never won anything in my life. Nothing. Not an award, not a medal, not a video game or game of bowling. Some people might think they lacked the ability to do something great, but I know it's just because I didn't really want it bad enough whenever I didn't win. Someone great once said, "There are no real losers; there's only people that fail to win." I said that! And it's true.

Believe me, I could have won a hundred things like these by now, if I needed that kind of validation enough to break a sweat 24 hours a day. But I don't—I'm too confident to work for somebody else's approval. Whether it's some faceless committee that picks names out of hats or some tight-ass boss who yells at you on Monday morning because you're not supposed to have Fridays off on your job, I don't need anyone else's approval. There's only one person I need to thank for bringing me into this world—me. I worked at it, dug and claw my way out of mom's womb, until I was out on my own, and I haven't needed anybody else since. Because I have confidence.

Still, I suppose thanks are in order for this great thing I've finally won. Thank you, me, for getting me to this point. I'm glad someone somewhere finally said, "That Awol Jackson, he's a right guy. He's the kind of guy who needs a fucking award." I imagine that's how it went. With less swearing, maybe. Or more. Who knows. But that guy or lady was right.

Don't think I'm going to go all soft or anything now that I have won something. I'm still going to keep trying—trying as much as I want to try, and no more. I don't need to impress anybody else to make Awol Jackson happy. I don't need to impress anybody. And I don't. I do what I know I should, and I just get by being me. I'm not going to turn all phony overnight and start working just to win awards. I'm not going to put on a suit and work day and night and smile for all the assholes in the world just so I can get more awards to put on my shelf. I don't even have a shelf, and I'm not about to build one. Maybe if I won one I'd take it, but I'm not going to change for no one.

If that's what you expect, you can take back your 1000 free hours of Internet service. I don't need awards that badly. I don't even have a computer anyway, so I'm sure not going to miss it.

If I won it on my own merit, I'll keep it. If you did it to buy my soul, take it back, you faceless committee.

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I address this column to roommate Camembert, my long-time friend Camembert, and my wheelchair-bound fellow adventurer Camembert, who has stood by me through every hardship, despite not being able to stand, and has never failed to follow me through thick and thin, mainly because he has had no choice. All these three are one person, make no mistake, in case you don't know. But what are you doing still reading this? It's for Camembert's bespectacled eyes only, I say.

I couldn't stand to sit across the breakfast table from you for this conversation, especially since after 11 a.m. it becomes the lunch table, and around 4 p.m., well, you know what happens, goddamn that dinner table. But this is a conversation that would have been quite embarrassing to hold with you, face to face, so I choose to spare you that discomfort by bringing it to you in my national column. Camembert, you are having very loud sex and it is starting to bug me.

Sure, at first I tried to turn a blind ear to it, until I discovered there is no such thing. I thought I would get used to it. I don't like to talk about sex as much as the next prude, and I never believed it would come to this. For one, I never believed you would have sex. I could handle the loud masturbation, the sound of bed springs squeaking loudly and the headboard bumping against the wall, and the ugly squishy sound permanently stuck in my memory. It was only three or four times a day, up to nine on the weekends, and most of the time I could drown it out with a loud TV show. But my behavior is my own business, and what you do with your girlfriend is something else entirely.

I'm glad you met Girl Elvis, and I remind you I am the one who played the instrumental part in bringing you two together when I foolishly invited her to stay with us for as long as she wanted. Who knew she would? Her brazen mooching aside, I think you two make a very nice couple, though quite unsettling to see together in any fashion. At least you have companionship, and you have been good for her act with your Anne-Margaret impression. But the sex… once again, it's kept me awake one night too many.

Dating is one thing. Finding you two lip-locked on my couch in the evening, that's one thing, too. Together that's two things. But having loud, boisterous sex when someone else isn't having any, that's a third thing, and this third thing I will not stand for. You two will simply have to find an apartment or house or something, or perhaps some kind of sex booth available for rent or by-the-minute fees. I need to get some work done already!

By the way, Camembert, congratulations for "hitting it," as the young people say. I would have thought your lower-body paralysis would have negatively affected "li'l Rok," as I call it, but I'm impressed to find out differently. You should also be impressed I named your penis after myself. That's how much the little devil impresses me.

But again, back to the subject, this every night "bang bang bang" has got to stop. And I don't mean stop in a climax, like when you make that gurgling sound and Girl Elvis starts singing "Viva Las Vegas." I mean cease and desist, start being considerate of your housemates. After all, it is my commune employment which pays for nearly half of the cost of our mortgage.

I'll even make a deal with you, to play fair. Find somewhere else to do your nasty business and I'll only practice my bagpipes during the day, as you've asked for many weeks. But this offer is going fast, so deal quickly. Act now and I'll throw in a key to your room, so you can get in there when I'm not there.

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