I was pondering, as I sometimes do, the following scenario: were I to move to Atlanta, Georgia, and were I to tell my neighbors I was the great-great-great-ad naseum-grandson of William Tecumseh Sherman, which would win out? My neighbors’ desire to rip me to shreds, or their southern hospitality which would seem to prevent that ealier course of action?
If not the latter, at least I could take comfort in the almost certain knowledge that they’d be real nice to my corpse, though.
NOTE: I’m not actually related in any way shape or form to General Sherman that I’m aware of. But, I do like to lie.