Things Not To Do In Mississippi.

I have often gone on gambling junkets.
I suppose you could consider that a vice, but I've always played within my means, and never hurt myself.
Living in Michigan, before there were casinos there, I would often go to Tunica, Mississippi, where there are about a dozen casinos, all eager for my business.
So they would fly me in, put me up, feed me, take me to and from the Memphis Airport, about a half an hour away, and then, after about four days, deposit me back there.
Most of these trips took place in the spring or summer or early fall.
The trip from Memphis to Tunica was quite scenic.
Lush, green cotton fields all along the way.
Then one time, in the dead of winter, I made the same trip.
Only now, there were no lush, green cotton fields.
What there was, was mud.
It was not at all scenic.
But it provided me the opportunity to test out a theory, which I did for the first and only time.
About half way to Tunica, I ordered the limo driver to pull over and stop the car.
After some minor protest, he humored me and did what I asked.
I got out of the car.
I walked over to the mud.
I was determined to find out, first hand, whether or not it was, in fact, a treat to beat your feet on the Mississippi Mud.
For those of you with only slight musical orientation, "It's a Treat to Beat Your Feet on the Mississippi Mud" is a song.
Here are the lyrics:

"When the sun goes down, the tide goes out
The people gather round and they all begin to shout
Hey, hey uncle Dud
It's a treat to beat your feet on the Mississippi mud
It's a treat to beat your feet on the Mississippi mud
What a dance do they do
Lordy, how I'm tellin' you
They don't need no band
They keep time by clapping their hands
Just as happy as a cow chewin' on a cud
It's a treat to beat your feet on the Mississippi mud"

I stepped over, on to the mud.
I began beating my feet.
I kept my shoes on.
In this case, white sneakers.
The mud gave a little.
Pretty soon, they were brown sneakers.
It was no treat.

I thought that maybe I was doing something wrong.
Maybe I wasn't getting the full effect.
Maybe I was supposed to take my shoes off.
The sun hadn't gone down.
It was early afternoon.
I wasn't dancing.
Maybe that was the problem.
I didn't want to dance in front of the limo driver.
I really didn't want to do any of this in front of the limo driver, but I had committed myself.
I didn't have no band, but I didn't need one.
I kept time by clappin' my hands.
To no avail.
Maybe I needed an Uncle Dud.
I did not have one.
I got back into the limo, having experienced no treat, and proceeded on to Tunica.
Having brought no other shoes, I walked the casino the first day in those now brown, muddy sneakers.
They were still moist.
By the second day, the mud had hardened, and I was able to scrape much of it off of my sneakers in my hotel room.
After four days, having experienced no treat at the blackjack tables either, they whisked me back to the Memphis Airport, as I passed the Mississippi Mud all along the way, rather disheartened, but with my curiosity at least somewhat satisfied.

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