As all true Daughters of the South know (when they are reminded by their psycho Autie Belle) that James Ewell Brown Stuart was born on February 6, 1833. You know, “JEB” Stuart!

For you ignorant Yankees, JEB was a kickass Confederate Army general during the War Of Secession. As a cavalry commander, JEB was known for his dashing image (red-lined gray cape, yellow sash, hat cocked to the side with a peacock feather, red flower in his lapel) and his audacious tactics. His wild raids and daring recon missions made him the Robert Pattinson of the Civil War.

So on Saturday, I’m fixing to party like it’s 1861. I’m going to succeed from the Union, and form my own country that I’m going to call TexAmerica, which I’ll tell all about in some other blog.

I’d like ya’all to join me in a fandango across America. First, we should all form our pickups and tractors in a circle around the Trailer Park. If you are so underprivileged to have neither a pickup nor to live in a trailer park, just do the best you can. The rest of us will understand.

Next, dig out that big jug from under the sink, the light brown ceramic one with no label. Crank up Gretchen Wilson on your iPods. Put on your boot scootin boogie duds. And tune up your rebel yells. There’s a lot to do to get this hoedown right, so I’m going to read you from the book, starting with your decor.

Put up the Texamerica flag that I designed featuring Little Dickie Armeydillo. If you ain’t got yourself an official Noni Texamerica flag, then a Texas Lonestar flag, or the Rebel Battle flag will do. But you should show your country colors just like you would if we was all teabagging. Indiana flags don’t count.

Appetizers for the boys should include Slim Jims and pork rinds. For dessert, Fried Twinkies. If you’re feeling adventuresome, ask Aunt Cousin Jody Lee to make her famous Jello Surprize Mold. Main courses should be anything you can cook on a barbeque that don’t clash with potato salad.

Sing-along tunes should be like Kenny Chesney’s “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,” or Alan Jackson’s “It’s Alright To Be A Redneck”. I identify with Gretchen’s “Redneck Woman”. Joe Diffie’s “John Deere Green” make me want to cry. Garth’s classic “I’ve Got Friends In Low Places” is probably the best singalong. In Texas, we don’t listen to the Dixie Chicks no more, but if you must, you can play “Goodbye Earl”. If you want a crossover dude, I like Kid Rock singing Sweet Home Alabama “All Summer Long”.

If you feel you need some western to balance all the country, how about Willie and Toby wailing “Whiskey For My Men, Beer For My Horses!” For your mandatory wet t-shirt pole dance contest I’m partial to “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off” which Miley Cyrus likes, too, and I borrowed some sweet moves from her from her “Party In The USA” video.

Male attire for this fandango might be like DeKalb Seedcorn ballcaps, Marlboros rolled up in the sleeve of your green “Runs Like A Deer” t-shirt, clean pressed jeans, and steel toed engineers boots just in case somebody needs a right good stompin’. Mullet cuts are no longer cool. And don’t forget to carry your second amendment statement everwheres you go.

The female dress code might include a cowboy hat like mine, short-short cutoffs, tight t-shirt or K-Mart blouse rolled up to show off those situps, with either red cowboy boots or rhinestone-covered fckme pumps. Accessorize with bling bought in Vegas or a National Park. If you want to go nuevo-upscale, just wear whatever Lady GaGa or Lindsay Lohan do in their latest stupid escapade in the Star, which is where I get my best fashion ideas.

Our beer de jour depends on what part of the country your party is a happening. Of course, a premier Trailer Park in the deep south is best. But not everybody can be so lucky. I’m partial to Shiner beer. But Jax or Dixie will do the job. Pabst Blue Ribbon is a also a pretty good Bubba Beer. Well hell, get whatever beer is cheapest at the Connie’s Superette where your Mom worked when she let you rob it as a 14th birthday present.

If you’re the kind that goes for real drinks, there’s straight shots of Rebel Yell for the boys. Alabama Slammers are always nice for the little ladies. And Strip And Go Nakeds for everybody for when Cousin Heather gets a mite rowdy and takes off her top to relive how she danced on the bar at her wedding reception.

You should have some contests after when everybody finds their “Hell, Yeah!” spirit. These contests might involve spittin, pissin, and two-step dancin’. Maybe a tattoo contest that ain’t about how good the tat is, but best story that goes with it. I ain’t telling mine again, cause everybody just snickers. If you want to get really rowdy, and your cousins are understanding badge-totters, you might consider Party Favors (created in a basement laboratory by the neighborhood biker gang) that have a name like Iron Mike’s Crystal Zoom. But I don’t really recommend going thataway unless you need to be just a mite crazer to get your SSI disability.

I strongly recommend a row of portapoddies or Uncle Buford (or your family equivalent) might probably embarrass you again this year. And finally, remember not to sleep with cousins or closer, and keep your uncles away from the sheep. I really mean it.

It’s up to me to cogitate a solution to the war in Afghanistan for the sake of Texamerica. Because I’m pretty sure us Teabaggin’ patriots won’t be able to secede if America is in the middle of a never-ending war we don’t know how to pay for.

I think I need to do this, even if it saves Joe Biden’s job from Arianna Huffington and her Army of Hufpos, whatever they are.

The Republicans and Dumocrats have got themselves all twisted up in a pisspoor “either or” situation when it comes to next steps on Afghanistan. Seems to me America’s choice is not between good and bad, or even bad and worse. It’s between bad and we have no idea. No idea how much. No idea how long.

But I think we should forget the “either or” and do neither.

I have a plan which I call “The Brer Rabbit Briar Patch Plan.” I was going to call it the “Noni The Intern Saves America From Obama Plan” but I decided not to, because nobody else would call it that, and I’d rather be the one to name it.

Anyway the plan is simple, and comes in only seven steps which is short enough to do on Letterman and still let him get in three jokes about Nancy Pelosi or Sarah Palin.

Phase One: Full Disclosure. We tell everybody what we’re fixing to do. The whole plan. Hell, it’ll leak out anyway. Big Mouth McCrystal will give a speech. Or some ex-Colonel consulting at MSNBC will figure it out and tell everybody and their mothers showing it all on a big-ass Google map.

As I see it, this ain’t a game of Texas Hold’em where you hide your hole cards. It’s like chess, which I don’t play, but I like the pieces, especially the Queens.

Phase Two: The Bugout. We just scadaddle out of Afganistan. You know, scoot. Hit the road, Jack. Haul ass out of the whole country. Every single GI, diplomat, tourist, CIA interrogator, aid worker, and hooker.

Phase Three: Operation Briar Patch. We wait for the Taliban or al Queda or the Drug Warlords or whoever wants to take over to go ahead and take over. Occupy anything they want. We watch them with all our satellites and drones and CNN, which is where most politicians get their news, anyway. Even Republican congressman aren’t dumb enough to watch FoxNews except when they’re on, and MSNBC is like Dumocrat Central.

Anyway, we let them Bad Guys get all settled in what I call the Briarpatch. But it’s actually like a reverse briarpatch for you Joel Chandler Harris’ fans. BTW: I like Uncle Remus characters more than Pooh and Christopher Robin any old day. Although, I used to have a boyfriend I called Eyore because he… well, nevermind.

Phase Four: Blitz ‘em. Now the American Armed Forces get to do what they know how to do. Shock and Awe the snot out of them. Missiles from ships. Tomcats. Drones. Exploding frisbees. Everything we got, cept nukes. We bomb them bad boys back to the Juraissic. I was going to say Stone Age, but mostly except for IEDs and Stingers, they are mostly already living in the Stone Age.

Phase Five: Maybe we puts boots on the ground. Maybe we don’t. I’d hope not, but that’s what Army guys like to do, or it isn’t a real war to them. Either way in two weeks we pull everybody back out of the country.

Phase Six: We declare victory. Then we have a champaign party in the street outside the UN where I get an award from Rush Limbaugh for saving the world, or at least America, which is the only part of the world we care about.

Phase Seven (my lucky number): We wait and see if anybody else wants to play. I don’t think they will.

Actually, if Osama or the Taliban knew the whole plan from the beginning to end, do you think they’d go anywhere near Kabul? I don’t think they’re that dumb.

I see this like Gorilla Warfare. Not guerilla, which is hard to spell, but Gorilla. And the US of A is the 9 billion pound Gorilla. Well, hell, if we’re the damn Gorilla, let’s act like it. Let’s beat our chests let our enemies know we’re ready to tear down their outhouse. And we can do it on the cheap in a matter of days.

I think our enemies would see the light. I don’t think we’d just win. I don’t think they’d even want to play.

I really mean it.

Today is the birthday of a that great humanitarian and superfine dresser Sean “New NickName of The Week” Combs. Mr. Combs made it up the ladder from dealer to artist to record producer to starbanger to businessman to club owner to dude with his own cable tv show.

What I want to know is, if a bunch of white boys throw a Puff-Daddy P-Diddy Do-A-Doobie Birthday Party and want to celebrate “The Puffy Way,” is just showing up being like a racist?

I mean, even if I don’t dress as a “hip-hop ho” as they requested, am I a racist for just walking in the door? I mean I’ve got the outfit, that isn’t the question. And I look hot in it, like a white Li’l Kim. Still…

I’d like to go because I have some rhyming chops I developed in middle school from listening to Cowboy Troy, who is not a white cowboy, if you get my drift. I could rap right along with “I Played Chicken With A Train” which is backed by Big and Rich, which made it okay to listen to. And I learned all the words to “Baby’s Got Back” which was fun and so I learned to rap country style as good as Uncle Kracker, and I want to go so I can show how I do freestylin’ which isn’t because you better come prepared, but I can do handoffs and everything.

So can I go?

I worry because the invite said to bring a glock and enuff party inhalers for your possee. And guys’ll be jailin’ with no shirts and chains, whatever that means. And they’ll be drinking Courvoisier and Belevedere and be smokin’ and tokin’, no jokin.’

So what should I tell Ganstassnigga Bubba Jimbo who is throwing this soirree? I know if I’m running for office, like Vice President of TexAmerica, it is perfectly fine to be a racist, as long as you don’t be dumb and show it.

So I need some advice here.

I really mean it.

Guy is such a guy that he measures his ingredients in shot glasses, and times his cooking depending on how many pints it takes to cook. He’s probably the worst cook in the world which is why he’s only got an internet show. But it’s a show where I’m promised I’m going to be the co-star — if I work like a million years as a lowly production assistant for the experience!

Guy is one of my bosses at xcuse2party. He’s not the worst one. The worst one is Sensei Yo who thinks she’s a Samurai Warrior and my master. Yo has this sword she got on the internet and she swings it around as she yells at everybody in Japanese. Yeah, she really speaks Japanese and she thinks the reincarnation of same famous Samurai whose name I don’t remember because I just don’t care.

Guy, whose whole name is the GuyGrub Guy, is okay most of time. Except when he gets food ideas like a whipped cream bikini and you can guess who has to be the model. But he didn’t even use his own whipped cream on me because his whipped cream weighs like lava and just slides off. And we had to do like 17 takes before they figured it out that it wouldn’t work. Then he used one of those aerosol cans, and I just want you to know that he cheats.

Guy made me one of his guyiest recipes, Hunky Chunky Sesame Noodles. That’s what he called it. You see he promised me dinner for working on his video shoot as a PA and when we wrapped all he had was some Chunky peanut butter and a quarter box of old angel hair pasta. That and three cases of beer. And he calls himself a cook!

What he did was he boiled the pasta noodles for like three minutes which for him is two glugs of beer. Guy found an old soy packet you get when you order Chinese takeout that must be like a thousand years old, which he said was “aged”. He poured the soy into the peanut butter jar and mixed it up with his drill, which he calls his screwjobber. Oh, yeah, he’s too macho to cook with real kitchen stuff, so he uses garage tools like its cool or something.

Guy mixed up the soy to like make the chunky peanut butter all greasy. Then he just dumped the noodles into the peanut butter jar, shook it like it was a martini mixer, then poured the whole mess onto my plate. This is not what I call a good reward for a 12 hour day under hot video lights.

Actually, it tasted pretty good on the only bite I had before I poured it on his head.

I really mean it.