You get excited each and every time Falcons make playoffs, and you never get excited when Braves do exact same thing.

You cuss drive up to Atlanta, but you enjoy yourself after you get there.

You realize that people have different speaking accents in West, Northwest, Northeast, and Middle America, and that all of them are weird compared to right one, ours.

A tear comes to your eye every time you hear Ray Charles singing, “Georgia On My Mind,“ or when you hear Elvis singing “An American Trilogy” during Stone Mountain Park Laser Show.

You hate either Yellow Jackets or Bulldogs part of time, but hate Notre Dame Fighting Irish, Penn State Nittany Lions, Ohio State Buckeyes, Michigan Wolverines, and any other large northern football playing university all of time.

You think that one of those t-shirts dyed with red mud is truly a time saving idea.

You often wonder why anyone would be crazy enough to live someplace else, especially anywhere north of Mason-Dixon Line.

You still hold a car door open for a lady, and you still pay for her dinner when you take her out, no matter how little of her entree she actually ends up eating.

You know exactly what a brim is.

You understand that Dave Barry is a good writer, but that Lewis Grizzard was a great writer.

You remember what drink boxes and hoop cheese were.

You smile and act like you really do want to go up to Six Flags and ride all those roller coasters...

You’re convinced that Super Bowl Sunday ought to be a national holiday.

You smile anytime you hear words Tybee, St. Simons, or Jekyll. And let’s not even mention Sea Island...

You appreciate our state DOT department just as soon as you drive from Georgia into either Alabama, Florida, or South Carolina.

You understand why it’s fun to step on a maypop.

That conclusion is simply this: all who say they are going to Heaven are not actually on right path, going in right direction. Most, of course, have best intentions, but good intentions don't make up for going in wrong direction.

Our government insists advertisers adhere to what they call "truth in advertising." I would like to insist on something I call "truth in testimony." By that, I mean what people say about themselves should be truth. If this could ever be enacted by Congress, some people will have to say, "I'm not a Christian, but I play one on Sunday."

I've always thought of it this way, if you're not a Christian on Saturday night, you're not a Christian on Sunday morning, which may be ultimate test. Christianity is not a time-sensitive lifestyle turned on Sunday morning and expiring by nightfall.

Christianity is not like St. Patrick's Day, where for that one day everyone is Irish. Also, Christianity is not like a part-time job you take to make ends meet.

For example, take a guy who was in my office one day last month. I never saw him before and didn't know him from Adam. He saw our church, he said, as he was driving by and thought he would stop in and visit. "You have a real nice church here, reverend," he praised.

As soon as I saw him, I knew what he was after. His job was to see how much of my money and church's money he could put into his pocket. My job, of course, was to make his job impossible.

I've played this game before and, not bragging, I've become rather good at it. Not that I have not lost my share of games, for I have. But after losing hundreds of dollars to scoundrels, I've learned how to play game.

The key to winning is never letting your guard down, and more importantly, never allow your opponent to suck you into his sympathy scam. One man actually brought with him a little girl he pawned off as his daughter.

Looking into her big brown eyes my hand automatically went to my wallet. I'm sorry to say I lost that one and later found out little girl was not his daughter.