Angelina Won't Adopt No Hillbilly Chile

If you live among the Hillbilly (and I pray God you do not), you'll notice that there is a dichotomy between what they say about their children and how they actually treat their children.
When they talk about their kids, the conversation is peppered with phrases such as "I love my childrens... I cain't stands to think of what would happen to ma babies. I love dem babies."
Then, you get a look at the kid. They are either grossly overweight or malnourished. Dressed in shabby clothes with last year's trendy saying on the shirt, these kids are often bruised and battered and suffer from a range of ailments that draw Social Security money.
Fathers are absent from the scene. The only time they appear is when in need of cash for dope or booze, provided by the Mama-billies welfare checks. The other interesting phenomenon is that when the Papa-billy dies, usually from an overdose or the perpetrator-victim of a murder-suicide, the local paper is filled with odes to this absentee father on Father's day and the anniversary of his birth and death.
Generally, Mama-billies must raise multi-generations, as their young daughters are pregnant in their early teens.
Hillbilly children are taught very early how to milk the system.
I watched a family of hillbillies in the grocery store and listened as the Mama-billy explained the intricacies of the food stamp (or whatever they call it now) to her "young-inz."
Mama-billy was seated in her "shopping ATV"--a scooter, designed for the handicapped and elderly, but also used by obese and lazy Hillbillies. The children, snot-nosed, seething, restless brother and sister, listened as Mama-billy said.
"Get what you want kids. Get sumthin' good. Beginning of the month and we got our aid in!"
She cackled and coughed.
"Why do we get aid, mama?" The girl mustered every IQ point to form a sentence.
"It's money the government owes us."
What the American public owed them for was never part of the conversation.
And it never will.