Decemberists practice space? Paula Deen brainwashing center? The stop along the Oregon Trail where you got dysentary? All of the above. The southern writer William Faulkner said it best in his short story Shingles for the Lord.
"The chicken fried steak was juicy like a pair of firm antebellum knockers. Breaded in a crust with more seasoning than Old Hickory himself. The gravy was smooth as a snake oil salesman's pomade drenched hair. I'll take a refill of that sweet tea, thank you kindly. Biscuits fluffier than Taylor Swift's songwriting. The south shall rise again, as I will most certainly have leftovers from this heaping helping of hospi-taste-ity! The war of snobby culinary aggression shall not be won by sabre nor by gunpowder, but by down home inbred deliciousizing. Sushi? Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."
Cheap, comforting, filling despite any discernible nuance of taste...like a home school education. They also sell kazoos. A snake handling good time!