I love me some BBQ. That’s because I’m southern, and it’s the law. If you cut me, I will probably bleed smoky, sweet, red sauce. Any kind of meat is fine, but I have a strong lean toward pork ribs. I firmly believe a properly barbecued pigsicle can change your life faster than a Baptist preacher’s sermon.

I will eat BBQ anywhere, but my favorite places are always the joints. For those of you that don’t know, a BBQ restaurant is not a BBQ joint. Let me elaborate. Once I ate in a BBQ establishment in Kansas City that had white tablecloths. It was decent ‘cue, but white tablecloths? Just a few miles away was another place that had a policeman patrolling the parking lot and an old screen door in front. That, my friends, is a joint.

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