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Whistlin'' Dixie: does anyone care what the Dixie Chicks say? Do they even exist? Are they God? Only Dr. Kevorkian knows for sure. (The Last Roundup).

Article Excerpt
I WAS HAVING A CUP OF COFFEE ONE morning in the hostility suite of the mental hospital when my editor called and suggested I write a column on the Dixie Chicks. I told him that by the time this issue came out, people would be asking, "The Dixie who?" "No," he said. "They'll be a topic of heated debate for some time. Just ask your fellow residents."

So I did. I asked a 275-pound, six-foot-tall black man who was under the impression that he was Napoleon. "Sure," he said. "I loved the Dixie Chicks. They were cute and little and purple. They wiggled through a fence in Houston fifty years ago and were eaten by two dachshunds."

"No," I told him. "Those were the Easter chicks." So I took the elevator up to my padded room in the van Gogh wing, where I live with my pet typewriter. But I wasn't sure...

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