For half the South, there's no debate: it's Gatlinburg or nothing.

This week we make the great Southern pilgrimage up to G-Berg — Sevier County, Tennessee, a.k.a. the Smokies, a.k.a. the only vacation some families have ever taken. We get into all of it: the saltwater taffy and the fudge, the moonshine that took over the strip, the airbrush tees and glow-in-the-dark mini golf, the great debate over which pancake house actually wins, and whether you can really skip the national park (you can't). We argue about Cades Cove bear jams, the dinner shows, the aquarium, and the proper way to ride the chairlift up the mountain.

We climbed into machines bolted together by strangers, ate things on sticks that had no business being on sticks, and lived to talk about it. This week on Hoot'n and Holler'n, we're talking carnivals and county fairs.

The guys swap stories about the rides that shouldn't have been legal (the Scrambler, the Gravitron, the Tilt-A-Whirl, the one that was just a circle that spun you until you got a hangover the next day), the food that should never have touched a fryer (corn dogs, funnel cakes, chicken on a stick, candied apples, a deep-fried something that briefly seemed like a good idea), and the games that took every dollar in our wallets and gave back a Bon Jovi mirror and a goldfish that wouldn't make it home.

We also get into Visionland, Dollywood, the rope ladder game that nobody can climb, the time someone won a giant stuffed dog and had to carry it around all day, and the strange men who set up tiger cages in mall parking lots and answer to no government on earth.

Pull up a folding chair, mind your funnel cake, and try not to think too hard about who built this ride or when.

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Summer in the rural South wasn't a vacation. It was a system.

You got dropped off at grandma's in the morning, ate something, went outside, came back in for more food, went back outside, and came in at dark. Every day. For three months.

In this episode, the boys break down everything that made a Southern summer in the 80s and 90s what it was. The ice cream truck. The Little Hugs from the deep freeze. Cornbread and buttermilk for lunch. Watermelon on a newspaper. Magnolia grenade wars in the front yard. Driveway basketball where the only thing worse than missing a shot was losing the ball down the holler.

Plus a long detour into pawpaw culture including the khakis, the coveralls, the missing fingers, the steadfast refusal to own a single pair of shorts, carry an umbrella, or learn to swim unless his life depended on it.

This is a summer episode for anybody who spent their childhood with grass-stained knees, a belly full of hose-water, and a grandma who'd make you snap beans if you tried to come back inside.

Most of us remember the 90s NBA as a Chicago story. The Bulls dynasty. The Dream Team. The commercials we still quote at each other thirty years later. But spend a little time digging into the decade and a different picture comes together...one that doesn't get talked about nearly as much.

Michael Jordan was from Wilmington, North Carolina. Scottie Pippen grew up in central Arkansas. The teal and purple craze that swept four professional sports leagues started with a Chapel Hill designer. The Magic duo that almost broke up the Bulls dynasty came out of LSU and Memphis. The Rockets team that interrupted the Bulls run with back-to-back rings was anchored by a Phi Slamma Jamma Cougar who never left Texas. And the fastest-selling rookie signature shoe of the entire decade outside of Jordan's was worn by a Duke kid from Dallas.

This week, Matt, Joey, Eric, and Drake sit down to talk about arguably the greatest decade in professional basketball — Reggie Miller and Spike Lee, the New Orleans Jazz somehow ending up in Salt Lake City, the Larry Johnson Grandmama commercials, John Tesh's Roundball Rock, courtside celebrity hecklers, the Bulls dynasty, the Hornets, the shoes, and the time Dennis Rodman went missing in Vegas in the middle of the season.

The 90s NBA may have looked like a Chicago story. But it definitely got the assist from the South.

It don't get more American than going to the yard sale and the flea market on a Saturday morning. But the version we had down here in the South was never quite the same as the one they had everywhere else, and somewhere around 2010, it just stopped.

This week on Hoot'n & Holler'n, Matt, Eric, Drake, and Joey walk one more lap through the sacred aisles of the Southern flea market.

We get into the booths we lived for: the camo guy, the pork skin man, the Coke can airplane artist, the wind chime guy who hated to see Drake coming, the wood-burned Bear Bryant clock that didn't run, and the baseball card man who would not let your sticky little fingers anywhere near a Topps rookie.

We talk about the weapons our parents let us bring home (switchblade combs, survival knives with broken compasses, throwing stars going clean through vinyl siding), the AM radio trading post show, the consignment-sale takeover of the modern yard sale, and the inexplicable rise of the indoor flea mall.

Plus: a true crime detour into the Jasper flea market's body count, a found-cassette mystery worthy of a Netflix doc, and Matt's open letter to Mark Zuckerberg about a man named Joe in Northport, Alabama.

It's a long goodbye to a Southern institution. Pull up a chair, dig out a dollar, and let's go.

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Out in the rural South, a real arcade was a 45-minute drive and a pilgrimage to Charles Entertainment Cheese himself. The rest of the time, you made do with what you had....and what we had was one Pac-Man at the Pizza Hut, a Street Fighter at Dips and Dogs, and a beat-up row of cabinets up front at Walmart next to the kiddie ride that smelled like feed and chicken pox.

This week on Hoot'n & Holler'n, Matt, Joey, Eric, and Drake pull up a chair, drop in a quarter, and talk through the arcade games that defined growing up Southern in the 80s and 90s. The favorites worth every quarter (Cruisin' USA, Mortal Kombat II, WWF Superstars, and the Super Street Fighter II moment that changed Matt forever). The ones that get way too much credit (looking at you, Pac-Man). The hidden gems nobody talks about anymore (Burger Time, Paperboy, Golden Tee). And the multiplayer classics that nearly ended friendships — NBA Jam, NFL Blitz, and a few rounds of air hockey played way too aggressively.

Plus: bratty kids pretending to play NASCAR, pirate money jammed in coin slots, the Satanic Panic coming for your joystick, and the eternal mystery of how that one Walmart arcade machine was still standing after a decade of abuse.

Pull up a chair. Drop in a quarter. Let's do some Hoot'n & Holler'n.

He's not a man. He's a Chicken Boo.

On this episode, we're looking back at the golden age of Saturday morning cartoons. That sacred five-hour window between 7 AM and noon when kids across America parked themselves two feet from the TV and disappeared into a bowl of sugary cereal and animated chaos.

We're talking Doug. X-Men. Animaniacs. Masters of the Universe. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Rugrats. Tailspin. DuckTales. Darkwing Duck. Batman: The Animated Series. And yes, Chicken Boo gets his due.

We're also getting into the cartoons we hated, the theme songs we can still sing word-for-word decades later, the toy marketing machines disguised as TV shows, and how Saturday morning looked a little different if you grew up down here in the South than it did for kids everywhere else.

Grab a bowl of Lucky Charms, plant yourself in front of the screen, and let's get to Hoot'n and Holler'n.

There is no experience more uniquely Southern than Little League Baseball in small-town Alabama. Everywhere else in the country, it's a program. Down here, it's a situation.

This week, Matt, Drake, Joey, and Eric are taking it back to the dusty infields, the borrowed helmets, and the army-green duffel bags of Dizzy Dean and Dixie Youth baseball. We're talking about the equipment that barely worked, the jerseys with vinyl numbers that would sooner take the shirt with them than peel off, and the bats so worn out nobody could tell you what brand they were. We're talking about fields that were technically pastures, dugouts that were technically a bench and a fence, and coaches who were technically just dads that didn't work Saturdays.

We're also talking about the real reason any of us showed up....the concession stand. Slush puppies. Nachos. Hot dogs steamed in tinfoil. Sour Punch straws that were basically cocaine for children. And at least one kid on every team who had already given up on playing and was just eating his way through the fifth inning.

If you grew up playing ball in the South, this one's going to hit like a cold aluminum bat on an April night. You'll know exactly what that means.

Spring break in the South meant one of two things: Panama City chaos… or a fried bologna at Meemaw’s.

This week on Hoot’n & Holler’n, we’re diving into what spring break really looked like growing up in the 80s and 90s before Cancun trips and credit card debt. From AEA Week in Alabama to road trips fueled by Shoney’s breakfast bars, Tiger Electronics, and empty threats of “don’t make me turn this car around,” this is the Southern spring break experience in all its glory.

We talk about:

The real origin of spring break (hint: it started with Yankee swim teams in Florida)

Why most Southern kids ended up at grandma’s house instead of the beach

The chaos of Panama City Beach in its prime (and what happens when it’s 45° and everyone’s still partying)

Road trip essentials: Game Boys, Walkmans, and staring out the window like you’re in a music video

Beach debates: boogie boards vs inflatables, Coleman vs Igloo, go-karts vs mini golf

And of course… Meemaw’s house, featuring bologna, Bob Barker, and Aunt Bee.

Plus, we wrap it up with a round of “Hoot OR Holler” and answer a listener question about the ultimate airbrush spring break t-shirt (which goes exactly how you’d expect).

Whether you spent spring break at Club La Vela or Club La Meemaw, this one’s for you.

We’re back in the vault.

This episode of Scattered & Covered comes from one of our live, on-location recordings where we basically set up, see who walks by, and let it rip.

This time, we met a garbage man who chases tornadoes.

From the Boston Celtics to trash truck mechanics to real-life storm chasing in Alabama, this one goes everywhere and somehow keeps getting better.