Friday, June 29, 2012
1. Okay, hold up. They’re only letting the First Class people board right now. Why are all your asses in line already? I can tell by the outfit you’re wearing that you don’t have any extra cash left over for a fancy plane ticket. Go sit down and wait your turn like a decent person.
2. Is it really necessary that you clomp down the gangway like a heifer in search of a salt lick?
3. That woman at the plane door is such a liar. Her words might be saying “welcome aboard!” but her eyes and her hair are saying “dear God, more smelly people who are going to want extra pillows and manage to spill crap on the floor”.
4. Hey there, all you rich people up here in this First Class mess. Is it really worth those big bucks to board first and then have to sit there forever and watch all us poor-ass people march through your sacred land back to the cheap seats? I’d think that would harsh my buzz just a little bit.
5. Honey, if you’re going to stick your pampered butt out into the aisle, you do realize that I have every right to whack it with my carry-on, right? Fair’s fair.
6. What in the hell is somebody doing at the front of the chain-gang that is causing the line of unseated people to come to a complete halt? Are you re-decorating? Is somebody giving birth?
7. Look, you fool in the aisle seat, if I’m standing at your row, patiently tapping my foot, it means that you need to get out of the way so I can get to the window seat on the other side of you, not that you should sit there like I’m a Jehovah’s Witness and you really don’t have to answer the door if you don’t want to.
8. How is it that some people manage to get on the plane with 4 carry-ons, two bags of groceries and a case of beer? Something is clearly wrong with the screening process around here.
9. Isn’t it amazing that after 20 years of portable electronic devices on airplanes, so many people still don’t understand what it means when the captain asks for the fifth time to turn the damn things off?
10. Dear complete-stranger person sitting next to me. Help me understand at what point I gave you an indication that I needed to hear every detail of your entire life. So I can make sure that I never again do whatever it was.
11. Dear other person sitting next to me. See that armrest there? That’s also my armrest. Which means we have to share. So unless you own this plane, you need to give up some real estate, pronto.
12. Memo to the geeky little man who is parading his child up and down the aisle just so we can all get a gander at something angelic that somehow sprang from his loins. I had nothing to do with the conception or delivery of that child. She’s cute, so I’ll smile in tribute one time, but after that, you need to go back to wherever you came from. Like the taxi that brought you to the airport.
13. Why do people get excited about shoving a camera up to their window and taking pictures of clouds? What are you trying to prove?
14. Isn’t it fun when the flight attendant uses the beverage cart as a battering ram and tries to snap off people’s elbows? Not.
15. And why is that flight attendant offended when I don’t want something to drink? Does that make me a terrorist? I’m not thirsty, there’s no ulterior motive, so stop looking at me in that personally-offended way. Besides, if I drink the two sips that I can get out of your thimble of a serving cup, I’m gonna have to pee. And I have no desire to enter that tiny, creepy bathroom where my private bits can get sucked out of the airplane by that alarming tornado toilet. End of story.
16. And once more, lady beside me who is rambling on about that time she somehow got pregnant at the rodeo during the Butter Queen Festival, I don’t care. Did the crucifix not burn you enough the last time I shoved it against your forehead?
17. Okay, good, we’re about to land. Which means that Drusilla in front of me will finally arise from the dead and return her seat to an upright position. Instead of the painful down-low position where she has basically been in my lap for most of the flight, forcing me to realign my internal organs just so I can breathe.
18. And, of course, despite the 27 desperate pleas from the voice on the intercom that everyone should re-fasten their seatbelts, there are at least 26 people who still don’t understand what that means and they have to be given personal instruction from a flight attendant whose eyes are bulging and twitching.
19. Those same 26 people will leap out of their seats before we get to the gate and begin rummaging around in the overhead bins, shoving their annoying crotches into the faces of the decent, law-abiding people who have done nothing wrong the entire flight except mistakenly assume that their fellow man can behave himself in public.
20. We finally do get to the gate, and thus begins the mind-numbing quest for freedom as the entire plane is held hostage by the yokel who refuses to get out of the aisle as he tries to remember which overhead bin holds the case of beer that he apparently can’t live without.
Maybe those people in First Class have the right idea after all. Geez.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Click Here to read the previous entry in this series…
Tiffany. Dangling. And her thoughts whilst awaiting rescue from the midpoint of a zip line.
Well, isn’t this just great. I knew right at the very second that I agreed to go on this little adventure that I wasn’t gonna be happy before the deed was done. Too many things can go wrong when you defy nature and try to participate in sports that mess around with gravity. But did I listen to myself? Of course not. Everybody else was so psyched about doing something new and different that I didn’t want to be the Nellie Oleson of the group and I acted like it was the best idea ever.
Note to self: Stop agreeing to anything after alcoholic beverages have been introduced into the conversation. We should know this by now.
Now, personal paths to enlightenment aside, what the hell am I supposed to do at this point? I have one hand trapped in a device probably designed by Satan himself, the other hand is clutching my little lifeline with an intensity that would make Charles Manson refuse to come out of his cell, and my ass is swaying in the breeze like some jacked-up tropical flower that Etta James would sing about after her man done her wrong once again.
I really don’t have any prior life experiences that can compare to this. And momma certainly never told me there’d be days like this. I missed a memo somewhere.
And what’s up with the Happy Men? Why aren’t they doing anything to make this situation go away? I don’t know what the people behind me are doing, because I can’t turn around, but I do believe I hear someone giggling, and that person will suffer immensely once I get back to solid ground. But the people in front of me? They’re just staring at me like this has never happened before in the history of Earth.
I hate them. Just because they can see me. Can they not figure out that I have an issue here? I’m stuck, people. Not moving. Why are you just standing there? Are you waiting for me to pull out a Hogwarts wand and mutter some type of Momentum Spell? I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen. Me pull out a gun and shoot all witnesses of this incident? Well, that’s still on the table.
Oh, wait. The Happy Man at the receiving end has had some type of inspiration and is now barking into a walkie-talkie. This development might have some promise. Then again, he might just be ordering pizza. I have no idea. I can’t lip read when a harness strap is separating my butt cheeks and my arm is frozen skyward. A little bit hard to focus.
Okay, now Forward Happy Man has turned off his little transponder and is reaching up for the main line, throwing his legs upward and scooting my way. This is probably a positive sign, although I must admit that on the other zip run where I had to be rescued by an unknown man’s legs, I really didn’t know what was coming. I was just hanging there, and then I suddenly had thighs clutching my waist. Nobody even bought me a drink, it happened that fast. There really should be a brochure that would let a girl know what to expect. Just sayin.
But this is a really long run, and it’s going to take Spider Man a while to make his way over here. I’m not really impressed with that angle, but it’s not like I have a lot of choice. I just have to remain calm and wait for the conjugal visit. But I’m not calm. How could I be? I’m blowing in the wind at least 200 feet above a patch of ground that looks very rocky and unsatisfactory. I am not going to be pretty if I end up down there.
Okay, wait. I just need to breathe and quit getting all neurotic about this, even if that’s the way I was raised, in a small Missouri town where they don’t have malfunctioning zip lines that test a person’s sanity. Surely this will all be over in mere minutes, and my momentary shame and degradation will become something that we never speak of again. Besides, my lip gloss is stunning, I checked it just before I plunged off the Platform of Death. Even when I screamed in total fear, I remained moist and dewy.
But what’s taking Spider Man so long? He doesn’t seem to be really invested in the rescue operation. He sure looks like he’s taking his time, waving to all the paparazzi hiding in the trees, those pesky photographers that are constantly following me around and trying to catch me in an unglamorous pose. Thank God that rarely happens, with my natural beauty forcefully overcoming things like poor lighting and cheap cameras.
Hold up, Spidey just came to a halt, hanging there in a very immobile way. He’s yelling something over his head at one of the other Happy Men. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but he’s uttering far too many words for this to be a conversation about how successful my rescue mission is going. The other Happy Man just leapt off the side of the landing platform and went running into the jungle. Spider Man is still just parked there and continuing to not save me.
Oh dear God, what if they have decided that the risk of preventing my potential plummet is not worth the gain of my triumphant return to non-airborne society? (Yes, I realize that the concept of someone not wanting to save incomparable me is shocking and unbelievable, but these tragedies can happen when people are raised on remote islands and possibly even home-schooled.) What if they simply leave me hanging here?
The horror. And the rudeness.
Hours later, as twilight deepens and caresses the lush tropical foliage that some very-convincing set designer has placed around me, I will still be hanging here, gently swaying. I imagine that I will be quite parched at that point, with things drying out despite my wearing of lip gloss that has such an astounding moisture content that global scientists are studying how my lips could possibly be used to convert the Gobi Desert into a water park.
Suddenly, my dryness is interrupted by the sound of a snapping twig. Why I can hear this snappage is unclear, what with me being miles in the air and nowhere near small branches that have been carelessly tossed to the ground, but hear it I do. I shake my head to clear away the remnants of a pleasant daydream wherein the world was mourning my possible loss in the jungles of Jamaica, and I try to take stock of my surroundings.
The first thing my incredibly sharp and perceptive mind notices is that when it gets dark in this jungle, visibility should no longer be a featured selling point in the entertainment brochures for this place. Despite my squinting and my adjusting the angle of my head several times to make sure my flowing locks were flowing in the most photographic manner as I studied the landscape, I really couldn’t see anything.
Well, except for the fact that the landing platform off yonder was completely devoid of humanity. Everyone was gone. This irked me greatly. I could understand that the workers had gone home, because they were probably in a union and had to adhere to strict shift-duration guidelines. (Despite the rumors printed in that trashy tabloid, I really do understand things like workers’ rights and maintaining a respectful work environment. Except when such things result in me not being able to order a cocktail at the precise moment that I want one.)
No, the truly troublesome aspect of the lack of people around me at the present time was that my so-called friends had hopped on the “oh, she’ll be fine hanging there for a while” bus and headed for another locale where they could continue to not care about people they supposedly loved. That was the angle that was getting under my skin, the relative ease with which they abandoned me.
And after all I’ve done for them through the years. Do they not understand how much work it is being this glamorous and beautiful all the time? Okay, perhaps “work” is not quite the right word, because glamour and beauty are actually in my DNA, and all I really have to do is walk into a room and both of those things shoot out of my various orifices with relative ease. But still, I have walked into countless rooms for these people. Countless!
Yet at the first tiniest sign of trouble, like my possible death over a nameless gorge in a stupid jungle where they clearly don’t even have adequate room service, my little friends go running off for any destination that doesn’t require them to assist me in any way. Really? Apparently it’s just too much to ask for them to lift a finger and prevent me from tumbling on to that goat down there. They are so not getting invited to any social engagements I might produce in the near future.
Wait a minute. Goat? Why is there a goat standing below me and apparently nibbling on something tasty he has discovered growing on the ground? This has completely ruined my narrative, this sudden introduction of unexpectedness. I mean, I realize that goats are things that could potentially appear at random, but they are not high on my awareness list. If a reporter had interviewed me earlier this morning and had asked “If you were near death, what form of livestock do you think would appear?”, I’m fairly certain that my response would not have been “Why, a goat, of course. Who doesn’t dream of that?”.
But now we had a goat, nevertheless. And he was the only one who had bothered to stay by my side during a moment of personal tragedy. (We won’t discuss the fact that he was clearly more focused on rooting at that weed than getting me down off this zip-line, but at least he hadn’t dashed off with the others in search of libations and unconcern about people trapped on mid-air conveyances.) He was my only hope of salvation at the moment, and I had best engage him in some friendly conversation.
“Hey, goat,” said I.
The goat responded with no response, still rooting.
Well, then. This was proving more difficult than I had envisioned, and I was already bored and tired. But I didn’t become world-famous by giving up easily.
“Hey, goat,” I repeated, more loudly, with a slight hint of authority in case he was one of those S&M goats one reads about, but not too much force in case he was one of those nonviolent goats that would eventually join Greenpeace. “Would you mind holding off on your dinner and looking up here for just a smidge of a second?”
The goat snorted, then suddenly raised his head and began looking everywhere around him except skywards.
Great. I was dealing with more home-schooling. “Up here,” I clarified.
Amazingly, the goat’s head tilted a bit and his eyes looked directly into mine. He belched slightly, perhaps in surprise or perhaps in greeting.
Bingo. “Hi, there. Do you happen to know anybody that can get my ass off of this thing?”
The goat just stared. I’m guessing he normally didn’t encounter requests such as mine in his daily routine of foraging for food and making irksome noises.
I tried to spell I it out. “I’m stuck. I was just trying to do a fly-over of your little homestead, something didn’t work right, and now everybody has gone home to watch the premiere of True Blood.”
The goat blinked.
“Could you maybe help me out?”
The goat opened his mouth. “I’m going to wrap my legs around you again.”
What the hell?
“M’am, are you okay? I need to wrap my legs around you again so I can pull you to the platform.”
I opened my eyes.
The mid-day sun was still shining brightly, dappling the greenery all around me. In the distance, I could see the landing platform, with some of my friends standing there anxiously, eyes worried but hopeful. Behind me, I could hear the rest of my friends shouting words of encouragement and eventual safety. Directly in front me, mere inches away, I spied a man on his back with his legs spread wide.
I certainly recognized that particular stance. “Hello,” I said. “Nice to see you again. I guess I must have drifted off.”
He brushed this away. “That’s okay. Happens all the time.”
People fall asleep on a zip-line? Regularly?
“Are you ready for me to grab you with my legs?”
I smiled brightly. “I sure am. But could we do a little something first?”
I wiggled the one arm that was still rigidly held in place over my head, the tips of my glove fingers locked into the pulley mechanism on the line. “Can we get my hand out of this damn thing? If we’re going to have trapeze-like sex again, it’s only polite of me to have both hands available.”
Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series…
Friday, June 22, 2012
1. The neighbor who insists on mowing the lawn at 7am gets to live another week.
2. That fool on the conference calls at work will not have to suffer through me making sarcastic comments when I’m “pretending” that I’m on mute.
3. I will be unable to pay any bills and not mailing any envelopes, thereby doing my small part to save the rainforests.
4. The cashier at the local supermarket will get to enjoy her gum-smacking without me glaring at her like Satan has spawned once again.
5. I will not have access to Facebook, and therefore will not be making any slightly-drunken posts at 2am that confuse and/or offend people with my pointless rants that I end up deleting in the morning.
6. My blood pressure will not sky-rocket every time some idiot from a certain political party runs a campaign ad that is full of hateful crap and then waves an American flag like that somehow justifies being more ignorant than the entire cast of “Jersey Shore”.
7. I will actually have a real excuse for not making any blog posts, instead of lame reasons like “they’re showing a rerun of 2 Broke Girls and I have to watch it” or “we ran out of blackberry pie ice cream and I don’t have any real artistic motivation at the moment”.
8. Phone marketers will be unable to reach me and terrify me with products and services that any normal person would never need.
9. I will not be driving a vehicle and therefore will not have to blaspheme the crazed occupants of nearby cars who clearly have no common sense or a will to live.
10. I will not have to walk the agonizing 30 feet to the back alley in order to throw trash away. Mysterious, unseen people will do that for me.
11. I’m assuming that I won’t have to worry about underwear. This may be the most exciting experience in my entire life.
12. I don’t have to be nice to people that I don’t like, because I will never see them again or have to depend on them for pay raises or court settlements in my favor.
13. I will miss an episode of “True Blood”, and therefore I will have TWO HOURS of fresh material to watch when I get back. The mere anticipation of such an event is almost better than sex.
14. I have 80 unread books on my Kindle. And the resort has hammocks you can lounge in by the seashore. The sheer enjoyment of such an opportunity that will be radiating out of my body will surely be enough positive energy to inspire the citizens of war-torn countries to rise against and topple their evil dictators, thus becoming free nations where everyone is happy. Or maybe not. I’m still going to be in a hammock, reading books. We’ll see what happens.
15. Anytime you go to a resort where the alcohol is all-inclusive, good things are bound to happen….
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Click Here to read the previous entry in this series…
After the flurry of activity in the “comfort stations” of Camp Dangle-Ass, wherein everyone had suddenly decided that it might be a good idea to have a quick tinkle before we were hurled across a clothesline, we re-grouped outside the main building for further instruction from the headmistress. This instruction basically consisted of the words: Go over there and get ready.
“There” turned out to be a cute little gazebo thing, within which some young gentlemen were smiling welcomingly and waiting for us to hurry up and come be processed for flight. We trudged over there, smiling as well, because even the dimmest members of our entourage realized that one should probably be nice to people who were responsible for keeping us alive during the morning’s festivities.
One of the fellows then launched into a riveting oratory about how one should pay careful attention to a variety of safety tips, which he expounded upon with practiced ease, smiling the entire time. Do this. Don’t do this. Under no circumstances should you ever consider doing this. And whatnot. We tried to pay attention, we really did. But seriously, we had been drinking on a boat for three days solid, and concentration was simply not our best quality right at that moment.
Anyway, Happy Man finished up with all that mess, and we proceeded to the Donning of Our Gear ritual. Interestingly enough, the young men spent a considerable amount of time personally strapping-in all the women, gently adjusting harnesses and assuring that things did not bind or chafe. When it came time for my own transition into bondage couture, one of the men disinterestedly shoved gear in my direction and quickly went back to the near-fondling of the females. Fine.
Eventually everyone was properly trussed, and we were then given marching orders to clamor aboard this vehicle contraption that looked like it had been welded together from parts that had washed ashore during a hurricane in 1967. The Happy Men clamored as well, and soon we were lurching and grinding along a “road” composed of alternating boulders and tar pits. Luckily, we were already wearing our little helmets, so the number of concussions caused by heads hitting metal ceilings was minimal.
The mutant vehicle labored upwards until we finally reached a clearing that appeared to be of some importance, and one of the Happy Men hollered for us to disembark and reform near a quaint tree. Once assembled, another Happy Man re-advised us of how to best remain alive during our journey. He seemed especially focused on one particular survival technique.
If you find yourself going too fast on the zip line, you can break your speed by reaching up and caressing the line with your gloved hand. Do not grab it with the intensity of a hooker trying to finish off a client. Gentle pressure. And do NOT grab the line directly above your head. That’s where the pulley thing is. You get your hand near that and unsatisfactory things can happen. Reach your hand behind you and grab the line there. Got it?
Of course we nodded our heads. He had told us 714 safety tips. If we could remember 5 or 6 of them, surely we were golden. Off we trotted to the first launch site.
And Leap Number One did not appear all that intimidating. It was just a short run over a little gulch. We could see the ending platform just a bit away. We could almost reach out and touch it. If we weren’t wearing so much gear that simply scratching at a mosquito bite could cause you to rupture a disc. And the line wasn’t that high off the ground. If you fell, you would probably survive. Probably.
Now, the way one initiates a zip-trip, at least in the lovely compound where we were currently located, is that one steps forth, has his personal line clipped to the Big Daddy line by a Happy Man, and then one races to the end of a short deck and flings oneself out into space, lifting their legs straight out in front of them for stability and some type of aerodynamic factor that makes things more productive.
It was the flinging bit that had me a little concerned. I didn’t know if I had quite enough exuberance within me to willingly leap asunder like a virgin into a volcano, fully confident that it was something I simply must do in order for my tribe to have a good crop season. But in reality, it wasn’t bad. I took the plunge, didn’t immediately die as anticipated, enjoyed whizzing through the air, and was actually a little disappointed that it was such a short ride. Hurray! I think I can handle this.
Everyone else in our traveling band of slightly hung-over adventurers managed the traverse as well. We were all jazzed at this point. Of course, the zip-line people knew exactly what they were doing. You have to start out with a baby run. If the first zip had been one of the mammoth, jaw-dropping runs that were coming up later in the trek, there would have been a mutiny, the taking of hostages, and possibly a military coup. Break it to me gently.
Victorious, we traipsed our way to the next run, endorphins or adrenaline or some type of body chemical causing us to be slightly out of our minds with confidence. And at this next station, we encountered some reality checks that maybe this whole funfest wasn’t going to be as easy as we were now anticipating. Exciting still, yes, but also making it clear that there could be humiliation points to endure as well.
Some of the folks did not make it all the way across on the second zip. This one was much longer than the first bunny slope, so you had to pay a little bit more attention to what you were doing. Not that it truly mattered what you did, it was all a question of gravity and velocity and timing. Yes, there were probably some little adjustments the hurtling people could have done to make their journey more award-worthy, but we sure as hell didn’t know what those adjustments might be. It was our first time at the rodeo, Joan.
Anyway. Let’s analyze how the Happy Men responded to two of the “oops, not quite” people. First we have Terry, who ran out of momentum just a bit shy of the landing deck. Those of us who had made it across all gasped, not knowing if this meant he had to go home now or what. (We didn’t know the rules.) One of the Happy Men bellowed for him to reach ahead of him and grab the main line, then pull himself hand over hand to the docking station.
We gasped again. Physical labor was part of the package? Wasn’t there a button somebody could push that would adjust the clothesline and whisk Terry to the proper unloading zone? Apparently not. Terry the trooper sighed, discreetly cursed the physical laws of inertia, and hauled his ass to safety with relative ease. The Happy Man released him from his shackles, and we turned our eyes to review the plight of the next airborne tourist.
Which turned out to be Tiffany. She came sailing in, graceful as always, bits of glitter trailing behind her and a unicorn running through the valley below. Then she slammed to a halt in the same spot as Terry. Uh oh. And this is where the previously-noted guest-preference of our Jamaican guides kicked in once more.
The Receiving Happy Man immediately grabbed the main line and skittered his way out to Tiffany, where he impressively proceeded to wrap his muscular legs around Tiffany’s body.
We all gasped again. And several of the women ripped palm fronds from nearby trees and began to fan themselves, recalling imagery from erotic Victorian novels they had read and instantly increasing the humidity of the local climate by several degrees. Nobody had expected that. Had we missed an “adults only” disclaimer in the brochure for this excursion?
Happy Man and Tiffany conversed briefly (were they exchanging phone numbers?) and then Happy Man used his hands to pull on the main line while he used his legs to transport Tiffany. They eventually got to the landing platform where Tiffany was unshackled and she was allowed to join our little crew standing to the side, palm fronds still rapidly waving in the tropical heat.
I didn’t know if I should console her or congratulate her. Very confusing. And we never saw the unicorn again, so it was very clear that boundaries may have been crossed.
Onward we marched, traipsing through the jungle and spanning gaps with nothing but wind beneath our wings. I will say that the general comfort level increased with each station. There were still some heart palpitations, because the zip lines were becoming longer and the heights further from the ground, but it was getting easier for folks to throw abandon to the wind and their asses off the platforms.
Then we had another eye-opening experience.
This was somewhere in the middle of our quest. Maybe station 5 or 6? It was at some point where we had started zipping to little platforms high up on very-tall trees. (Picture those little Ewok villages in Star Wars, something like that. But without the cute furry animals.) We were on a circular landing, and next up we had a rather lengthy run to another possible Ewok homestead.
The first few folks had already done their thing and were presumably safe. (The ending platforms were now getting far enough away that you really didn’t know the fate of the first pioneers until you made it to that other platform.) Because the length was longer, the speed was also greater. The pioneers had shot out of sight fairly quickly, in a slightly unsettling but still intriguing manner.
Next up was Tiffany, she of the unicorn following. She professionally raced to the end of the platform and launched herself with admirable skill. We applauded appropriately, but then our clapping began to taper off. Tiffany was hurtling along at a speed that may have been appreciated at Cape Canaveral but perhaps wasn’t something that should be happening in the jungle.
Tiffany, remembering her Happy Training by the Happy Men in the Happy Gazebo, reached upward to slow her pace by grasping the main line. What she did not remember was the exact placement of her hand, as advised by the Happy Men. She was reaching straight upwards and not behind her.
“Oh my God,” squealed one of the women in our entourage, still clutching a well-worn palm frond from the heat of the leg-sex incident. (I have no idea what her name was. And since this was the only time this woman actually spoke during the whole adventure, her name is probably not important.) But her assessment was dead on. “She’s going to get her hand caught in that thing!”
And yep, Tiffany’s gloved hand encountered a menacing mechanism it was not meant to meet, and one of the glove fingers was sucked into the maw of said contraption. Things changed dramatically at that point. We could hear the unsavory results of this meeting all the way back at the launching pad.
Wheeeeeeeeeee! Click click click…. click click… click. cli. ck.
Tiffany stopped moving completely. Now she was suspended in the middle of a very long span. Nothing above her but one arm trapped in an evil device that apparently relished hand garments, nothing below her but hundreds of feet of non-supportive air, and absolutely no unicorns at ground level to cushion her possible fall.
We had us a bit of a pickle at this point.
Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series…
Monday, June 18, 2012
1. Well, look at that. Tara arose from the dead all jacked up. Like we didn’t know this was going to happen. And Pam is completely unconcerned about what one should do with a jacked-up Tara, racing off into the night and presumably finding something to wear that doesn’t have butterflies on it. Again, no surprise. But the fact that newborn Tara can balance in the kitchen sink without falling off the counter? Didn’t see that coming.
2. Arlene is still standing by her man Terry, even though he has a tendency to wake her up in the middle of the night wearing an undershirt that accents his oddly-stimulated nipples and possibly trying to kill her. Screw that Tammy Wynette thing, I would SO be on Oprah at this point.
3. The Authority apparently has a huge complex hidden under a strange, abandoned warehouse that looks like a French consulate. (No explanation is given about the confusing architectural style.) This lovely resort also has some seriously-vindictive tanning beds.
4. Alcide is completely not interested in being the new wolf-pack leader. Marcus’ mother (do we even know her name?) is not interested in Alcide’s non-interest, insisting that Alcide is the new pack leader, despite Alcide having gained ownership of his new title by killing Marcus. (Is Alcide a Republican?)
5. Sam and Luna have no interest in who is the leader of what, they just want to go home and see what might have recorded on the DVR. Once there, they instead get into a shout-fest over who has behaved more appropriately in life. Luna gets a little pushy, Sam stomps out, and little Emma lies in her bed and wonders if she will grow up to be a wolf or a shape-shifter. Apparently career opportunities are limited in Bon Temps.
6. Some teen boy tromps into the police station and tries to get all whup-ass on Jason for having slept with his mother. Boy says his mother’s name is Sharon. Jason is confused. He’s slept with at least 47 Sharons just since the last episode.
7. That former pastor leader of the “Church of the Blinding Sun” or whatever it was is still pining for Jason. He goes on national TV to proclaim that he is now a vampire, but lies about the fact that he’s lusting for some man-man bang-bang. Because it’s okay for Christian leaders to fess up to being something that can kill you, but not to being someone who can love regardless of gender. Sound familiar?
8. Jason (still simple) tracks down Hoyt (still overly bitter) at his Momma’s house (Maxine, still wearing far too much makeup and yet another muumuu), and tries to get Hoyt to be his friend again. Hoyt, while fiddling with some plumbing under his Momma’s sink (can you say “symbolism”, because who doesn’t want Jason?) refuses the friendship offer and says the F-word a lot because you can do that on the premium channels AND it offends his mother. Double win.
9. As Jason leaves, Momma Maxine whispers to Jason that she’s gonna bake him a pie for having slept with that red-haired slut, thereby making Hoyt stopping sleeping with sluts, at least temporarily. (Personally, I’m not sure I’m willing to do things with sluts if all you get is a baked good out of it, but I’ve never tasted Maxine’s handiwork so I might be missing out on something.)
10. Sheriff Andy (while on some obscure subplot thing with Jason) discovers a vial of V in an abandoned car and does not immediately drink it. This is probably the wisest decision in the entire episode.
11. Jessica, having yet another pointless frat party at the house that is not really hers, is somewhat surprised when Reverend Sunshine shows up and wants to party. As often happens when religious figures appear at places where a keg is being hoisted, the evening’s agenda is radically altered and Jessica eventually makes the boring college people leave. Hallelujah.
12. Bill, Eric and New Sister-Chick Nora all get tortured by various members of The Authority, trying to get them to pledge allegiance to some weird-ass bible based on some ye olde woman named Lilith. Previously, I only thought people named Lilith were responsible for Fairs that Sarah MacLachlan actually organized or appeared on TV sitcoms with Kelsey Grammar. I didn’t know of this other back-story. I might have to do an Internet search later.
13. Speaking of back-stories, we get flashes of Pam in San Francisco, 1905, where she is apparently the mistress in a bordello where they also serve fresh seafood. Pam and the Pam-ettes are just trying to sell their womanly bits for fair-market value when some fool tries to accost Pam after she decides to primly walk down the street after midnight. Lo and behold, Eric whisks in to save the day and erotically suck blood from his fingers, thus establishing the Eric/Pam dynamic that we know and love.
14. Speaking of The Authority, Christopher Meloni finally shows up (we knew he was coming, people have been blogging about it for months and hoping that he shows as much dangly as he did in “Oz”) as some Very Important Person who yells a lot and likes to zip from one end of the room to the other in a very fast manner. He’s on the verge of giving Bill and Eric the True and Ultimate Deathly Death to the two miscreants for past bad behavior. And he yells a lot.
15. Bill and Eric, not overly fond of the concept of really and truly dying, offer to track down Russell Edgington, the annoying and psychotic super-vamp that The Authority thought was dead but really isn’t. (I think this clearly undermines the authority of The Authority if they can’t keep track of who is really dead and who is just un-dead, but I guess we don’t need to go there.)
16. The Authority Board of Directors (which includes a bratty little child of no worth and a guy who looks like the guy who played Candyman in those movies back in the day) decide that maybe finding Russell is the better option at this point, since he’s crazy and all and likes to rip spines out of people on national television. Fine. Bill and Eric have roughly 17 minutes to find the Russell wretch.
17. Christopher Meloni still hasn’t taken his clothes off at this point, so I guess he hasn’t heard that just about everybody in the cast had to do that in the last episode.
18. Tara, who spends most of the episode running around Sookie’s house and breaking fine china, finally calms down a bit and let’s Sookie and Lafayette know that she can actually do more than vandalize and grunt. “I will never forgive either of you.” Then she races off into the night and presumably goes where bitter people who have been turned into vampires against their will tend to go. (I wonder if I’ll see her tomorrow at work?)
19. Nipple-showing, probably mentally-unstable Terry and his new little sidekick, Patrick (otherwise known as “he who just showed up even though we have no idea what’s going on with that”) have a couple of verbal and physical fights where Arelene gets to scream and clutch at her hair before bitching both of them out, decide that their lives will be better if they go find someone named “Heller”. Personally, I’m thinking if someone has that kind of name, I probably don’t want to find them.
20. We end the festivities by visiting yet another abandoned warehouse that really isn’t one (apparently they have a lot of those things around here) where we see a badly-damaged but still alive Russell Edgington. And he doesn’t look none too happy about that business of being forced to be part of the foundation for a parking garage. Uh oh.
Friday, June 15, 2012
1. Saying “excuse me” when you sneeze, even though no one else is in the room.
That’s very polite of you. It’s also slightly schizophrenic. But that’s okay. As long as you keep the habit going, you’ll be sure to apologize at more appropriate moments, like when you suddenly let loose with a surprise rip-snorter at Sunday church service, blowing the pretty little hats off of three elderly women sitting in front of you, making them think the Dust Bowl has returned.
2. Saying “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that” when you didn’t understand what someone just said.
Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything wrong, they did, since they obviously didn’t say whatever it was very clearly or there wouldn’t have been an issue. Perhaps we should change the phrase to “speak LOUDER and look at me when you say that, Mumbledore.”
3. Reading all of the credits at the end of a movie.
Do you really need to know the names of all the stunt people? Or which catering service provided the caviar and nibbly bits so that Brad and Angelina would have enough protein to continue looking effortlessly beautiful as they saved the world from lower-billing actors who yelled a lot and did mean things?
4. Lifting your legs when you drive over railroad tracks.
Or touching metal somewhere in the car. Or pulling on your ear lobe. This is the residue from childhood games that parents invented to keep you occupied and quiet. It really doesn’t improve your life in any way.
5. Walking on your tippy-toes when get out of the shower and head toward the bigger bathmat in front of the sink.
The floor is going to get just as wet no matter what, it’s the same amount of water dripping off your body. Only people who have appeared in “The Nutcracker” need to be walking like that.
6. As you prepare to make a right turn onto a side street, you swing your car out into the left lane so you can make this really special, wide-ass maneuver that will guarantee a successful mission.
You really don’t need to do that. Your car was designed to make this kind of turn without you ending up in a ditch. It’s unnecessary. It also completely annoys the people who were peacefully driving in that left lane and minding their own business, when suddenly they have to slam on their brakes because your car is moving in the opposite direction of your turn signal. Assuming you even used one of those things.
7. You set the house alarm, walk five feet to the back door, then have a small paranoia attack and race back to the alarm to make sure you set it correctly.
And of course you did set it right. You always do, because it’s not complicated and you do it every day. But you know that if you don’t double check it, you will worry about it all the way to work and then be completely unproductive the rest of the day.
8. You try to put on socks while standing up, something goes terribly wrong with your balance, and you end up crashing into a piece of furniture that was just innocently sitting there and waiting for you to dust it.
And you knew it was going to happen, but you thought you could pull it off anyway. Sadly, you’re not 17 and limber anymore. Now you actually have to take a small break and rest between socks. Maybe even lay on the bed and watch another episode of “House Hunters International” before you attend to the other foot.
9. You give your cat an “official” name, but then never actually use that name again.
Instead, the cat must suffer through an endless string of evolving nicknames that are somehow related but still don’t make any sense, consisting of made-up words and repeated syllables that sound cute. The poor furry thing should probably be in therapy for some type of identity neurosis, but that type of coverage isn’t included in the Kitty Medical Plan. Just give little Bo-Bo Snookie Jumper something shiny to play with and things will be fine.
10. You take a tiny, unimportant incident and turn it into a torrid melodrama of pain and betrayal. At least in your head.
So you find this strange pencil on your partner’s desk in your shared home office. Your partner doesn’t use pencils, what’s up with that? And it’s been sharpened recently, a sure sign that someone is up to no good. And there’s a faint, possible perfume/cologne smell wafting from the evil wood. It doesn’t smell like anything your partner wears. This pencil belongs to somebody else!
What has been going on behind your back? Is it an affair? Oh my God! Your mind races as you mentally run through all of your friends and acquaintances, trying to determine which of them has a fondness for stick-like things with graphite in the middle and is also a slut. Who has been lying to you when? Which skanky ho has been smiling sweetly at you during happy hour at The Regal Beagle, and then running off to recreate scenes from “The Postman Always Rings Twice” with your formerly-beloved partner who is apparently not the person you thought you knew? You stagger to the liquor cabinet and guzzle everything, because it feels important to do that right at the moment.
Two weeks later, after you’ve written to Dr. Phil, Oprah and Ellen, and even anonymously posted questions on some blog named “How To Seek Proper Revenge on Those Who Have Disappointed You In Life”, the phone rings. You set aside your latest bottle of gin, belch, and pick up the receiver. It’s your mother. Always the penny-pincher, she’s wondering if she left her favorite pencil at your house the other day. You know, the day when she and your partner got together to sketch out plans for your surprise anniversary party next weekend?
Uh oh. You might want to call that lawyer back and have him tear up a few freshly-signed documents…
Thursday, June 14, 2012
1. That antique malls even exist.
Where did these things even come from? Back in the day, when people got together and tried to sell used stuff, it was called a flea market. People set up little tables where they could pile a bunch of dusty things that you could walk by and touch even though you had no intention of actually buying anything. Now we have these “malls” that are not actually malls like you would imagine (with food courts and teenage girls giggling in packs) but really just abandoned stores that have been converted. You spend half your time walking around and going “hey, didn’t this used to be a K-Mart?”
2. The concept of “antique” is no longer what you think.
If you believe that an antique is something very old that perhaps Eleanor Roosevelt played with or kept her clothes in as a youngster, then you clearly haven’t been going to the right parties lately. The door has been thrown open and now apparently anything qualifies as an antique, from cassette-tape players to Bill Clinton bumper stickers. Oh, and those homemade candle-jar things that are in nearly every other booth? You know, the candles that are still warm because they apparently just poured them as you were pulling into the parking lot. I guess “antique” now means “older than the last time you blinked”.
3. People will hoard and then try to sell the most amazing things.
It’s odd enough that you have the final season of “Full House” on old-school VHS. But the fact that you have somehow managed to acquire 36 copies of that mess? That takes it to a whole new level. Did they even make that many official copies in the entire world? I’m guessing several of these must be boot-legged, meaning somebody thought they could make an illicit buck or two by making cheap copies of a once-beloved TV series that had jumped the shark by introducing another set of twins, which is a really sad reflection on our society.
4. Some people have a different sense of social etiquette in these places.
You will inevitably run into a couple of people who have rarely left the barn wherein they were raised, probably right after you make an ill-advised detour down a less-popular row in the hopes of avoiding the crowds in the prestigious sections. There will be at least two of them, probably more, because these folks run in slow-moving packs. They will be blocking the entire aisle and you cannot get past them, even if you clear your throat, bark “Excuse me!” several times, and fire a warning shot into the air.
Making matters worse, they will be admiring and discussing some piece of crap with little value, like those odd floppy hats that were all the rage at one time, made by bored people who crocheted pieces of beer cans together despite the clear lack of need for such a thing in anyone’s life. Why are they even needing to review this item? They obviously already own the whole set.
5. Questionable social etiquette, Part II.
Apparently a shared fondness for faded but nostalgic collectibles is all it takes for some folks to transition from complete strangers to best of friends in an alarmingly short period of time. You can be innocently strolling down an overstuffed row of booths, minding your own business, and your eyes just happen to linger for two seconds on a bottle opener featuring the likeness of Velma from “Scooby Doo”. Next thing you know, some woman with very questionable shoes is by your side, her eyes aglow with rapture.
“Don’t you just love Velma? She’s my favorite!”
My response in my head: Um, Velma’s kind of cool, in that “obvious lesbian before lesbians were obvious” sort of way. Are you coming out to me? My actual verbal response: “Well, I always appreciate smart cartoon women with a fondness for high-necked sweaters.” I say this hoping she will be offended in some way and leave me alone.
“I do too!” squeals Bad-Shoe Woman, crushing my dreams of escape. “Let’s go have some coffee and talk all about her!”
Me, eying the nearby fire alarm pull-thing on a wall, and wondering just exactly how much trouble you can get in for pulling that: “You know, that sounds like a lot of fun, but I need to go have some elective surgery right about now. Have a nice day!”
6. The 1970’s were a very messed-up time period.
Why were people so invested in plaid clothing, things involving black velvet, polyester, record album covers that didn’t make any sense, macramé plant hangers, and hairstyles that were apparent tributes to creatures that did not exist in any other decade? I realize that everybody was on drugs at the time. But seriously, those ten years were just wrong from a design perspective.
7. There are no sales people anywhere to be found.
Granted, I’m normally not a fan of people who race up and ask me intrusive questions about how they can satisfy my merchandising needs. I’d rather they just stay away and let me peruse at my leisure. But these places are ghost towns. The little booths apparently have been designed and stocked by people that have since vanished from the planet. Perhaps there was a target-specific virus that only affects people who opened dusty boxes in their great-grandma’s basement.
8. The absence of booth owners means you have to talk to women that don’t care.
So if you have a question about some rusty object that appeals to you in some way, you have to approach the lone employee in the entire building: the Dominatrix in charge of the check-out counter. She is not interested in any type of vocal research you might want to conduct. She is only concerned about the little number-coded tag hanging off the dented candelabra that you relish, so she can credit the proper absent vendor, collect her minimum wage, and then go drink somewhere in a bar where people ask fewer questions.
9. Even if the amazingly-detailed, free-standing art deco wardrobe cabinet that you encounter is the most stunning thing that you have ever seen, if you can’t open the door easily, there’s an issue.
Seriously. You shouldn’t have to break a sweat getting into this thing. If it doesn’t open right, that’s probably why somebody doesn’t want it anymore. Just move on. Let the Velma lesbian that has been stalking you have it. She’s apparently used to closet doors that she can’t get open.
10. The mixed aroma of the 4,000 handmade candle jars will stay with you for eternity.
You can run. But you can’t hide. It’s a lingering, syrupy sweet nightmare that will have you screaming yourself awake at 2AM in the morning. Especially if you bought the last VHS copy of the final season of “Full House”…
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
1. How many times is poor Sookie gonna have to mop up blood from Gram’s kitchen floor? That sure is some durable linoleum.
2. How is it that no matter what is going on in town, people still pile into Merlotte’s for a grease-dripping burger and fries? And how does that place manage to stay open when most of the employees don’t even show up for work because they’re too busy dealing with supernatural crap in graveyards?
3. Sookie and Lafayette think it’s a good idea for Pam to turn the shotgun-jacked Tara into a vampire? On what planet? You know Tara is not going to take kindly to this suggestion.
4. I’m thinking that Eric has watched “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” too many times and has gotten confused about proper relationships with siblings.
5. If you encountered Jason standing all naked like that at his front door, of course you’re going to glamour him to get in the house.
6. The concept of a mega-church pastor finally giving in and acting on his previously-hidden desires to share the gospel, so to speak, with a same-sex former member of his holy flock. That never happens, right?
7. The bit with Pam commenting on being forced to wear a butterfly-and-kitty-enhanced sweatshirt from Wal-Mart? Priceless.
8. Hoyt just needs to suck it up and get over the Jessica and Jason thing. It’s Bon Temps. Just relax and wait a few episodes and eventually the script people will have you do something twisted that gives you some degree of validation.
9. Jessica needs to stop participating in meaningless sub-plots where she invites all of her college friends over even though we’ve never met any of them and she’s never been to college. Honey, you’re the default Vampire Queen of Louisiana. Act like it.
10. Speaking of people we’ve never met, who are all these new members in Marcus’ wolf-pack? They sure weren’t around when he was having all those relationship issues with Crazy Debbie and impossibly-buff Alcide. But now that Marcus is dead, they’re all pissy and stalker-ish. (Side note: Let it be known that I have no desire to be in any type of organization where you feel compelled to eat your former leader when he dies. Not really my style.)
11. Anybody else notice that Sam purposely almost exposed his bacon while lying to the wolf-pack about having killed Marcus? This is what you get with American TV, the teasing without the delivery. In Europe, they would have spent a whole five minutes on the free-bird Sam Snake while beret-wearing poets chanted in the background and Catherine Deneuve drove by in a hearse.
12. Luna’s perky daughter Emma, with all that she’s already seen in her young life? That’s a hefty therapy bill waiting to happen.
13. Were they trying to set some type of nudity record with this episode? Hell, even Sheriff Andy made his own contribution to the two-moon junction effort. Not complaining, just wondering how the producers sold that angle during the initial script read-thru.
14. Now-dead Marcus had a mother who actually cared for him and his sorry excuse of a person? Yet she obviously didn’t care for proper grooming or reasonable couture. This might explain why Marcus was such an asshat.
15. Loving the somewhat-implied fact that Lafayette’s boyfriend Jesus is not actually gone. Everyone needs a little Jesus in their life, right? (And if he does show back up, I hope he got the memo about this season’s regulation about running around without clothing whenever possible.)
16. The Authority is not to be trusted. We sort of always knew this was the case, especially with that Nan chick always looking so severe and being overly bitchy. And with an Old Testament name like that for the shadowy organization, we shouldn’t have been surprised. (But I sure would like to get my hands on some of those nifty silver-mesh capture nets. They would come in handy during my next staff meeting at work.)
17. What is up with that marine-buddy dude of Terry’s? I may have missed something somewhere, but things are a little bit off with that mess. And Arlene doesn’t seem to quite trust him, and I gotta go with Arlene’s instincts even if she has a fondness for the over-use of foundation makeup and ending a scene by making her eyeballs bulge in frustration.
18. Does anybody have access to the Internet in this town? I’m thinking that might solve a lot of problems.
19. Whoopsie. Looks like Eric’s sister-slash-whatever-the-hell-she-is (preferred sex partner in metal storage bins?) didn’t quite have things covered, with The Authority rushing in and killing off all those bit actors who were hoping for a contract renewal this season. Never trust a quasi-sibling that we never heard about during the first four seasons.
20. And Tara pops out of the ground looking all crazy-eyed. Did you expect anything less?
Friday, June 8, 2012
1. Lady Gaga - “Shorn This Way”
2. Fun - “We Are Egg Foo Yung”
3. Roberta Flack - “Killing Me Softly With His Thong”
4. Gotye - “Somebody That I Used To Know Until Her Backing Vocals Annoyed Me (Why Are You Wailing Like That? Remix)”
5. Meatloaf - “Pair Of Dice By The Dashed Bud Light”
6. The Beatles - “Hey Dude (Take A Sad Bong And Make It Better)”
7. Maroon 5 - “Moves Like Jagger (Until That Odd Bit Where Christina Shows Up And Doesn’t Really Fit With The Rest Of The Song)”
8. The Knack - “Mice Are On Ya”
9. Rihanna - “Umbrella” (Ella Fitzgerald Tribute Mix)
10. Lady Antebellum - “Need You Later”
11. Beyonce - “Single Babies (Put A Diaper On It)”
12. Kelly Clarkson - “My Life Would Suck Without YouTube”
13. Katy Perry - “I Kissed A Girl For The Demographics”
14. Colbie Caillat - “Bubba Lee (Effervescent Hillbilly Mix)”
15. James Blunt - “You’re Beautiful Until The Drugs Wear Off”
16. Barbra Streisand - “The Way We Never Actually Were”
17. Rolling Stones - “Sympathy For The Deviled Eggs”
18. Dolly Parton - “I Will Always Love This Song Because I Made A Ton Of Money Off The Royalties”
19. Madonna - “Impress Yourself”
20. Van Morrison - “Brown Eyed Girl Is Not The Only Song I Ever Sang, People”
21. R.E.M. - “It’s The End Of The World And I Feel Really Special Because Nobody Can Sing All The Words To This Song Except Me”
22. Corey Hart - “Sunglasses At Night Are Essentially Pointless But Very Sexy”
23. Ricky Martin - “Livin La Vida Secreta”
24. Kesha - “We R Who We R (And We’re Too Lazy To Actually Spell Out All The Words)”
25. Adele - “Rumor Has It That No Matter What Station You Pick, One Of My Songs Will Be Playing”
Friday, June 1, 2012
Note: Many thanks to the fine folks who suggested phrases for this second edition…
1. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!”
Translation: “I am completely stunned by this unexpected turn in our conversation. And since I didn’t have an adequate response I decided to just say something about food.” This is a phrase one might utter after having just been told that your new beau, Thrash, is actually your long-lost half-brother, the secret result of a randy hayride during Homecoming twenty years ago.
2. “Bless your heart!”
Translation: “I am so glad that the horrible thing going on in your life right now is happening to you and not me. Maybe if you’d stay out of the honky-tonks and made it to church every once in a while this wouldn’t happen.” This is a phrase that Pearline would croon to Jezebella after hearing about the whoopsie with her half-brother. Then Pearline would hang up and call Lurlene to make sure that the rest of the town knew all about Jezebella’s poor decision-making and the dangers of Homecoming traditions.
3. “Like a duck on a Junebug.”
Translation: “Accomplishing a mission with great precision and speed, similar to a quacking bird using it’s beak to swallow up a tasty tidbit of gossip beetle.” This is the manner in which Lurlene would behave upon hearing the news about Jezebella, racing to spread the fresh gospel truth by calling all of her chatty girlfriends, thankful that her little town still had party lines and she wouldn’t have as many numbers to dial.
4. “I am just ILL!”
Translation: “Being in a state of extreme anger and frustration.” This is how Jezebella would feel when, after having barely hung up from Pearline, she steps out on the verandah to discover sorority sister Betty Dean standing there and holding out a hand-knit hankie, since Betty Dean has already heard the shocking details of Jezebella’s jack-up from her cousin Betty Bean who heard it from her daughter Butter Bean who just happened to work for the local paper and they were already printing the story, two minutes after Pearline first got on the horn.
5. “Pay no never mind.”
Translation: “Disregard the previous transaction.” These are the soothing words that Betty Dean would offer Jezebella, indicating that Jezebella should ignore the evil transgressions of that horrid Pearline woman. You just keep your head high and go on about your life. Now, can I get you a cold drink?
6. “I have a hankerin’.”
Translation: “An intense desire for something which you currently do not have.” When Jezebella sighs and admits that she does, indeed, have a hankerin’ for a Coke right now, the ladies go inside and start banging around in the icebox, trying to decide which kind of Coke they want, because all properly-trained Southerners know that a “Coke” does not mean a “brand”, it just means “carbonated beverage of some kind”, preferably served with peanuts that you can plunk in the bottle as you drink. (And when you say the word, the emphasis is on the “o” and not the “c”. cOke. Mmm hmm.)
7. “Figure out what’s what.”
Translation: “Analyze the relevant details of your current life crisis and review your possible options, legal and otherwise.” This is what Betty Dean advises Jezebella that they are going to do as they get settled on the sofa / divan / davenport / couch (select appropriate furniture term which means “long thing that several people can sit on” in your particular Southern state). Once seated, Jezebella snatches up Granny Mae’s crocheted afghan from its home on the back of the seating device and wraps it around her shoulders, finding comfort in it even though it has that odd rosewater baby powder smell that never really goes away.
8. “Slicker than a greased pig at the County Fair.”
Translation: “That person is completely untrustworthy, devoid of moral values, and possibly a sociopath.” This phrase would be used by Betty Dean to summarize Pearline’s personal attributes. We might also hear some mess along the lines of “don’t trust her more than I can throw her” and “up to no good” and “too mean to live”.
9. “I reckon you oughta.”
Translation: “I strongly suggest that you take the following steps to achieve victory and redemption in the near future concerning this matter.” This would be an introductory phrase used by Betty Dean as she outlined a careful plan for Jezebella to destroy the miserable wretch with the loose lips.
Speaking of lips being loose, Betty Dean might also pause during the discussion to retrieve Jezebella’s Daddy’s bottle of bourbon from his antique secretary, where Daddy sits and does lots of things except any actual paperwork, probably because of the bourbon. The ladies might actually proceed to make mint juleps, but not necessarily, because the weather is often so hot in the South that it’s too humid to grind mint, change the TV channel, or wear panties. It’s okay to drink straight from the bottle, just be sure and wipe the lipstick off when you’re done.
10. “Don’t let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya.”
Translation: “Despite the visual imagery and the reference to Old Testament celestial violence, this term is simply a notification to unsavory acquaintances that they should leave your dwelling, avoid the backswing of potentially dangerous portals, and never return.” Betty Dean, her words beginning to slur from the bourbon, will encourage Jezebella to get back on the horn and give Pearline and Lurlene and whoever the hell else a big piece of her mind.
Jezebella, staggering slightly under the weight of the now itchy-scratchy afghan as well as the Daddy bourbon, will pick up the phone, only to discover that all circuits are busy because the town hasn’t had this juicy of a dish to discuss since that time Ordell found a human foot in his septic tank.
“Well,” says Betty Dean, “let’s go in the kitchen and fix us somethin’ to eat. I could use me some biscuits and gravy.”
So off they go, clattering into the most important room in a Southern home.
And as Betty Dean poured another scootch of milk into the crackling cast-iron skillet, she smiled secretly to herself, for two reasons. One, ain’t nothin’ better than grease-based gravy on anything. And two, that mighty fine hunk of man named Thrash was apparently back on the market…
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