Aunt Nette is like a busybody savant. She can tell the last time you called your mother, how you treat your children, and can rate your love life on a scale of one to ten just by listening to you order hash browns at the Waffle House.
“Scattered and smothered,” I told the waitress, slipping the menu into the metal holder behind the napkin dispenser.
Looking across the table, I’m tempted to apply the same order to Aunt Nette. She is scraping egg off the laminated menu with a polished nail on a finger laden with hand-me-down diamonds, and lecturing me on my child-raising abilities.
“You should call more often. I never hear important news until it’s too late.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
She flicked away a piece of petrified yolk. “I hear the baby is walking now.”
The baby is 20 years old. “Okay so maybe I’m slow with updates. Follow me on Twitter and you can read everything in sentences short enough to slap right on the gossip chain.”
“What those boys need is more parental involvement.” She dipped her paper napkin in her water glass and began to polish her fork.
“The last time I had parental involvement with these kids, I lost three lives."
"You should use caution in dealing with children."
"All I did was pick up a video game controller. Then I blew myself somewhere over the rainbow in a blinding blue flash."
The only reason my children aren’t listed as serial killers in police records country-wide is that there are still those officials who refuse to admit the impossibility of a zombie apocalypse.
"You do know they’ve been studying the best method for slaughtering the undead.”
“They were Boy Scouts. They want to be prepared.”
“They’re prepared for a swarm of mercenaries, an invasion by aliens, and a world-ending zombie attack. What they’re not ready for is an English test or a quiz on fundamental dinner etiquette.”
“You could probably learn some things from them. Remember when I stayed the weekend at your house? The boys and I found a new respect for each other.”
“Oh, really? And how are you a better person since that weekend?”
She sipped coffee from a stoneware cup leaving Pink Poodle lipstick on the rim, crossed her beige stockinged ankles under the table, and leaned forward with a prim smile to perform an airborne example on a pretend video game controller.
"I beast at Borderlands.”
Laugh
Showing posts with label diamonds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label diamonds. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Traveling Shoes
For a trip to Wal-Mart last weekend, I wore dress pants and heels. For a wedding at the Ritz last month, I wore pantyhose with no feet and carried my shoes. I use my copy of Dress for Success to even up the slope under the litter box where the builder got a little crazy with his leveling tool.
Granted my trip to WalMart came just after church, a place I generally visit wearing matching clothes, or at least the ones from the end-of-the bed pile that I’m fairly certain are clean.
I bought new shoes to wear to the Ritz. On the “Cinderella needs new shoes for the ball” theory, I used the grocery money to purchase a pair of black satin peep toe pumps in size “Does Not Fit” as require by the Fashion Statute of ’08.
Getting dressed for an elegant party in a hotel room three hours from home is not a good time to find out your shoes are the same size as the infield at Yankee stadium. When I walked across the room, the shoes flew off like rainy day road slush off truck tires.
It didn’t help that I had three other pairs of black shoes in the bedroom closet 200 miles and a red dirt driveway down the Interstate.
It didn’t help that we’d just made an emergency shoe run for the Captain who had apparently chucked his dress shoes out the car window while cruising down the highway at 70 miles an hour. At least I couldn’t think of any other reason why he had taken care to bring a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, gray silk tie, and two year old grass-stained Reeboks.
The scenic, historic town that held the Ritz was much too quaint to offer anything so mundane as a shoe store, so we dashed to Shoes R Us in the next village to pick up a pair of dress shoes. We were even now donning our fancy duds to attend an elegant party with folks who did not purchase their clothes at the Zippy Mart.
“Why did you buy shoes that don’t fit?” The Captain of my Love Boat has a happy talent for driving my stress meter into uncharted territory. He was oblivious to the Jaws music that began in low tones in the background.
“They fit in the store.”
“I see. Why didn’t you ask for out-of-store shoes?” Sure, the man with the plastic dress loafers thinks he’s a comedian. Let’s see if he’ll find any clean underwear in the drawer the next time he’s headed for Lunch with the Boss Day.
“I tried them on without hose. With hose, my feet slip down like they’re on a swimming pool slide. My toes are trying to crash out the end into deep water.”
“What should I do? Throw you a life preserver?”
I strolled across the room to kill him, gripping the inside of my shoes with my toes like a cardinal clutching the branch of an icy winter pine. After about twenty minutes I stopped to rest before finishing the trip.
“Just let me hang on to your arm. We’ll walk slowly. We’ll look more elegant like that anyway.”
“Ohhh, like Jed Clampett easing down the spiral staircase to visit the see-ment pond.”
If I could aim it properly, I would have stabbed him in the instep with a stiletto. Unfortunately control was a problem and the shoe flew off sideways like it was lost in space.
At the Ritz, we were met by a smiling valet who clearly intended to park our car. Our car that was so full of wadded tissues that I attempted to use as shoe padding on the trip over that it looked like a Puffs outlet store.
The valet extended a well-manicured hand. My husband dropped the car keys into it-- just before Cinderella’s slipper knocked him out of commission with a pop fly to mid-centerfield. I never saw a valet fold into accordion pleats before. His reflexes were quite spectacular.
Not long after the wounded valet incident, the shoes took the road less traveled, and I skied down the hill barefoot to the lovely lakeside wedding. About the time I hit the sidewalk switchback halfway down the black diamond slope, the feet ripped out of my classic black hosiery, held in place by a single strand of between-the-toe nylon.
I arrived at the bottom of the mountain with a spray of grass and a flourish, and with all the grace of an Olympic champion accepted the arm of the usher, black satin pumps in hand, and the Captain trotting up behind.
The wedding was picturesque and stunning in its simple beauty. But I’m sure glad I didn’t promise to keep those pesky pumps Til Death Us Do Part. I’d hate to have to commit a crime of passion on my sole mate with a monogrammed napkin.
Granted my trip to WalMart came just after church, a place I generally visit wearing matching clothes, or at least the ones from the end-of-the bed pile that I’m fairly certain are clean.
I bought new shoes to wear to the Ritz. On the “Cinderella needs new shoes for the ball” theory, I used the grocery money to purchase a pair of black satin peep toe pumps in size “Does Not Fit” as require by the Fashion Statute of ’08.
Getting dressed for an elegant party in a hotel room three hours from home is not a good time to find out your shoes are the same size as the infield at Yankee stadium. When I walked across the room, the shoes flew off like rainy day road slush off truck tires.
It didn’t help that I had three other pairs of black shoes in the bedroom closet 200 miles and a red dirt driveway down the Interstate.
It didn’t help that we’d just made an emergency shoe run for the Captain who had apparently chucked his dress shoes out the car window while cruising down the highway at 70 miles an hour. At least I couldn’t think of any other reason why he had taken care to bring a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, gray silk tie, and two year old grass-stained Reeboks.
The scenic, historic town that held the Ritz was much too quaint to offer anything so mundane as a shoe store, so we dashed to Shoes R Us in the next village to pick up a pair of dress shoes. We were even now donning our fancy duds to attend an elegant party with folks who did not purchase their clothes at the Zippy Mart.
“Why did you buy shoes that don’t fit?” The Captain of my Love Boat has a happy talent for driving my stress meter into uncharted territory. He was oblivious to the Jaws music that began in low tones in the background.
“They fit in the store.”
“I see. Why didn’t you ask for out-of-store shoes?” Sure, the man with the plastic dress loafers thinks he’s a comedian. Let’s see if he’ll find any clean underwear in the drawer the next time he’s headed for Lunch with the Boss Day.
“I tried them on without hose. With hose, my feet slip down like they’re on a swimming pool slide. My toes are trying to crash out the end into deep water.”
“What should I do? Throw you a life preserver?”
I strolled across the room to kill him, gripping the inside of my shoes with my toes like a cardinal clutching the branch of an icy winter pine. After about twenty minutes I stopped to rest before finishing the trip.
“Just let me hang on to your arm. We’ll walk slowly. We’ll look more elegant like that anyway.”
“Ohhh, like Jed Clampett easing down the spiral staircase to visit the see-ment pond.”
If I could aim it properly, I would have stabbed him in the instep with a stiletto. Unfortunately control was a problem and the shoe flew off sideways like it was lost in space.
At the Ritz, we were met by a smiling valet who clearly intended to park our car. Our car that was so full of wadded tissues that I attempted to use as shoe padding on the trip over that it looked like a Puffs outlet store.
The valet extended a well-manicured hand. My husband dropped the car keys into it-- just before Cinderella’s slipper knocked him out of commission with a pop fly to mid-centerfield. I never saw a valet fold into accordion pleats before. His reflexes were quite spectacular.
Not long after the wounded valet incident, the shoes took the road less traveled, and I skied down the hill barefoot to the lovely lakeside wedding. About the time I hit the sidewalk switchback halfway down the black diamond slope, the feet ripped out of my classic black hosiery, held in place by a single strand of between-the-toe nylon.
I arrived at the bottom of the mountain with a spray of grass and a flourish, and with all the grace of an Olympic champion accepted the arm of the usher, black satin pumps in hand, and the Captain trotting up behind.
The wedding was picturesque and stunning in its simple beauty. But I’m sure glad I didn’t promise to keep those pesky pumps Til Death Us Do Part. I’d hate to have to commit a crime of passion on my sole mate with a monogrammed napkin.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Puff Paint and Prada
I have two teenaged sons and a husband who think Dungeons and Dragons should be an integral part of the American educational system and the Vulcan salute a worldwide gesture of solidarity.
For some peace of mind and a chance to chase the boy cooties from our personal space, several of us girlie types have been gathering every couple of weeks for some good, by which I mean stuff I’d never let the kids have, food, and a taste of culture, by which I mean input on the latest computer games, rantings on the working life, and a double shot of craft night.
In recognition of the fact that I am severely craft challenged, my husband calls our outings “Crap Night” and refuses to allow me to max out the Visa card on glitter glue at Hobby Lobby. So no more tie-dyed Elvis T-shirts with hand-beaded Hound Dog hair for him.
Of course, the last time we got together the only thing I successfully tie-dyed was the left leg of my dress pants and the terrier’s bangs, but you can’t have Masterpiece Theatre every night when all you can afford is Mardi Gras beads and chartreuse body paint off the clearance table.
All the same, I’d rather be out with a group of cultured individuals who do not regard a Slim Jim and three packs of barbecued pork rinds as a party. For the guys I left at home, the telephone is the key to epicurean delight. Supper means never forgetting the number for pizza delivery.
So we girls gather like kittens around a cricket, swapping “I could’ves” and “You should’ves.” There’s nothing like a little girl talk to refresh the mind and chase away the mundane worries of the day. My niece is relating—with panache, gusto, and more than a little personal satisfaction—the happenings of a favorite computer game.
“She had too many friends.”
“What did you do?”
“I slapped her.”
“What did she do?”
“Put a contract out on me.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Slapped her again.”
Apparently nothing says female bonding like knocking some girl who needs it right off her platform pumps and into the pit of pledge week. If assault with a deadly diamond tiara brings serenity, this chick is coasting into Nirvana. It’s the sort of slice of life that could knock feminism back to the days when Gloria Steinem was just a pinup girl in horn rimmed glasses.
The game is called—if not in reality, then in intent--Sorority Death House, and it involves joining rabid gangs of starving supermodels, er, sorority houses of preppie girls, in order to band together for the purpose of stealing high dollar stuff on the way to a life of prison reform, er, sorority heaven.
It’s over six scoops of caramel cheesecake ice cream with a cupcake on the side that I find out about life in Sorority Town. True nurturing involves a representative from every group of the food pyramid from sprinkles to artificial flavoring.
“So,” I said, tongue clinched between my teeth in proper crafting manner as I apply hot glue and pink puff paint to my pants. During the process I managed to laminate my bra into Madonna cones right through my tye died Frisbee dog T Shirt. I looked like a lunchroom lady collectible figure.
People keep ganging up and stealing your sapphire bracelets and beating you up for your Prada bags. Why do you play this game?”
“Because every time I beat somebody up, I pretend it’s somebody I don’t like. After my performance review, I beat up my boss every day for a week and nobody ever knew.”
I dropped the glue and grabbed the computer mouse. “Tell me how to get to Animal House. I have an ex-husband who’s begging for a close encounter with the business end of a pair of Monolo Blahniks. Then he’ll be a real heel for sure."
For some peace of mind and a chance to chase the boy cooties from our personal space, several of us girlie types have been gathering every couple of weeks for some good, by which I mean stuff I’d never let the kids have, food, and a taste of culture, by which I mean input on the latest computer games, rantings on the working life, and a double shot of craft night.
In recognition of the fact that I am severely craft challenged, my husband calls our outings “Crap Night” and refuses to allow me to max out the Visa card on glitter glue at Hobby Lobby. So no more tie-dyed Elvis T-shirts with hand-beaded Hound Dog hair for him.
Of course, the last time we got together the only thing I successfully tie-dyed was the left leg of my dress pants and the terrier’s bangs, but you can’t have Masterpiece Theatre every night when all you can afford is Mardi Gras beads and chartreuse body paint off the clearance table.
All the same, I’d rather be out with a group of cultured individuals who do not regard a Slim Jim and three packs of barbecued pork rinds as a party. For the guys I left at home, the telephone is the key to epicurean delight. Supper means never forgetting the number for pizza delivery.
So we girls gather like kittens around a cricket, swapping “I could’ves” and “You should’ves.” There’s nothing like a little girl talk to refresh the mind and chase away the mundane worries of the day. My niece is relating—with panache, gusto, and more than a little personal satisfaction—the happenings of a favorite computer game.
“She had too many friends.”
“What did you do?”
“I slapped her.”
“What did she do?”
“Put a contract out on me.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Slapped her again.”
Apparently nothing says female bonding like knocking some girl who needs it right off her platform pumps and into the pit of pledge week. If assault with a deadly diamond tiara brings serenity, this chick is coasting into Nirvana. It’s the sort of slice of life that could knock feminism back to the days when Gloria Steinem was just a pinup girl in horn rimmed glasses.
The game is called—if not in reality, then in intent--Sorority Death House, and it involves joining rabid gangs of starving supermodels, er, sorority houses of preppie girls, in order to band together for the purpose of stealing high dollar stuff on the way to a life of prison reform, er, sorority heaven.
It’s over six scoops of caramel cheesecake ice cream with a cupcake on the side that I find out about life in Sorority Town. True nurturing involves a representative from every group of the food pyramid from sprinkles to artificial flavoring.
“So,” I said, tongue clinched between my teeth in proper crafting manner as I apply hot glue and pink puff paint to my pants. During the process I managed to laminate my bra into Madonna cones right through my tye died Frisbee dog T Shirt. I looked like a lunchroom lady collectible figure.
People keep ganging up and stealing your sapphire bracelets and beating you up for your Prada bags. Why do you play this game?”
“Because every time I beat somebody up, I pretend it’s somebody I don’t like. After my performance review, I beat up my boss every day for a week and nobody ever knew.”
I dropped the glue and grabbed the computer mouse. “Tell me how to get to Animal House. I have an ex-husband who’s begging for a close encounter with the business end of a pair of Monolo Blahniks. Then he’ll be a real heel for sure."
Thursday, April 2, 2009
The Right to Assemble
Never mind Mars and Venus. There’s nothing like a do-it-yourself project to bring out the beast, er best, in both men and women. This one came in a long, flat, heavier-than-it-looks box full of parts marked with letters of the alphabet. In my euphoria at finding just the right desk for my computer after months of stalking office supply stores, I assumed everyone in the house (Bill Dear) would share my joy and jump at the chance to put my new desk together, whistling a happy tune like so many dwarves in a diamond mine. It turns out this particular mine was missing more pieces than a yard sale jigsaw puzzle.
“Where did the boys go?” Bill looked around the house as if subcontractors would pop up from behind the recliner.
“They’re both out of service. One is napping and the other is at Gumpy’s house killing zombies. You’ll get help from little shoemaking elves before you get anything out of those two.”
Luckily two enthusiastic helpers appeared suddenly in the form of our Mostly Labradors, Hunga Din and Whatzit. Hunga specializes in outdoor labor, such as supervising the weekly trip to the dump and barking at the lawn mower. Whatzit takes over the indoor chores, such as chasing stray beams of light and barking at the vacuum cleaner. Combined they are an awesome team, and in minutes they successfully scattered all the desk parts throughout the house, chewed a decorative pattern on one leg (not mine), and placed muddy paw prints on every bit of the instructions that came after the “If You Speak English” section. Thank goodness they were on the job, but if either one spoke Mandarin Chinese, that desk would have been in place within the hour.
“Don’t worry,” I chirped scraping up spare screws and particle board dust from under the coffee table. “I’ll be glad to help you.”
Bill Dear rubbed his face, a sure sign that he was counting his blessings.
“What do we do first?” I asked, waving a hammer. I try to be patient, but the man is something of a slow starter. He insisted on inventorying the parts and locating the instructions. Meanwhile I practiced my hammering on a scrap of artificial woodgrained paneling-type material. Lord knows, they name office furniture parts like they name snack food. The first time I came across macaroni and cheese product with artificial nondairy flavoring, I thought it came from the toy store.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Bill Dear is given to hysteria when confronted with a take-charge woman.
“Practicing my hammering,” I answered, holding the panel up for inspection. I have to admit I was pleased with the results.
“Great.” More face rubbing.
I smiled contentedly.
“Except that you used the nails we need to put the backs on the drawers, and you filled the modesty panel full of holes.”
He never appreciates anything I do. No wonder nobody wants to help.
“Here.” He handed me a sheaf of paper approximately the size of War and Peace. “Tell me what to do next.”
“Well, take these instructions and. . .”
“Watch it.”
“I was going to say wipe them off. They’re covered in muddy pawprints. I can’t tell where to insert Part B.”
Bill made strangling sounds. I decided he must need a drink of water, so I got up and carefully made my way to the kitchen.
“Would you stop kicking stuff out of the way?”
About that time I hit a spot that was supposed to be carpet, but turned out to be cardboard box, slick as Elvis’s hairdo and long as a mullet. I surfed the living room deep-pile like a seasoned pro at Big Sur, dismounted with a somersault at the hallway, and threw my hands in the air like an Olympic gymnast after a solid gold vault.
Bill Dear was neck deep in my file drawer. “Hand me the specialty screwdriver on the table, will ya?”
“Star?”
“Well that was a great landing, but I wouldn’t turn pro.”
Next time I’m paying extra to have the store put my purchase together and deliver it.
The right to assemble puts a serious damper on my pursuit of happiness.
“Where did the boys go?” Bill looked around the house as if subcontractors would pop up from behind the recliner.
“They’re both out of service. One is napping and the other is at Gumpy’s house killing zombies. You’ll get help from little shoemaking elves before you get anything out of those two.”
Luckily two enthusiastic helpers appeared suddenly in the form of our Mostly Labradors, Hunga Din and Whatzit. Hunga specializes in outdoor labor, such as supervising the weekly trip to the dump and barking at the lawn mower. Whatzit takes over the indoor chores, such as chasing stray beams of light and barking at the vacuum cleaner. Combined they are an awesome team, and in minutes they successfully scattered all the desk parts throughout the house, chewed a decorative pattern on one leg (not mine), and placed muddy paw prints on every bit of the instructions that came after the “If You Speak English” section. Thank goodness they were on the job, but if either one spoke Mandarin Chinese, that desk would have been in place within the hour.
“Don’t worry,” I chirped scraping up spare screws and particle board dust from under the coffee table. “I’ll be glad to help you.”
Bill Dear rubbed his face, a sure sign that he was counting his blessings.
“What do we do first?” I asked, waving a hammer. I try to be patient, but the man is something of a slow starter. He insisted on inventorying the parts and locating the instructions. Meanwhile I practiced my hammering on a scrap of artificial woodgrained paneling-type material. Lord knows, they name office furniture parts like they name snack food. The first time I came across macaroni and cheese product with artificial nondairy flavoring, I thought it came from the toy store.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Bill Dear is given to hysteria when confronted with a take-charge woman.
“Practicing my hammering,” I answered, holding the panel up for inspection. I have to admit I was pleased with the results.
“Great.” More face rubbing.
I smiled contentedly.
“Except that you used the nails we need to put the backs on the drawers, and you filled the modesty panel full of holes.”
He never appreciates anything I do. No wonder nobody wants to help.
“Here.” He handed me a sheaf of paper approximately the size of War and Peace. “Tell me what to do next.”
“Well, take these instructions and. . .”
“Watch it.”
“I was going to say wipe them off. They’re covered in muddy pawprints. I can’t tell where to insert Part B.”
Bill made strangling sounds. I decided he must need a drink of water, so I got up and carefully made my way to the kitchen.
“Would you stop kicking stuff out of the way?”
About that time I hit a spot that was supposed to be carpet, but turned out to be cardboard box, slick as Elvis’s hairdo and long as a mullet. I surfed the living room deep-pile like a seasoned pro at Big Sur, dismounted with a somersault at the hallway, and threw my hands in the air like an Olympic gymnast after a solid gold vault.
Bill Dear was neck deep in my file drawer. “Hand me the specialty screwdriver on the table, will ya?”
“Star?”
“Well that was a great landing, but I wouldn’t turn pro.”
Next time I’m paying extra to have the store put my purchase together and deliver it.
The right to assemble puts a serious damper on my pursuit of happiness.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Guns and Grandmas
When Southerners make the news it's never the "Mild-mannered College Professor Cures Cancer" type of story. It's not even the "Socialite Bequeaths Diamonds to Charity" type story. Oh no. When we make the news it's more of a "please don't put that on the front page and for goodness sake don't put a picture or say they're related to me" type of story. In which case I point out the happenings for the whole word to enjoy.
But in the sense of fairness, because this could have happened to anybody, I've left out Bubba and Junior's real names and supplied fitting character-generated epithets.
Here in the Redneck Capital of the World, a story made the newspaper that involved all the necessary ingredients of a made-for-TV movie—or a family reunion, depending on whether potato salad was served.
Seems Granny was unable to sleep what with pondering the whereabouts of her debit card, and woke up Nephew Number One to ask for his input on the matter. Meanwhile, Nephew Number Two, The Bad ’Un, wandered away from his plant-cultivating hobby, leaving his pipe on the kitchen table long enough to grab up Grandma in a choke hold, and poke the business end of a rifle into the throat of our boy, Rip Van Winkle. He takes a shot at the family Bible and sends Rip in to sit on the couch wearing nothing but his underpants and a plastic bag on his head.
But suddenly the plot twist kicks in. When Bad Boy turns to look out the door, Captain Underpants overpowers him, grabs the rifle, and hotfoots it down the street, where, despite his lack of fashion sense, he convinces a neighbor to call Emergency Services. (I have no proof, but I’m assuming he dislodged the fancy bag hat before the action sequence.)
If it weren’t for the Bible incident, I’d be leaning toward the Family Reunion story. But no Southern boy is going to take a pot shot that separates Matthew from Mark, Luke, and John in front of his grandmother and live to tell about it. Which leads us to the question: Where was Granny during the excitement? Any Southern Grandma worth her weight in blackstrap molasses would have pulled out a shotgun of her own and blasted the pants off Mr.Yuk. The whole tale smacks of “If you believe that one, then listen to this.”
As it was, reports state that Mr. Meanie was caught after a brief pursuit. From the descriptions, it sounds like they got their nephews mixed up because the briefs were last seen high-tailing it over the river and through the woods away from Grandma’s House.
But in the sense of fairness, because this could have happened to anybody, I've left out Bubba and Junior's real names and supplied fitting character-generated epithets.
Here in the Redneck Capital of the World, a story made the newspaper that involved all the necessary ingredients of a made-for-TV movie—or a family reunion, depending on whether potato salad was served.
Seems Granny was unable to sleep what with pondering the whereabouts of her debit card, and woke up Nephew Number One to ask for his input on the matter. Meanwhile, Nephew Number Two, The Bad ’Un, wandered away from his plant-cultivating hobby, leaving his pipe on the kitchen table long enough to grab up Grandma in a choke hold, and poke the business end of a rifle into the throat of our boy, Rip Van Winkle. He takes a shot at the family Bible and sends Rip in to sit on the couch wearing nothing but his underpants and a plastic bag on his head.
But suddenly the plot twist kicks in. When Bad Boy turns to look out the door, Captain Underpants overpowers him, grabs the rifle, and hotfoots it down the street, where, despite his lack of fashion sense, he convinces a neighbor to call Emergency Services. (I have no proof, but I’m assuming he dislodged the fancy bag hat before the action sequence.)
If it weren’t for the Bible incident, I’d be leaning toward the Family Reunion story. But no Southern boy is going to take a pot shot that separates Matthew from Mark, Luke, and John in front of his grandmother and live to tell about it. Which leads us to the question: Where was Granny during the excitement? Any Southern Grandma worth her weight in blackstrap molasses would have pulled out a shotgun of her own and blasted the pants off Mr.Yuk. The whole tale smacks of “If you believe that one, then listen to this.”
As it was, reports state that Mr. Meanie was caught after a brief pursuit. From the descriptions, it sounds like they got their nephews mixed up because the briefs were last seen high-tailing it over the river and through the woods away from Grandma’s House.
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