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Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

15 August 2011

Karma in Hooterville

It was with some anticipation that Dan and I loaded up our excess stuff and headed down to his parent's home in the metropolis of Hooterville for the Village Wide Rummage Sale.  (No, it's not actually called Hooterville, but it should be.)  Dan was anticipating making some extra dinero, I was anticipating seeing a lot of bizarre people with no teeth.  


Dan would be disappointed.


I would not.


Dan, his parents, the dogs, and I all hung out in the front yard, watching the Parade of Villagers  pick through our belongings and then leave with nothing.  


(I totally don't get the village/township thing they have going on out here, but whatever... the fact that they're villagers just makes it more entertaining, in my mind.  It's the little things, yo.)


Dan:  "What, our shit isn't good enough for them?"


Me:  "Our shit is too good for them."


Dan's dad:  "They're all assholes."


(It's a glass half-full/half-empty thang.)


The high point of the day for me was the happy trio that showed up in a dilapidated, primered pick-up truck.  Mama and daughter were two tons of fun, and they rolled out of the cab in matching body hugging sweatpants and t-shirts, both apparently having forgotten to don undergarments before leaving the house.  Their breasticles were hanging well below the equator while their sweatpants rode deep through the Grand Canyon.  The male member of the family, whom I dubbed "Bubba" (I'm assuming he was mama's son and daughter's daddy AND her brother) was standing in the bed of the truck, peering over the cab as the lookout for the Best Shit Being Sold on the side of the road.  (Picture, if you will, the famous scene from the movie Titanic, when Jack and Rose are standing at the bow of the boat with the wind in their faces, flying...  It was exactly like that, only with a toothless hillbilly in a pick-up truck.)


My delight in this little tableau knew no bounds.


I almost peed when Bubba leaped out of the bed of the truck and strutted up to us like a little Boston Terrier and squeaked, "I have twenty dollars here to buy a lawn mower!"


Precious.


He was about 5'2, 200 pounds, beard, mustache... and he sounded like a girl.  


They picked through our stuff, packed up a $20 lawnmower, and then roared back off into the sunset with Bubba once again in the crow's nest, with the wind in his hair and the world at his fingertips, no yard sale escaping his keen eye and talents of observation.  


I spent the next four hours laughing myself into a side-splitting, pants-wetting, coughing frenzy by repeating, "I have twenty dollars here to buy a lawn mower!" in a high, squeaky voice and then doing my Jack and Rose on the Titanic impersonation.  


Lord, how I cracked myself up.


Perhaps when I almost choked to death by inhaling a piece of chicken while laughing my ass off during dinner I should have gotten the message and remembered the Golden Rule "If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all." 


But I kept on entertaining myself all the way out to the campfire where Dan, his parents, his nieces and I all sat around and roasted marshmallows.  I regaled them all with every embarrassing thing Dan has ever said or done, peppering my conversation with "I have twenty dollars here to buy a lawnmower!" and holding my arms out to embrace the wind and the sea.  


It was at this point in the evening that something flat landed on top of my head.


I shot out of my chair like a rocket, screaming, "It's in my hair!!!  It's in my hair!!  Get it!  GAHHHHH!"  while slapping myself stupid and shaking my head like a heavy metal rocker on crack.  Everyone leaped up and jumped back, staring at me wild-eyed as I did an impromptu fire-side rain dance, whacking myself in the head and squealing like a piggy.


"ARGHHHHHH!  ARGHHHHHH!  EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"  I squealed, as I rocketed around the fire.


After watching me for a few minutes Dan said, "Dani, what are you doing?"


Me:  *still screaming and slapping myself*  "IT'S A BAT!  IT'S IN MY HAIR!  GET IT!  GET IT!"


Dan:  *laughing and pointing, because he's real supportive like that*  "It's a leaf.  It fell out of the tree.  Haaaaahahahahahahahahaaaaa!!!"


Me:  *stopping the dance but still smacking myself in the head like a moron*  "Are you sure?"


Dan:  *reaching over and plucking a large maple leaf out of my hair*  


The moral of my story is that I spent the remainder of the evening watching Dan do his impression of me slapping a leaf off the top of my head.


As we were driving home that night Dan suddenly slapped himself on the noggin and said, "Who am I?  'Get it!  Get it!  ARGHHHH!'  Haaaaahahahahaaaa!"


Bite me hard, Karma.  Bite me hard.


(P.S.  The day a bat actually lands on my head, I will die.  Just an FYI.  Who will be laughing then, DAN?)