Bollywood dancers in scorpion outfits
Tiaras decorated with gravel
Square dancing to violin music.
John and Martha fighting it out with umbrellas
Honey Boo Boo and her family were on there last legs. The show’s popularity had skyrocketed in 2012, but after 4 seasons, it was finally canceled, once TLC learned that only 3 people had viewed the final episode. The fortune made from the early salaries, the spin-offs, the endorsements, the dolls, and the Honey Boo Boo movies had been squandered by her redneck family on motorcycles, cars, trailers, beer, junkyard dogs, and trips to California. After funding the final season of the show out of their own pockets, the family was destitute.
“If we could only show them folks in America how cute she has become as a eight year old,” cried Mama, “ Ah em shure they would fall in love with her all over agin.”
“How ya gonna do that, Ma?” asked Papa with that faraway gaze in his eyes. (Like when he was eatin Black-eyed peas and cornbread.)
“I see here that they is a Little Miss Bucksnort beauty con-test over in Tennessee next month.” said Mama, drooling,” I bet if we git her all dolled up, she could win it.”
“How much it a cost?” glared Papa.
“Nothin, it’s a free entry, cause Blatz Beer is sponserin’ it.” said Mama smilin, “All we gotta do is make her up a nice dress, sash, and put some shoes on her, and we’ll be good to go. Oh, and a tiara of course.”
“We still gots some of them dresses from the TV shows,” said Pa,” guess I could make a sash out a one of my old belts. But where in the hell are we gonna get money for a tiary?” Pa looked like he had been asked how far it was to the moon. A real head slapper of a question, that one.
“You got any wire out in that tool shed of your’n?” she asked,”You might be able to make somthin out a that ya know.”
“Good idee,” smiled Pa, “ but what are we gonna use for jewels? Tiary gotta have jewels.”
“You old dummy,” said Mama with a scowl,” look out there in that driveway. See them shiny pieces of gravel? Be just the thing. Them Tennessee judges will never even know.”
“I had better get a crackin.” said Pa, as he climbed over the rusting dirt bike in the front yard, and headed for the woodshed.
I may not enjoy watching honey boo boo but I very much enjoyed your portrayal of her parents. Fun read!
Linda & all, for the record I have never seen that show. This is pure fiction. Thx for your comments!
Gullie thought she’d killed off the gruesome twosome, but they found new life in later BWW students who had their own ideas. Isn’t that the way. There’s always some upstart writer out there trying to edit your good words and best intentnions, especially in the deep well of cyberspace where anything goes.
So imagine that cold, snowy, windy city street, with you as the omniscient narrator (oh, the power!), conjuring up John on the bus about to arrive, and Martha, sly-eyed, waiting with some well-thought out plans.
“Cut!” Waldo hollered. “This isn’t going anywhere. We’ve been through this event so many times, it’s become a cliché.”
Peanut snorted. “I know just what we need. Cue the Bollywood dancers!” And on they came, all three dozen of them, wearing tiaras decorated with sparkling bits of gravel.
“No! No! No!” FigMince waved his arms. “This is like quicksand. If we don’t watch Ann like a hawk, she sneaks in mundane items from the bricolage exercise.”
“Did not.” Ann stomped off to the corner and sat facing the wall and mumbling to herself about garbage cans, paper clips, and candy wrappers.
Lisa was worried about her. Seems like Ann couldn’t stop galumphing even when she tried. “Ann. Please. Think of other things! Try some Ouija poetry. Make Hank into a flawed human.”
Just then the bus arrived, scattering the Bollywood dancers who headed off to coffee shops so they could be peripheral narrators as needed. Martha pulled a pea shooter out of her pocket. John stepped down from the bus, pulled out his violin, and began sawing away at Cotton Eye Joe.
“Square dancing commences now.” Galelikethewind smiled, showing teeth. He grabbed Parrot and spun her around. Unfortunately she had worn her scorpion outfit and was having a hard time doing the required doe-see-doe.
“What you need is some umbrella sword play,” said GaryTreible. He heaved a striped golf umbrella to Martha who caught it, banged the sidewalk with it on one side, then the other, and broke into a tap number a la Fred Astaire Puttin’ on the Ritz.
John stopped playing. “Where’s my umbrella?”
Ann slunk back from the corner and stamped on his instep. “You are pouting again. You get the pea shooter. Martha?”
But at that, Martha turned on the assembled writers and screamed, “Let’s get them, John! This is all their fault!” John swung his violin, catching Gullie in the left ear as she scowled and rolled her eyes.
“This is fiction, you idiot,” she said, but her head ached just the same.
Martha charged the rest of the mob of writers, poking at them with her umbrella. They scattered like windblown plastic bags. And the Bollywood dancers wrote up the scene from a moderate distance in the coffee shop.
From the Hand of the Master…Ann, you are my Galumphing Hero ! I truly believe your headstone.should read:
Writing Instructor Extraordinaire and Friend
A Gifted Galumpher To The End
“BRAVO ! ” shouted Galelikethewind, as he dropped his Stradivarius on the wet pavement, and fled from Martha’s Stillotto like umbrella.
I’ve been misquoted above. What I actually said was:
“This is getting kinda deep and sticky. If we turn our back on Ann, she doesn’t take her meds and winds up getting stuff confused.”
Fig: So, I asked about the fire and brimstone and you said you were safe. Now I’m hearing about Noah’s Arks and Pool Noodles doing a brisk business. I trust you’re safe from that also?
Fairly wild times, Gully, with trees down and three days without power, but that’s kindergarten stuff compared to Moose Pass, I guess. Safe and sound, and at least we had some booze to get us through.
Actually, I think you said, “I am feeling kind of sad and weepy. If Ann doesn’t put on her Keds and wind up this snafu, we’ll all suffer concussions.”
Isn’t it air conditioning season down there?
I still like Shaddy’s response: Galumphing sounds like something you do in the bathroom.
Speaking of bathrooms, I had a student who finished the sentence, “You know you’re a writer when…” by adding “you try to show, not tell what you’re going through in the bathroom as you cope with last night’s enchiladas.”
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by Ann Linquist
Available in paperback or on Kindle