After reading the further adventures of Hardboiled Jesus, I could not resist resurrecting another little savior story from my old hard drive. So, without further to-do:
by Bubba Frank Hubbit
In the hours before they hightailed it to Arkansas, when all the last minute rushing round like headless chickens had got to a nearbout unbearable fricasse, an old lady from the Penny Jesuits' Church of Sweet Jesus Come on Home and Save Us Already dropped on in to sit a spell with Paul's mom and them.
It were a warmish night at Cal and Dan's Trailer Park, and home of a rusting junkyard of single-wides, including the one all bashed up from Katrina that the Traydees family had squatted in for pert near going on twenty-six days straight. Like Paul, the whole park was a-shivering under that cold, sweaty suspicion everybody had about a cut to their welfare and disability checks, thanks to them Washington politicians what sold their souls to The Evil One and didn't know the wretched time poorfolks had just a-scraping up enough change each weekend for Bud, Lotto tickets, Sonny's takeout and RAW on pay-per-view.
The old church lady jimmied the lock on the sidescreen door and gimped down the particle board passage by the can, where Paul Traydees slept, seeing he was the only one what could fit on the mildewed floor of that there shower stall while his five cousins, Aunt and her boyfriend and their dog John stayed in his room. She hitched up some so's she could take a gander at him where buddy ray lay all curled up like the lil goober he was.
By the blue zitz from the outside bug zapper, fading and dangling as it were by a thread of clothesline cord on account of being hit by a curve ball threw by Joe Bob Duncanny and slammered by that no-good Thrufer boy with the sadass daddy who named him after some dead President what everybody already done forgot?, the chilly boy child could see him that fat old preacher's bitcher a-peeping through the Tellatubbies shower curtain what his mama bought from the dollar store and used in place of the folding door that his daddy kicked in after coming home all a-pisser from Gator's on All Busch Night. Standing as she was length of a crowbar from his mama, witchy seeming -- Dolly Parton wig sitting sideaways on her big ole bowling ball head, paisley turtle neck waddled under her four chins, eyes like black jelly beans someone sucked on and not liking licorice had sput out.
"Dayum, Chessie, that boy evert gonna sprout t'all?" the nasty old thing inquired, wheezing afore she hocked up a big wad of snot.
"Hell if I know'd, Church Lady." Chessie took a drag off her Marlboro. "Supposed to be them Traydees are late bloomers, but his daddy were sure enough man-sized when we hitched up in fifth grade."
Doon Inspired Giveaway: Bubba Frank has never gotten Doon published (something about a trademark lawsuit from the Tabasco people) but humor author Mary K. Witte has a wonderful little book out called "Redneck Haiku -- Double-Wide Edition" that I think is just as hilarious.
To win one of four unsigned copies of Redneck Haiku, post your suggestion for the next redneck masterpiece Bubba Frank should write in comments to this post by midnight EST on Friday, 2/24/06. Winners will be announced here by noon EST on Saturday, 2/25/06. Giveaway open to everyone on the planet, even if you've won something at PBW in the past.