- May 18, 2001
- 7,882
- 380
- 126
This is a small town in Tennessee where everybody knows everybody else, so I've changed the names to protect the innocent.
Last night I attended the funeral home visitation of my friend's father. I got there about 20 minutes after the visitation started, so I stepped into the line that was already out the building and partway down the sidewalk. Just to establish a reference point for what would happen later, it is important that I mention that I got in line immediately behind an elderly gentleman, Zardoz. The line behind me continued to rapidly grow as mourners quietly chatted amongst themselves.
After waiting in line and solemnly staring at the back of Zardoz's greying head for a while, I finally inched my way inside the building. This funeral home is like many in that it has two doors: one for people entering the building, and also an exit. As soon as I stepped through the entrance, the exit door opened, and in walked three redneck women. They immediately took positions beside me that were uncomfortably close in case it is some day discovered that "redneck" is communicable. I glanced at the diminishing space between us, then looked at them in a manner that to a normal person would be a clear indication to back off; they just looked up and gave me their foulest toothless grins. I looked back at the people in line behind me and shrugged just to assure everyone that the rednecks weren't with me.
Then I made a tactical mistake: in hopes to regain a little of my lost personal space, I scooted over to the right just a little. As if by instinct, they immediately sensed the void and filled it. Having been to my fair share of amusement parks and had this attempted on me before, I knew exactly what their plan was. Now although they still weren't actually in line, they were crowding me more than ever; I could clearly smell the cigarettes, whiskey, and cheap perfume. One of them even lit up while we stood there. My distress quickly turned to rage; my fuses were popping one by one. I grabbed Billie Joe by the Adam's apple and landed a skull-crushing punch right between her eyes. No, wait... that's what I wanted to do. Instead, I turned to the guy behind me and gave him my best "Can you believe this?" face.
Right about then, my old high school friend Ahimalech-ben-Abiathar tapped me on the shoulder and drew my attention. I hadn't seen him in a long time, so we chatted for a moment. I quickly cut off the conversation, sensing that my God-given place in line was in peril. Sure enough, I spun around to find myself three rednecks deep from Zardoz. Their conquest was complete; their insidious little line-cutting plan had worked, and their anti-American commie-loving fabric-of-society-rending ways had served them well once again, or so they thought as they cackled to themselves.
A flying drop kick to the back of Bobby Sue's neck dropped her lifeless to the floor like a sack of flour, and the other two scattered out of my way. Well... actually, I just stood there and fumed. When one of them turned to hand me the pen to sign the register, the manners my mother hammered into my head all those years took control, and all I could do was politely thank her.
I'm such a loser
Last night I attended the funeral home visitation of my friend's father. I got there about 20 minutes after the visitation started, so I stepped into the line that was already out the building and partway down the sidewalk. Just to establish a reference point for what would happen later, it is important that I mention that I got in line immediately behind an elderly gentleman, Zardoz. The line behind me continued to rapidly grow as mourners quietly chatted amongst themselves.
After waiting in line and solemnly staring at the back of Zardoz's greying head for a while, I finally inched my way inside the building. This funeral home is like many in that it has two doors: one for people entering the building, and also an exit. As soon as I stepped through the entrance, the exit door opened, and in walked three redneck women. They immediately took positions beside me that were uncomfortably close in case it is some day discovered that "redneck" is communicable. I glanced at the diminishing space between us, then looked at them in a manner that to a normal person would be a clear indication to back off; they just looked up and gave me their foulest toothless grins. I looked back at the people in line behind me and shrugged just to assure everyone that the rednecks weren't with me.
Then I made a tactical mistake: in hopes to regain a little of my lost personal space, I scooted over to the right just a little. As if by instinct, they immediately sensed the void and filled it. Having been to my fair share of amusement parks and had this attempted on me before, I knew exactly what their plan was. Now although they still weren't actually in line, they were crowding me more than ever; I could clearly smell the cigarettes, whiskey, and cheap perfume. One of them even lit up while we stood there. My distress quickly turned to rage; my fuses were popping one by one. I grabbed Billie Joe by the Adam's apple and landed a skull-crushing punch right between her eyes. No, wait... that's what I wanted to do. Instead, I turned to the guy behind me and gave him my best "Can you believe this?" face.
Right about then, my old high school friend Ahimalech-ben-Abiathar tapped me on the shoulder and drew my attention. I hadn't seen him in a long time, so we chatted for a moment. I quickly cut off the conversation, sensing that my God-given place in line was in peril. Sure enough, I spun around to find myself three rednecks deep from Zardoz. Their conquest was complete; their insidious little line-cutting plan had worked, and their anti-American commie-loving fabric-of-society-rending ways had served them well once again, or so they thought as they cackled to themselves.
A flying drop kick to the back of Bobby Sue's neck dropped her lifeless to the floor like a sack of flour, and the other two scattered out of my way. Well... actually, I just stood there and fumed. When one of them turned to hand me the pen to sign the register, the manners my mother hammered into my head all those years took control, and all I could do was politely thank her.
I'm such a loser
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