Can O' Whup-Ass

Vi Blattner's Wild Ride: A Totally True Story

As devoted readers recall, our retarded childhood was set in a lovely mountain town. Think "Stand by Me" without Kiefer Sutherland or train tracks (albeit leeches played an unfortunate cameo). We were lucky enough to live within walking distance to Wilmot Elementary. In high school, we drove. In the three intervening years, however, we took the bus to Evergreen Junior High (go, Rams! Wooo!).

To set the cultural stage for you, Foreigner and Boston were relevant, "Barracuda" was our fave song, and our friends were raving about a new flick our folks would never allow us to see because of its "R" rating, but it seemed to be about Vinnie Barbarino prancing about to the Bee-Gees (whom we loathed), so it sounded like a colossal bore and who cared anyway? 

Evergreen Junior High started the school day at the obscene hour of 7:15 a.m. and we were at the beginning of the bus route. That meant, for three torturous years, we waited in the dark at the end of a long dirt driveway, shivering in a snow drift at 6 a.m. When the headlights came down the hill and raced past the frozen pond, we were always struck with a mixture of relief and anxiety. On one hand, we could look forward to regaining the feeling in our toes by the time we shuffled into algebra. On the other, our stomach knotted in anticipation of the harrowing hour-and-ten-minute ride that lay before us, courtesy of a spectacularly reckless bus driver named Violet "Vi" Blattner.

We always heard the bus before we saw it; Vi never quite got the hang of the clutch, and the demonic echo of grinding gears always preceded her.

Vi Blattner was a tiny, withered woman who kept her hair dyed jet black and ruthlessly sprayed into an Ethel Mertz bob. She was blind as a bat and wore thick, rhinestone encrusted cat-eye glasses. She always had a lipstick-smeared Pall Mall parked twixt her quivering lips (back when people could spark up a butt in an operating room), and was constantly sliding open her window to flick her ash into the predawn blackness. She had a guttural, smoke-ravaged voice that was somewhere between Harvey Fierstein and a post-possession Linda Blair.

The first thing one noticed about Vi was her profound nervousness. Her bony hands shook so badly she had to fight to keep them on the steering wheel. Years of dodging spitballs while piloting a bus down twisting, ice-covered roads had reduced the poor dear to a tangled mess of tics and twitches, and one had the distinct feeling she was barely held together by nicotine, caffeine and scotch tape. She always had more lipstick on her teeth than on her lips and had a very short fuse.

Just as morons amuse themselves by tacking"in bed" to the end of fortune cookie bon-mots, Vi was wont to add "or I'll give you a D-form!" to the end of every sentence she croaked. "Sit down or I'll give you a D-form!" or "Have a nice day or I'll give you a D-form!" or "Mike Bradley, put that back in your pants or I'll give you a D-form!" We never knew exactly what a D-form was, but we were rather certain we didn't want to be issued anything by Vi Blattner. 

But what made Vi Blattner truly memorable was her driving. She would maneuver that bus down steep mountain hills, careening through canyons, skidding through 20-mile-an-hour zones at fifty. She negotiated pine trees, wayward elk, and hairpin curves with the stomach-twisting agility of a master Jedi.

Chevette Dillon was the first to get on the bus, we were second. Then Scott Stewart, Ned Radinsky, Mike Bradley and so on, zipping through thirty-five stops, finally ending with Debbie Durst, a profoundly unfortunate girl cursed with severe acne and epilepsy. In fact, during one of Debbie Durst's frequent and tiresome seizures, someone remarked that she was actually doing an impression of Vi Blattner.  We all found it terribly witty (kids are monsters).

By the time we skidded to a stop in front of Evergreen Junior High, we filed from the bus like a bunch traumatized Titanic passengers stumbling out of a lifeboat. We knew we'd barely cheated death, and could very easily have ended the morning as frozen kid-cicles at the bottom of Evergreen Lake, just like those chilly moppets in "The Sweet Hereafter."

We never saw Vi Blattner issue a D-form. We were far better-behaved than any reasonable person can expect from cranky, sleepy twelve-year-olds. The reason is simple; in this era that predated seat belts on school buses, we clasped the the seat until our fingernails left permanent crescents in the naugahyde, else we were unlikely survive to see Mr. Fickey's Intro to Spanish.

From time to time we wonder whatever happened to Vi Blattner. We suspect she spent her dotage at a home for the nervous. Upon meeting her maker, a terrified Saint Peter undoubtedly gave dear, unstable Vi uncontested entry into paradise, upon threat of being issued a D-form.

xox
WAM

Vi Blattner sez: "Subscribe to this blog's feed or I'll give you a D-form!"

Olly-Olly-Oxenfree!!

When we sat down today to blog (an verb which sounds like it should involve a magazine and a roll of charmin), we couldn't decide which ass to whup. There's so many to choose from.

There's the classy gal who got drunk and allowed her boyfriend to film her engaging in a little pooch-on-bitch hippity-dippity (note to self: booze, a video camera, and dog-sex are the main incredients for "shame pie"). Later, when her boyfriend threatened to make the video public, she pimped her unwilling underaged daughter to him. One wonders what the woman expects to receive this Mother's Day.

Then there was the case of Ms. Linda Brown, the Ohio woman who woke one day and decided to be a lottery winner. So she rented a stretch limo and headed straight for the mall, where she promised everyone in a particular store she'd foot the bill for their purchases. She learned a valuable life lesson that day: if one wishes to live the life of a lotto winner it's generally a good idea to be one. Because when it was discovered she didn't have two nickles to rub together, the tastefull populace rioted and looted the store so they could get the free stuff they were promised. Stay classy, Ohio.

But no. No, today we've decided to train our cross-hairs on the Heenes. For the better part of Thursday afternoon, Rick Sanchez of CNN could barely contain his glee as the nation (read: cable news) trained its jaundiced eye on what looked to be an air-bourne batch of Jiffy Pop soaring down the front range of Colorado. We all know the story by now: it was believed that a 7-year-old boy named Falcon (why must we name our children after nouns?) had climbed aboard an experimental helium balloon and was performing an unrehearsed solo production of "Around the World in 80 Days." When the thing landed, as suspicious locals poked at it with pitchforks, it was quickly determined that Falcon remained a flightless bird. He'd been hiding in the attic all along.

The first thing to note is the palpable disappointment on the part of the vapid talking heads. Sure, they SAID they were relieved but you KNOW they wished the kid had in fact taken that horrifying journey to 14,000 feet and returned to earth frozen stiff and frightened to death. They could have milked that shizzle for serious ratings. 

Second, if the latest rumours are indeed true, and the Heene's actually cooked up the scenario in order to score a reality television gig, one can't help but admire their chutzpah and creativity. Granted, they had the bad taste to appear not once but twice on a ghastly spectacle called "Wife Swap" (a word of advice to Mrs. Heene: perhaps the fact that your family is so eager to trade you like a pack of bubble gum cards could be mined for a hint or two). But if Kim Kardashian can become a celebrity because of a sex tape depicting Ray J's shame hose disappearing up her oopsie hole, the Heenes may enter the temple of "Hey Everyone! Look at ME!" It's not that exclusive a club. They let anyone in these days (hi, Elizabeth Hasselbeck!).

We frankly don't care. We can proudly say we don't even know what Kate Gosselin's voice sounds like and we want to keep it that way. 

But also, vis-à-vis "balloon boy," we smelled a hoax the minute young Falcon skipped up to reporters. Why? Let's step into the way-back machine, shall we?

One day when we were four years old, Mumsy took us along grocery shopping. Anyone who's ever seen a woman in a grocery store with an under-five knows she was flirting with disaster. Sure enough, as soon as Mumsy turned her back, we'd picked up a pricing gun and marked up an entire aisle of canned goods to $100. When store management complained (unappreciative of their exponentially-increased profit margin), Mumsy hissed at us through her teeth that we were to exit the Food King that instant and wait in our gorgeous faux-wood paneled Chevrolet station wagon so she could finish shopping before spanking our fanny. We obeyed. But instead of waiting in the back seat like a normal child, we thought it might be cute to crawl into the spare tire compartment, where we promptly fell asleep.

We awoke four hours later when the town sheriff discovered us. Teams of cadaver-sniffing dogs had been searching nearby Bear Creek for our bloated corpse. Mother wasn't happy.

We considered it an apt lesson for a woman who sent her four-year-old, unmonitored, to wait in the car. Heavens to betsy, why didn't just she tape a sign to our shirt saying "kidnap me, I'm into butt-sex"? The lesson was lost on her, and spankings ensued for the next two days. She spanked us right there. Then Dad came home and spanked us with a belt. Then Mumsy got to thinking about it the next day, got angry all over again and spanked us some more. Parents are hardly ever happy to discover that a major search and rescue operation was undertaken because of a child's game of hide and seek. 

So when be-dimpled moppet Falcon Heene pranced out of the attic and was greeted with hugs, instead of serving some serious hard time on the "naughty stool" at the very least, we cried "shenanigans."

Hoax? Absolutely. And now the Heenes are facing a butt-load of potential felonious charges.

We can see it now: "Jail Family: The Maximum Security Heenes," premiering this spring on Fox.

xox
WAM

Falcon Heene sez: "My dad said if I play along with his hoax I could subscribe to this blog's feed."

Mamma Will Provide (PLUS: Post-its of Friendly Concern!)

When we arrived in NYC in 1987 to pursue our ill-advised dream of becoming a renowned classical actor, we experienced a period of extreme poverty (who saw THAT coming??). We were reduced to jumping turnstiles, and our daily sustenance consisted of a banana in the morning and either a slice of pizza or a box of kraft macaroni and cheese in the evening. One afternoon we were loitering in Tantalus Deli on East 55th, trying to decide what delectable morsel to purchase with our last remaining 68 cents. Suddenly, we spied a hundred dollar bill on the floor in the beer aisle. That night we had the most delicious pastrami on rye ever.

Likewise, having suckled at the bitter teat of Unemployment Insurance for a year, the milk recently ran dry. The very day the payments ceased, we found ourselves hired by a prominent financial news agency, and now hold full press credentials ("smell YOU Nancy Drew!" we hear you utter under your putrid mentos-and-decaf breath).

But listen, bitches; Mamma will provide. In the darkest moment, something in the universe clicks; the planets align. We blink, and suddenly we're enjoying a delicious pastrami on rye. Burp!

Now that we're once again a respectable (shut up) working member of society, we've found little time to spare. And this, our baby, has suffered. Yet COWA remains our secret crush. Posts will come with more frequency in the future, and we shall ruthlessly whup the asses of those who deserve it until our computer crashes, our hands cramp, or Yahweh yanks us home to Jesus whilst smiting the internet because of Ashton Kucher's sophomoric twittering. We're back.

With that in mind, there have been numerous items of late with blatant "whup my ass" signs taped to their fannies. We've been chomping at the bit to open a can. What follows is the Reader's Digest version of what we've been simply DYING to say:

Dear Mackenzie Phillips:

When obnoxious divorcee Anne Romano relocated her two girls (Valerie Bertinelli—future hair band frau, current fat person—and thou) to the urban shangri-la of Indianapolis, who expected her oldest daughter to be arrested at airports with a kilo of horse wedged up her oopsie hole? Worse still, Schneider hardly foresaw the day when Julie Romano would hit the talk show circuit yammering endlessly about her icky 10-year affair with her father. I'll say it to your face Mack. It's tacky.

What gal hasn't accidentally done the the hippity-dippity with pops for ten years, ultimately aborting his misbegotten inbred womb-booger because hubby wouldn't approve? We're so glad you've decided to launch your extra-classy "I boned pops and all I got was an aborted fetus and a book deal" publicity tour and press junket. We knew you were bad news when you ruined Harrison Ford's evening in "American Graffiti." Do us a favor, take a job as a second shift Stuckey's hostess and slither away into obscurity. Thanks.

xox
WAM

***

Dear Prisscilla Mechell,

Our first impulse is to beg you to run a spell-check on your unfortunate first name.

Beyond that, as we know, a woman just isn't a woman unless a fetus is kicking her abdomen from within her fruitful womb. So when your ample tummy rudely ejected your woebegone uterus spew, you sensibly decided not to tell anyone. Instead, you faked the remainder of your pregnancy and kidnapped a neighbor's infant. Then, to remake the poor thing in your ghastly image, you shaved its noggin and tarted it up under layers of Mary Kay cosmetics. Upon reconsidering the wisdom of those actions, you deposited the wailing diaper-filler in a convenient dumpster, where it was later found by the authorities gurgling under half-eaten chalupas and curbed dog poop. 

We see absolutely nothing wrong with your actions. What does a modern gal want with someone else's tarted up baby? To hell with it. Let's go shopping!

xox
WAM

P.S. To Prisscilla's miscarried fetus: we congratulate you on your foresight with respect to your erstwhile mother-to-be's parenting skills. Better luck next time.

***

Dear Mayor Eric J. Brewer,

Okay, so being Mayor of East Cleveland is pretty much like being crowned King of poop. Sure, it's nice to be King of anything, but East Cleveland? What's second prize?

Howev, if one is running for public office, it's a good idea not to prance about in women's lingerie, snapping nasty pics of ourselves looking like a chorus girl in the all-crack-whore production of Chicago (a production we'd quite enjoy, come to think of it).

Bitch, it's like this; one does not pose for pictures in corsets and panty hose like an unholy hybrid of Betty Page and Flip Wilson if one yearns for a gig in the political sphere. For not only are you a freakin mess (we beg you to investigate proper skin care, pubic mowing, lipo, hot oil treatments and drastic rhinoplasty), you are now known as Ms. Mayor Nasty Pants. Can you really govern dazzling East Cleveland when everyone and their Facebook friends know you're wearing Victoria's Secret's entire "tranny-mess" line underneath your JC Penney double breasted seersucker? We suggest a new career. Perhaps you could give hand-jobs at truck stops or join the gals on The View, or something.

xox
WAM 

***

Dear Ms. Davina Warren:

First, let us dance on the precipice of political incorrectness by saying that the black bitches have ALL the hair. We have seen weaves that gave us vertigo and/or motion sickness. We have seen bitches who are so braided and bobby-pinned their architecturally unstable hair looks like exploding turkeys emerging from chocolate wedding cakes.

So we quite enjoyed the story about how you grabbed hold of a bitch's weave and held it for ransom whilst wielding scissors. And now you find yourself charged with aggravated assault and false imprisonment. 

Chanda. Chanda-Chanda-Chanda. As anyone from Tootie on "Facts of Life" to Beyonce (and her team of nervous wig-wranglers) will attest, one simply does not take a bitch's weave hostage and expect to live to see Tyler Perry's next cinematic masterpiece. Especially considering the fact that, judging by your photo, weaves have waged the cruelest war on thou; for you look like the second-string Big-Mac-assembler at the Tuscaloosa McDonald's.

Perhaps you intended to purloin gal's locks, to pirate her braids in order to supplant your woefully inadequate hairdo.  

xox
WAM

Julie Romano sez: "I'm totally addicted to my subscription to this blog's feed"

Let's Talk About Seck's: A Totally True Story

Yours truly was fortunate enough to grow up in a bucolic mountain town. Us kids from the neighborhood used to ride our bikes up and down Gigi Street (we know), a gently sloping dirt road with exactly nine houses on it, each a couple hundred yards apart. Our house was squarely in the middle and had a nice circular driveway so chez WAMster was the hangout. Back then, the bike made the boy, and the WAM-cycle was unbearably groovy. It was a metallic gold three-speed, with a sparkly silver banana seat. We'd pimped it out with rear-view mirrors, a handle bar-mounted AM radio (with a built in push-button horn), and a day-glo orange flag mounted on the back. Sometimes we'd play bike-swap and take each other's rides for a spin.

David Catterson and his older brother Ronnie had matching red banana bikes, Scott Montgomery's was yellow. Paul Phillips had one of those new-fangled 10-speeds (we disapproved of the awkward ram-horn handle bars), and Jimmy Hall's was a red-and-white Pee Wee Herman-esque number. We'd often construct a jump out of cinder blocks and plywood, and double dutch dare each other to perform the most ill-advised airborne stunts (under threat of having one's name entered in the "Chicken Book," an infamous registry of the faint-hearted which existed only in theory). Consequently, everyone had the pleasure of picking gravel from their bloody knees and elbows with alarming frequency (with the sad exception of Paul Phillips, whose name was entered repeatedly in the "Chicken Book").

We were always having a full-throttle blast, us kids, yet we also complained tirelessly of boredom. When ennui descended, the oldest kid (Ronnie Catterson, approaching puberty) reliably steered the conversation towards a subject he knew very little about: S-E-X. We listened attentively, for despite his sketchy expertise, he had far more than the rest of us combined. He talked of "boobs" and "popping boners." He talked about "Creamy." He talked about popping boners when he thought about Creamy's boobs. Jimmy Hall talked about a magazine called "Hustler" which he found in his father's garage, but was too scared to swipe. About this time, young WAM was browsing through Mom and Dad's library of musty boring books and struck gold: "Human Sexuality by Alfred Kinsey." It was illustrated. Holy crap.

We tiptoed from the house with that dusty tome under our shirt. The Gigi Street gang spent an afternoon gasping at the horrors and marvels contained in those yellowed pages. There were numbered drawings of nekkid men and women getting into the most awkward and inconvenient positions.  A few days after carefully returning the book to its place on the shelf we discovered that our parents had relocated it to the locked cabinet. The Gigi gang demanded more naughty diagrams. So we decided, as a group, to publish our own magazine filled with dirty drawings and erotic jokes. We were eight; rest assured both the drawings and the jokes were retarded and nonsensical. And we decided to name our fledgling periodical "Seck's" (a name we still consider flat-out brilliant).

We designed the cover; a charming illustration of a nekkid woman thrusting her titanic breasts skyward. The other kids submitted jokes about hoo-hoos and shame hoses, boobs and buttholes. Ronnie Catterson sketched a loving portrait of himself holding hands with Creamy whilst popping a boner. We thought we were onto something. For about a week, we took turns taking it home and hiding it under our pillows. Unfortch, only one copy of the first issue was ever produced.

One summer afternoon after a lovely peanut butter and jelly washed down with green Kool-Aid, Mother confronted us. She had found our premier issue of Seck's, and wasn't happy about it. A few days later, a book from the Evergreen Public Library appeared on our Charlie Brown bedspread. It was filled with horrifying illustrations and explanations. That goes THERE? Ew!! We were appalled, and not a little skeptical. Chapter One's opening line was particularly unpromising: "When a man and a woman love each other..."

Although it was years before WAM would bloom into a full-fledged homo, both the "woman" and the "love" parts of that first sentence felt entirely superfluous.

And that, dear readers, is how we learned the difference between Seck's and sex. 

WAM sez: "A subscription to this blog's feed is better than Seck's."

WestWord Cites Whup-Ass Master's Vance Fulkerson Story!

We are now part of the cultural zeitgeist. 

On Tuesday, we posted a heart-warming note to aging toupee-wearer Vance Fulkerson, a repulsive man who taught at our alma mater and is currently facing charges of getting a tad sexually exploit-y with the young 'uns and collecting snapshots of toddlers acting slutty. Since then, our traffic has exploded. We've gotten oodles of emails from the Be-wigged One's former students, each with a more horrific story to tell, each thanking us for writing about it.

And now, WestWord (the only remotely cool newspaper in Denver), has published a lil' piece about yours truly and our cute COWA bloggy thing.

Sharing is caring.

xox
WAM

P.S. Lest any nudges out there accuse us of exploiting a vulnerable dude for our selfish enjoyment, that's precisely what this snake has been doing for decades. Turn-around, while fair play, is hardly advisable in the presence of Vance.

Vance Fulkerson likes to secretly film underaged boys subscribing to this blog's feed.

Leeza Englebert, Teen Witch: A Totally True Story

Okay, no one's going to believe this story. But may Yahweh strike us down, it totally happened.

Senior year, to attain our BFA in Directing (a degree that's led to our glamorous lifestyle), we had to direct an independent study. We chose "Titanic" by Christopher Durang. It's a charming play that features sexual acts with loafs of bread, incest, songs about pudding, a little girl who keeps a porcupine up her hoo-hoo, and a cruise ship that refuses to sink. Natch, it was a huge hit. We were told by our adviser to seek the services of a maladjusted freshman named Leeza Englebert to act as Assistant Director. In the movies, this is where the creepy music would start.

Leeza Englebert, by her own admission, was a witch. She bragged endlessly about her witchiosity, oblivious to the efficiency with which her witchitude cleared a room. We suppose she fancied her witchified self a tortured romantic; the prototypical emo chick. 

Leeza Englebert was a pale, odd, nervous little thing, prone to bursting into unprovoked gales of hysterical laughter. She had long dark hair, circles under her eyes, and spent her evenings meditating in the pentagram she'd painted on the floor of her dorm room (to the dismay of her horrified roommate), chanting and slashing at her thighs with a razor. Leeza Englebert was fond of bright red lipstick, but always looked as if she'd applied it during an emergency landing. And unfortch/inev, she found herself bewitched by the considerable charms of moi. We were unimpressed; still closeted, we'd been carrying on a tawdry affair with a (male) classmate, and began to devise increasingly inventive ways of avoiding her.

 Her crush began to manifest itself in unsettling ways. First, she gave yours truly a "witch book." It was a charming tome, bound with strands of her hair, containing devil-poetry writ in her own blood. "Um...thanks." As soon as she walked away, we hastily tossed the ghastly thing into a dumpster, a shiver running down our spine. 

But here's the "winter's tale," the creepy story to tell 'round the campfire. One day, our yellow 1972 Volkswagen Beetle (a decrepit vehicle we'd inexplicably dubbed "Sven") farted to his inconveniently timed death. It was snowing, and we were reduced to taking the bus. We'd visit our dead car daily and try to start it, thinking several days in the deep freeze had somehow cured its automotive complaint. We were running out of cash. No funds for bus fare, food, or marijuana. The outlook was dire.

One day, bitching aloud about our woes, Leeza Englebert skulked by and placed a $20 bill on our lap. "You dropped this," she said. We didn't argue. Later, during our daily visit to our poor snowbound Beetle, Sven's engine turned over like he'd been overhauled for the Le Mans. At home, we found a check in the mail from Nanna (a notorious miser), enclosed with a note: "I thought this might be helpful." My stoner roommate left a tightly rolled doobie for us on the kitchen counter. Suddenly, everything was coming up roses. 

The next day, chatting with our "Titanic" cast about our happily reversed fortunes, Leeza Englebert sat in the corner, giggling. "HA! It worked, didn't it?" she blurted out, before skittering out of the rehearsal studio.

Things quickly spiraled out of control. Leeza's outbursts grew odder. "EVERYBODY HAS LUPUS!" she once screamed, in the middle of a lecture by a professor who had Lupus. Evench, we informed Ms. Englebert we'd prefer Lupus to her presence, and asked her to stay away. She reacted by shout-singing the theme to "Gilligan's Island."

"WITH GILLIGAN!! THE SKIPPER TOO..."
"Leeza, you're embarrassing me" we hissed through a clenched smile.
"AND THE REST!! Why am I always one of the REST??"
"You should really be on Librium," we opined, walking away.

Years later, a letter from Leeza Englebert appeared in our mailbox. Her note (fastidiously calligraphed in fountain pen, silver ink on black stationary) was brief: "We were mirror people," she wrote. "Our souls would have destroyed each other." Mmmkay. At the end of her letter, the perfect post-script:

She was writing from rehab, recovering from a nasty addiction to Librium.

Witchy-poo sez: "Pufnstuff better subscribe to this blog's feed! (cackle-cackle)

Auntie Magnolia's House o' Snakes: A Totally True Story

From time to time, growing up, the parents would shove us onto a plane bound for Oklahoma City. Not to panic, Nanna was waiting at the other end (grandparents in our family have a peculiar aversion to being called "grandparents"; Nanna, Meemaw, Pappie, and other bizarre monikers straight out of Lil' Abner are somehow preferable).

Nanna lived in a town called Tuttle, half of which was populated by kin, all of whom were oddly named and resolutely Baptist. The women, invariably, had hairdos dyed in improbable shades, teased to architecturally unstable heights and sprayed into tornado-proof bee-hives. The men wore Roy Clark sideburns and brill-creamed their coifs into oily Conway Twitty pompadours. What a cast of characters.

Cousin Roxie-Lou had the discomfiting habit of shouting "HALLELUJAH!" at inappropriate moments and had a barely-tolerated ability to speak in tongues. Over her plastic-covered sofa, Aunt Ellie Louise had proudly hung an enormous panorama depicting of hundreds of people dying in gruesome ways (car accidents, muggings, train wrecks, fires), as their freshly liberated souls fly up into the waiting bosom of an Elvis-esque Jesus (or a Jesus-esque Elvis, we're not sure which). Cousin Tammy-Sue seemed incapable of saying anything that didn't induce her mother, Aunt Linda-May, to fish a bar of Ivory Soap from her purse and wash out her daughter's mouth. On one occasion, having made a remark about her brother being a butt (not an entirely inaccurate assessment), poor Tammy-Sue (without skipping a beat) actually fetched the soap herself, anticipating the inevitable. Uncle John-Bo once had us take the wheel of his combine so he could take a beer-induced nap. Unable at the age of nine to steer the house-sized vehicle, John-Bo awoke to discover that we'd veered far off course and were well on our way to carving one of those alien-attributed "signs" into his vast wheat field.

But our most fascinating Oklahoma relative lived on the other side of the state, far beyond the Muskogee town limits. We always felt a pang of fear and excitement when Nanna announced we were piling into her emerald green El Dorado and paying a visit to Auntie Magnolia.

Auntie Magnolia's large farmhouse was totally "off the grid," and lacked indoor plumbing. Out back, there was a privy (complete with crescent moon cut-out) and a handle-pump well. She cooked on a wood stove and kept her Cher-length hair in a thick grey braid. Visits to Auntie Magnolia were mostly spent fetching water. This was a terrifying chore, with good reason; Auntie Magnolia's house sat about thirty yards from a bog infested with cottonmouth water moccasins. Understandably, we delayed trips to the privy for as long as physically possible. We were convinced, particularly on one memorable midnight jaunt to the al fresco loo, that we'd sit to answer nature's call and get a potentially fatal bite on the ass (or worse, our tender vittles).

These fears were not unfounded. One morning we awoke to the sound of Auntie Magnolia hacking a cottonmouth to death with a shovel; the unlucky viper had rudely slithered onto the back porch and into the pantry. To her, it was an inconvenience. She was perturbed by the mess. We stared at her, saucer-eyed, and gulped. Before us, mopping up the guts of a deadly snake, was the last remnant of true pioneer stock. She kept a loaded rifle by the door and was not above shooting and skinning a bunny rabbit for dinner. We were in awe of that woman, but secretly believed she could ride a broom.

When time came to take leave of Auntie Magnolia, it was always something of a relief. One afternoon, loading our suitcases into the back of Nanna's El Dorado, Auntie Magnolia looked skyward and said "I reckon you best stay put for a spell." Above our heads, from nowhere, appeared something all plains-state folk recognize with instant dread: a funnel cloud. A half-hour later, huddled in the doorway between the dining room and the parlor, we listened to what sounded like an approaching freight train. As Nanna and Auntie Margaret shouted in reproach, we sprinted from the doorway to the parlor window. We had to see it. And there it was, just beyond the bog, a twister. Churning up all sorts of things (including more than a couple airborne cottonmouths, no doubt).

The storm eventually passed and it was time to disembark. Hugging Auntie Magnolia, we had no way of knowing we'd never see her again. She died well into her nineties while chopping wood.

And no, dear ass-whuppers, the irony isn't lost on us. The only time we saw a real live tornado, we were in the presence of our beloved Auntie M.

xox
WAM

Auntie Magnolia sez: "I reckon you best subscribe to this blog's feed"

WAM/Nixon: A Totally True Story

This one's for Winksi.

In the fall of 1972, we had just begun the third grade. Our teacher was Mrs. Younger, who was younger than a redwood but not much else. Her dyed-black hair was kept in a tight, aerodynamically unstable Wilma Flintstone twist (Aquaneted to a state of permanent immobility), and she always wore the same pair of shiny go-go boots. She was a pleasant woman, but she was also a penmanship Nazi and if you displeased her (say, for instance, your cursive "L" offended her aesthetic sensibility), her mouth would smile but her eyes looked like Ted Bundy's; dead, calculating, cold-blooded. She had an aqua naugahyde swivel stool that was about five feet high. Every day she took to her lofty perch and read a chapter from "Runaway Ralph" or "The Swiss Family Robinson" or "Mein Kampf." High above us, she'd swivel back and forth, her legs crossed inside her shiny squeaky go-go boots, yawning every time she turned a page.

The fall of 1972 was also an election year. Americans were weeks away from resolutely deciding that Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew were just the men to lead the nation. We were eight, and impressionable. So listening to the dinner conversations between mom and dad (two staunch Republicans), we became quickly convinced that all Democrats took LSD and spied for the Soviets. Were George McGovern to win the White House, we'd all be speaking in Russian and dressing like hippies. The thought terrified us.

About this time, Mrs. Younger decided to hold a mock election in our class, to teach us about the democratic process. Everyone wanted to be Nixon, no one wanted to be McGovern. For some reason, in spite of our sloppy cursive, Mrs. Younger picked yours truly to be Nixon. The unhappy task of being George McGovern fell in the lap of Vicky Gomez, an unfortunate Mexican girl who had a harelip and smelled like paste.

Our platform was simple yet effective. We promised orange Kool-Aid and Oreos for everyone after each afternoon recess (an ominous foreshadowing of our socialist-leaning Democrat future), proposed that boys be granted exclusive access to the playground's monkey bars (foreshadowing something else entirely), and declared the students of Miss Smith's next-door third graders to be a bunch of poo-poo faces.

For her part, Vicky Gomez endorsed a sweeping plan (unpopular as it was ambitious) for Mrs. Younger to read the entire Laura Ingalls Wilder "Little House" series. She also supported a movement to procure a hamster cage, fatally over-estimating our collective fondness for rodents (call it Vicky's own "bay of guinea pigs").

When election day came (both mock and real), our Nixon won in a landslide that rivaled the real McCoy. In fact, poor Vicky Gomez didn't receive a single vote; a baffling outcome considering Vicky herself voted. As Nixon, we got every vote; except for one vote mysteriously cast for Daffy Duck, who emerged as a last-minute dark horse.

After being carried around on our fellow students' shoulders, the euphoria faded and the honeymoon was brief. Within a few months, of course, Watergate happened. Our orange Kool-Aid campaign promise failed to materialize (Mrs. Younger, legislating from the bench, nixed the idea).

And to this day, although we never found out who voted for Daffy Duck, we suspect in hindsight our nation wishes Daffy was a viable write-in back in November 1972.

xox
WAM

Vicky Gomez sez: "If I had won, I would have given everyone a subscription to this blog's feed."

Wiley Coyote: One for the Road

And the blizzard of stupid continues...

One last volley of messages with the esteemed Mr. Coyote of Fayetteville North Carolina:

From: wiley coyote (email redacted)
To: srculpny@aol.com
Sent: Wed, 6 May 2009 11:05 am
Subject: Not suprised

It is not a suprise that you decided to make our conversations public.  You are trying to use a bully pulpit, trying to intimidate anyone who disagrees with your agenda of gay marriage.  This tactic is being used over and over again lately, the Miss USA pagent [sic] being the most public.  Unfortunately for you, we are not afraid.  Write whatever you want, I'll never look at your pathetic, anger filled website again.  Goodbye.

***

From: srculpny@aol.com
To: wiley coyote (email redacted)
Sent: Wed, 6 May 2009 11:48 am
Subject: Re: Not suprised

Oh, we're not finished?

Mr. Coyote, I feel our relationship has reached an impasse. No, you big hunk of man-steak. No, I shan't marry you.

Listen, if you scroll back through our correspondence, you will find that my first response to you was cordial and polite. I simply stated that I disagree with you. You are the one using hateful rhetoric and potty talk.

See, Mr. Coyote, exposing bigotry is not a bully tactic. I believe it's called a defense strategy. And minorities (sexual or otherwise) have never been the intimidators. Name one person who has been bashed or murdered for being anti-gay. I can give you a list as long as your arm of folks who've been murdered or beaten for being who they are. We are being beheaded in Saudi Arabia. Hanged in Iran. Hunted down like dogs on the streets of "liberated" Baghdad. Beaten to death in Jamaica. Bludgeoned and lashed to fences on the outskirts of Laramie. And people like you and the Schowengerdts are fueling the hatred. Anger? Yes. There's anger on my website. Righteous anger, which I hope, through osmosis, invades your dreams.

Miss USA? Really? Miss Prejean, who spoke of her moral upbringing as crotch tape was holding her bikini in place (and who, as it turns out, did a lil' topless modeling) dug her own grave. The fact is the tide is turning, and homophobia just isn't okay anymore. Game over.

Finally, you are welcome on my blog at any time. Leave comments and I will publish them (but I'll bleep your language, mr. morality). But engage me in a battle of wits and I'm going to bring my full game.

And I believe I've won this round.

Maybe that'll shut him up. Part of us hopes not.

WAM sez: "You KNOW Wiley Coyote subscribes to this blog's feed."

COWA Gets Hate Mail!

Hello, dear readers. As you may know, we have been diligently cranking out posts for your favorite blog for over two years now. Why? First, we care too much. Guilty as charged. Oh, and also, we are a fame whore who dreams of figuratively bitch-slapping the sugar out of fellow homosexual bloggers Perez Hilton and Matt Drudge.

And now, our tireless efforts have borne fruit: hate mail! We have arrived!

We have exchanged some charming messages with a trailer-dwelling yahoo, who took exception to a recent post of ours. Below, we share the correspondence of an erudite and insightful exchange of ideas:

From: wiley coyote (email redacted)
To: srculpny@aol.com
Sent: Mon, 4 May 2009 11:48 pm
Subject: Schowengerdt Post

Dear coward,
 
You must be a real brave man to put the address and photo of the home of a mid 70 year old couple on the net for everyone to see.  Then you encourage them to stop by and “drop by with a lovely casserole”  Ok, tough guy, why don’t you post YOUR address?
 
I have seen this post.  One bad thing happens to this family, and I will ensure that it is known that you encouraged people to do bad things to this family for simply speaking their mind.  Freedom of speech does not include encouraging acts of violence against people, you pathetic, cowardace [sic] f*ck (censorship added).
 
How about you send me your real name and address and I'll call it even.  How do you feel now?

***

To: wiley coyote (email redacted)
Subject: Re: Schowengerdt Post
Date: Tue, 5 May 2009 10:12:42 -0400
From: srculpny@aol.com

Thanks for the note.

Just so you know, I got that information from whitepages.com. It took about 30 seconds to find it. It is already public information.

The Schowengerdts absolutely have the right to speak their mind and exercise their freedom of speech. But then, so do I, and so do you. However, the Schowengerdts are writing editorials, starring in hate ads, posting photos of their dead son on YouTube. They willingly stepped into the public sphere.

I won't give you my address [EDITOR'S NOTE: OMG! You don't suppose he was trying to ask us out on a date, do you?]. But you can look it up if you'd like, just as soon as I embark on a public hate campaign that's filled with lies and distortions about you and your community and seeks to demean your dignity and stunt your basic personal freedoms.

The irony is that anyone who agrees with my post is likely to be anti-hate and peacefully inclined. Anyone who reads your email to me would conclude the opposite; you are pro-hate, and violently inclined.

Finally, you ask how I feel now. Thanks for asking. I feel more proud of my blog than ever.

How do you feel?

***

From: wiley coyote (email redacted)
To: srculpny@aol.com
Sent: Tue, 5 May 2009 11:54 am
Subject: RE: Schowengerdt Post

There is a difference between someone getting upset enough to do research, find the address, and act out -vs- you putting the idea into peoples heads and providing a picture/address.  I have spoken to lawyers and detectives that I know, and if anything would happen to these people and your website is found on the computer of the perps, you can and will be charged as an accessory.  You can feel free to say these people are idiots, they are wrong, whatever, but don't put bad ideas into peoples [sic] heads and spoon feed them the information on where to do it.

These people at least had enough courage and convictions in their beliefs to put themselves out there and be exposed.  I respect your right to be gay, and in return I expect you to respect my belief that marriage is between a man and a woman.  I don't believe in divorce either and think people getting married, divorced, married, divorced is just as wrong.

By the way, I couldn't find your name anywhere on your website.  It is very easy to make veiled threats and trash peoples [sic] names like you did when you can hide.  Enjoy your anonymity, coward.

***

To: wiley coyote (email redacted)
Subject: Re: Schowengerdt Post
Date: Tue, 5 May 2009 12:11 p.m.
From: srculpny@aol.com

Dear Bile-choked Redneck,

First of all, thanks so much for respecting my right to be gay (at last, I have your "go-ahead"). I respect your right to have eyebrows. I also respect your right to believe that marriage is between a man and a woman. Of course it isn't; Massachusetts, Iowa, Vermont, Connecticut (and soon New York, Maine, New Hampshire and New Jersey) allow same sex marriage, as do Canada, Holland, Belgium and Spain. Additionally, I respect your right to believe that the sky is green, but that don't make it so. I believe you meant to say in your eloquent missive that gay marriage isn't for you. With that in mind, I'd strongly advise you against marrying a man.

However, now I'm terrified. You've spoken to lawyers? Oh, my. Let me point out that the Schowengerdt's YouTube video has been seen 9,000 times. The Des Moines Register (for which Karl Schowengerdt wrote his hateful op-ed), has a daily circulation of  over 146 thousand. By contrast, my blog has 300 hits on a good day. But the thing is, there are no more "veiled threats" in my blog than you can find in a map of the movie stars' homes. Casseroles (with the notable exception of my mother's taco casserole surprise), are hardly ever violent. The Schowengerdts, on the other hand, call gay people a "cult" who recruited their son and gave him AIDS. Can we go after them if someone bashes a gay person after seeing/reading their hateful diatribes? Ask your lawyer friend and get back to me, m'kay?

P.S. You seem upset. I think you need a nice hot cup of chamomile.

Stay tuned...we will add to this post as soon as Mr. Coyote provides more hilarious material.

WAIT!! There's more!!

From: wiley coyote (email redacted)
To: srculpny@aol.com
Sent: Tue, 5 May 2009 6:47 pm
Subject: RE: Schowengerdt Post

Funny.  I'd prefer the sky be orange.  Enjoy your miserable life in the disgusting, pathetic, and disturbed choice of lifestyle.  It is wrong as 2 boys f*ckin.  Wait, it is 2 boys f*ckin.  Sorry if my tempter gets the best of me, I was born that way and can't help it.  Legally, it should be made legal for me to commit acts of violence since I was born that way. [EDITOR'S NOTE: Nice word soup there, goober!]
 
I won't bother your gay (meaning happy) life anymore.  Have fun with your little website.

***

To: wiley coyote (email redacted)
Subject: Re: Schowengerdt Post
Date: Tue, 5 May 2009 07:02 p.m.
From: srculpny@aol.com

Oh, Mr. Coyote...I AM having fun with my "little website." In fact you're the star of it today. Check it out.

Judging from the thick syrup of hate in which you marinate your borderline literate emails, it is you, not I, that leads a miserable life.
 
And finally, I feel compelled to let you know I have no gay (meaning homo) interest in you, so stop flirting.

xox
WAM

Wiley Coyote sez: "I up an' contacted some lawyers and they done told me I shouldn't orta subscribe to this blog's feed cuz itz like to put thoughts into my noggin and stuff."