Poppy Mom

The latest dispatch from the Redneck Jungle

As you know my cousin Wendy spent the weekend with us. Much fun ensued, most of which I hope to share with you sometime soon. However, my week is going to be insanely busy, so don't hold your breath.

If you've read through my blog for any amount of time, you know that I refer to my neighborhood as The Redneck Jungle. What we thought was a nice, quiet blue-collar neighborhood actually turned out to be a locale where people use Confederate flags as curtains and work on their dune buggies 24 hours a day, every day, because by God, this is 'merryca and it's our God-given right to fuck around drunk on dune buggies whenever we got'damn well feel like it.

Today's tale from the Redneck Jungle involves the same neighbor I confronted on July 4th. Well, I didn't really "confront" him. Unless he happens to read this website and could figure out that I was bitching about him. I would have liked to have confronted him, I really would have, except I'm a college educated fucking whiny-ass wimp when it comes to scary, possibly gun-toting, Stars n' Bars-flyin' drunkards who know where I live.

It was around 10 PM last night. Clara "Redneck Woman" Jane was sleeping. B. was in his office in the dungeon, Wendy was in the living room and I was in the kitchen, ice cream scoop in hand, preparing a little night-cap for my guest and myself when I saw flashing emergency vehicle lights in the window.

"Should we look out the window, or be really trashy and look out the door?" Wendy asked. Well, considering that everyone else in the neighborhood is standing in their yards, or taking a walk up the block in their pajamas, or convening an official porch party to watch the action, we headed for the door.

You know how cultured people head to the theater to see life re-enacted? In my neighborhood, the closest we get to theater is the occasional opportunity to see "Cops - The Livep-Action Production".

So urgent was the Redneck Emergency Alert System that I didn't even bother to leave the ice cream scoop in the house. There we stood on the front porch, in my pajamas, braless, with an ice cream scoop in my hand, watching the ambulance and two police cars in front of the house that presented the Independence Day Shock n' Awe spectacular.

The EMTs and a few cops went in the house, along with Boy's mother. Another pair of cops scouted the side of the house with their flashlights, probably looking to see if they could find any beer cans with a few swigs left.

First Boy's mother came out, escorting Boy's father, who was dressed in jeans with his underwear sticking out the waistband, shirtless, and looking a bit dazed and disgruntled. A few minutes later, the patriarch of Chez Redneck was escorted out with the assistance of several EMTs - staggaring, bow-legged, white bandages wrapped around his head, wearing the exact same attire as Boy's father.

I'm guessing it was either a rasslin' match gone wrong, or an incident involving contact between a skull and an empty 40 oz. Busch Beer bottle. We won't know until the case goes to court.

Posted by Robin at September 13, 2004 02:24 PM | TrackBack