Redneck Review

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Big Fat Beaver

No, silly. The animal. I wanted a catchy title. But I don't think I really
want the people who would Google this. Be careful what you wish
for, huh?

Yesterday was shopping day, and I saw some odd things, even for
Redneckland. First cat out of the bag (as my Hillbilly Husband likes
to say) I had to do some of the grocery shopping. Now, I can't just
go to one store. My children prefer Save-a-Lot brand fruit roll-ups
to take in their school lunches. And I am parital to their baby wipes
(for cleaning my white-boards at school) and their shedded "Mexican
4-Cheese Blend." It ain't free, Redneck Diva, but it's the next best thing.
After that, I had to fill up the gas tank, give Wal-mart all my money,
withdraw some cash (from the real bank, not the 1st National Bank
of Hillbilly aka a sock buried in the backyard), pay the house payment,
and pick up my Sonic Large Cherry Diet Coke. Here begins the
adventure:

A 100 Year Old Cashier. As I pushed my cart up to the Save-A-Lot
check-out counter, I saw that they had a new cashier. And I don't
mean new as in a sweet young thing just off the turnip truck. This gal's
truck had been around the globe a few times. She looked about 100.
She was older than the people I saw at the jury duty orientation. I
think the last cash register she could recall was a pencil nub sharpened
with a pocket knife that you lick (the nub, not the knife) and then write
on a piece of white butcher paper and do your cipherin'. Seriously. A
woman this old should not have to work. I felt bad for her. She gave it
a good try. I hope she makes it. What a sad state of our economy that
tomorrow's corpses have to stand all day just to make prescription and
gas money.

DeMolay Boys Pumping Gas For Tips. I pulled into Casey's for gas,
and saw that it was crawling with what looked to be 15-16 year old
boys. No. I do this at work. Please please please let them leave NOW.
I thought some group was on a road trip, and had stopped their caravan
for gas, soda, and beef jerky. Before my door was even open, a young
Stepford lad had popped up and asked if he could pump my gas for tips,
as part of his DeMolay group's activity. I told him no thanks, I preferred
to pump my own.

Now don't get me wrong--these young men were very polite. But they
had that pent-up nerd energy. They stood and talked about ambition, not
frivolous things. Remember Tom Cruise and the "Future Enterprisers"
in Risky Business, who designed the "Message Minder" thingy? I think
DeMolay is something like that. They are a service organization for young
men, "helping develop civic awareness, personal responsibility, and
leadership skills." At least that's what their website says. I knew some
guys in high school who were in it, and they were the nerdiest of the
nerds. They called it "Dumble-A."

I applaud their efforts. They are the kind of people we want running
the country and changing our diapers when we are old. But who gave
them this pump gas for tips idea? What is the main thing people
complain about around here? The price of gas. I spent $56, and the
guy behind me spent $74. Why would anyone want to give these boys
money to pump gas? They would be better off going door-to-door
and offering to mow lawns or open pickle jars or program VCRs.

Big Fat Beaver. There it was, running along the sewer-creek in the
neighborhood of my boys' old daycare. It was so fat, it waddled as
it ran. The rolls of fat rippled under its sleek pelt. I wish I knew the
smart guy who thought "If I skin that thing, I bet it'd make a good hat!"
I guess we owe part of our country's settlement to him and those odd
French people who wanted to be stylin' in beaver hats, so our little area
of the country got explored.

A Man Driving a Motorized Kid's Scooter in the Road. It was a
red scooter. The kind with a wheel in the front, a wheel in the back,
and a long thing in between to stand on. It had handlebars for steering.
Normally, the kid pushes with one foot to ride it around. This one had
a motor. The guy stood on it with both feet and gunned the throttle
on the handlebar. I guess he gave his gas money to the DeMolay boys,
and had to downsize. I wanted to stop and tell that fool to stay out of
the road, because he wouldn't even make a dent if I ran over him. But
I didn't, because I had bigger fish to fry. Not really. I don't cook fish.
It is just an expression.

A Man Hammering a Mailbox With a Hammer. I don't think it was a
rage thing, though he did look disgusted. And what better to hammer
something with than a hammer? Around here, mailboxes have short
life-spans, what with those good ol' redneck boys driving around beating
the snot out of them in rousing games of mailbox baseball. Watch that
movie Stand By Me if you don't know what I'm talking about. This one
was kind of in town, which makes it unusual. It was on the outer road,
where a whole gaggle of oglers could have seen the dastardly crime
while speeding through the red light out on the highway.

It is a felony, you know, to tamper with the U.S. mail. I tried to report
some kids one time, who kept bragging about their mailbox shenanigans.
Sadly, I was given the run-around because I called the postmaster in
my county, but the crimes were in a neighboring county, and I didn't
have the phone number for their postmaster, and hey, I can't spend
my entire prep hour all week trying to prosecute some juvenile delinquents.

A Mouse in My Mailbox. No, this is not a female version of pickle in
your pocket.
Though if it catches on, I will take full credit. I stopped
to pick up the mail as I returned home from a hard day of shopping.
Our mailbox is on the county road, with about 10 others, in a wooden
case that someone out here built to discourage the local mailbox baseball
league.

I stepped out of the car and walked around to the mailboxes. Something
scurried out of the little cubby our box is in, up over the top of the wooden
case, and down a 2 x 4 that is bracing the whole shebang because the
frustrated batters now have taken to ramming the whole monstrosity with
their pick-up trucks.

Eek! It was a mouse, about six inches long, not including the tail. Please
tell me mice get this big.
There was no mistaking this thing for a squirrel.
HH tells me it was a rat. #1 son says, "That sounds like the size of the rat
Genius (his cat) was eating over at the barn the other day."

It was in the cubby, next to our pipe mailbox (I'll get you a picture in a
few days), in some shredded paper. The paper that the day before had
been a rolled-up ad paper that nobody wants but someone keeps stuffing
in our mailboxes. They can't do that. It is a federal crime, you know.
The local newspaper won't even deliver to your mailbox if you have a
subscription--you have to put up a yellow plastic paper holder. I told
HH he needs to get rid of those papers, so Mr. Mouse Rat can't shred
them for a nest. On the way out to supper last night, we stopped and HH
reached in...and threw the papers over into the woods behind the
mailboxes. That's redneck recycling.

4 Comments:

  • At 11:22 PM, Blogger Redneck Diva said…

    We live right on the river and it never occured to me that we could have beavers (I know, I'm not the brightest sometimes) until one day Sis drove in and before she was even out of the van said, "I JUST SAW THE BIGGEST BEAVER EVER!!" Mr. Diva stopped dead in his tracks.

    Maybe she just works to get out of the house. My papa works at the farm and home in town - not because he needs to but because he'd drive us all insane if he didn't. He doesn't make much more than minimum wage and 9 times outta 10 you'll find him asleep on a bucket of nails in the back of the store, but it gives him someplace to go. His wife has waist boobs ya know. A man has to have a sanctuary.

    I have never heard of DeMolay before now. Weird. Kind of like Boy Scouts without the camping and the badges and the electrocutions, eh? (Oh that was bad. Dear Lord I apologize for that one. Be with the pygmies in New Guinea. Amen.)

    Okay, liking Mouse in the Mailbox to Pickle in your Pocket made me laugh out loud very obnoxiously. I may have even snorted.

    Sounds like a rat to me. *shudder*

     
  • At 11:23 PM, Blogger Redneck Diva said…

    The second paragraph of my above comment should've started by identifying the "she" as your 100 year old cashier. It almost sounds as if I was saying my sister works to get out of the house and away from large beavers.

    It's very late. I should quit commenting before I hurt myself.

     
  • At 10:53 PM, Blogger Hillbilly Mom said…

    Diva,
    I did think you were talking about your sister getting out of the house.

    Dohhh...I could have checked Miss Century for waist boobs!

    On second thought, no. I saw one of our school counselors there, and it wouldn't do to have her telling people that I am ogling the waist boobs on mummified cashiers.

    People, you must all make a Note To Self: What are we paying these educators that enables them to shop at Save-A-Lot?

     
  • At 9:57 PM, Blogger deadpanann said…

    A 100 Year Old Cashier. I've seen a couple of those recently too, and it always makes me so, so sad! It's bullshit that these people have to work. They are almost always women, and I can imagine the sequence of events that landed them in an apron behind a cash register. It must start with a lifetime of hard work and lead up to a dead husband and no money. Where are their children? Why aren't they caring for them? I'll be damned if my momma will work like that when she's ancient. If she is working then it won't be because she has to. I guess in some cases maybe they're bored and choose to work. Working can provide a sense of purpose.

    I recently stood very patiently for several minutes while a huffy, frustrated youngster re-explained (presumably for the millionth time, judging from her tone) something about a Winn-Dixie cash register to the 100 year old trainee. It was disgusting and I wanted to remind that youngster to respect her elders, dammit. And she bitched at her for not checking my id--I was buying some beer. So I felt guilty for living in a world where this lady had to work at her age, guilty for getting the old lady in trouble, and guilty for drinking beer.

     

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