Well hey now. I hope all you folks is doin alright. Me and my gal Thelma been busy busy bee's.
Lots to do- lots a happenins ta report in good old Stink Creek. What with the Founders day parade comin up and the grand openin of Brady Higgens "Cut, Curl an Rest" beauty salon and funeral parlor we aint had no time ta catch y'all up on the Stink Creek gossip. Hell! We barely had time ta keep up with it oursleves. That's for damn true!
Thanks to my gal Thelma an her detectin skills we're back ta havin our Sunday fried chicken socials. All the Stink Creek folks come together eat some chicken share some news. So we always notice when someone don't show up. Might be they are sick or laid up somehow. So one a us always goes on over to where they live..check on em..bring em some chicken an chit chat. We are a community that cares about each other. Past few weeks we done noticed one a our regular families wadn't comin. Now y'all might remember that me and my gal Thelma had what y'all might call one a them "interventions" with these folks. Well, come ta find out it didn't do much good.
Now tha daddy a the family is what y'all might call "high strung". always shoutin an yellin..tellin folks his tall tales a woe an whatnot. Most folks keep their distance an only talk ta him on account a the fact that he got little ones. We cherish our young uns in Stink Creek..so we was all a little worried when he wadn't showin up to tha socials. So me an my gal Thelma loaded up a platter a chicken an took a ride over to his place. We were right suprised by what we found!
Seems this daddy was attendin another kind a service an we drove up right in the middle of it. Boy howdy! I aint never seen nothin like it an that's sayin somethin! There was only a couple a folks but hells bells and Elvis gyrates! They was a stompin an a twistin..hootin an a spankin! There was the daddy, pants down by his ankles.. all flushed an yellin bout his persecution an spankin hisself at tha same time..a fella by the name a Monty Des Roid (we call him "booger" on account a the fact well..did y'all ever hear the sayin "Y'all can pick your friends an ya'll can pick your nose..but y'all can't pick your friends nose? Well Monty don't abide by that iffen ya ken me?) was a goadin the daddy on, yellin "make that hiney red!" an a woman by tha name a Bea Popsum was standin atween tha two a them..just a baskin in tha glory of it all.
I'm gonna let Thelma tell y'all the rest a this..OOEEE! Jus thinkin on this makes me wanta drink or burn my eyes out..
Thelma here. Now I thought Milo T in the woods with the cluck clucks was something else, sure enough I did. Hell, even Luther is a sight to behold, but Daddy Sore Bottom (name changed to protect the younguns) sure takes the cake. Fortunately, there weren't not a sight of the wee ones and their mama; she's got a sound head on solid shoulders, and we all know the burden she bears living with Daddy Sore Bottom.
We gotta admit, we were so taken aback by what we were aseein and ahearin that we plum dropped the fixins we were carrying right onto the ground. That didn't even put a hitch in their step, though, nosirree. Daddy Sore Bottom, Bea and Monty kept right on at it, praisin and spankin, moanin and wailin. The couple other folks clapping and singin that dirty version of hallelujah, only not laid back and all. They were waving back and forth, too. Oh, my. I had no choice but to pull my flask of Wild Turkey and take a stout pull on it and pass it over to Louise, whose mouth was wide open, a look of surprise I ain't rightly ever seen before.
My gal Louise has seen a lot of things. Hell, odd, weird, and downright off is par for the course in Stink Creek. It's one of the reasons the Sisters of Perpetual Agony do a good business even in such a small community in the back wilds of Kentucky is what I'm sayin. She drained the flask, and hell, she's much happier with Boone's. We shook ourselves, nodded at each other, picked the containers up off the ground, shook the dirt off of some of the chicken legs that had come free, and we marched around the spanksters and on up to the front porch of Daddy Sore Bottom's house.
Mama Sound-in-mind was at the screen door looking chagrined. She lets us in, took the containers from us, and hung her head in shame. We hugged her right tight and told her it was alright. Louise pulled her cell out and called the Sisters and told em we had an emergency on our hands.
The kids seemed none the wiser for the shenanigans going on outside; they were watching Shrek, so it was drowning out the noise, fortunately. Their mama was beside herself, though. She's put up with some serious crap over the years, and raisin a young un who needs extra attention can be a bit of work. Hell, being a mama period means a lot of work, a lot of pain, and a lot of joy, but between the woo forays, well, it had been a rough patch. The mama may have found her footin, but Daddy Sore Bottom was out there proving he'd lost every bit of his. The folks eggin him on weren't too sound, either. They were making the pentacostals look downright reasonable out there.
We peeked out at them while we waited for the sisters to get there; Daddy Sore Bottom had spittle flyin from his mouth as he raged. Somehow he managed to look both crazed and orgasmic at the same time. Hell of a combination, for damn sure. The other folks were beginning to lose their flush, though, as he got louder and more worked up. They'd stopped the singing and were giving each other concerned looks. The ones on the edge began to back away and for long, they'd gotten into their cars and taken off. Bea and Monty, though, were still right there beside Daddy Sore Bottom, although they were also beginning to notice the new gyrations the whole event was taking.
About that time, as even Bea and Monty were beginning to back up, sirens blaring, a couple ambulances and the sheriff showed up. Bea and Monty looked at each other, quit the clapping and backed the hell away.
Daddy Sore Bottom didn't notice none of it; he was full swell into it, screamin into the sky all sorts of nonsense about conspiracies, damaged goods and how everyone was out to get him and everyone else. He was callin to his gods, shouting out to the mighty ones, his holy trinity, to come to his aid, to give him succor, elevate him to their mighty platform, all while spanking himself.
The sheriff and the sisters ran up to him, and one of the sisters pulled out a syringe and jabbed it right in a bright red ass cheek. They stepped back, ringed around him, and let him finish it on out. Daddy Sore Bottom never noticed them, or if he did, thought they were there to cheer him on. Hallelujah!
When the meds kicked in, the sisters swarmed in on him, grabbing him, pulling his pants up, and in the bubble of nuns, the sheriff trailing behind, Daddy Sore Bottom was guided to the ambulance, and off they went, sirens blaring.
Louise and I turned to the poor mama, who was sobbing quietly. We patted her shoulders, clucked, cooed, and showed our support. We put in some phone calls, and soon the house was packed with the ladies of Stink Creek, casseroles in hand, and the mama and her sweet young uns were ensconced in the support that we offer here in Stink Creek.
We are powerfully familiar with the occasional breaks from sanity that folks can be prone to take. Daddy Sore Bottom found himself a bad crowd on the interwebz, one that led him down a path towards spittle-flecked raving, and then somehow managed to connect with our local cult. Sometimes, life throws some serious shit your way. We at Stink Creek been hit with our fair share of it, and it's most of our belief that the way through that shit is community, helping hands reaching out, compassion and respect, and a damn cold dose of hard rationality. We are a practical folk, by and large, and accepting that we all handle life's shit differently.
The sisters will take good care of Daddy Sore Bottoms, and before long, he'll be back home, acarrying on as usual. We've also learned that you can patch some folks up, but you cain't make em reason soundly or change their ways All ya can do is damage control.