As an attempt to get back on the writing pony, as well as inject a tad more upbeat tempo to what has in recent weeks been a rather depressing blog – I have decided to let you all in on something a bit odd about your nerd.
Easter, for me... is cursed. Now, I don't mean the religious meanings of Easter Sunday – I'll wax heretical about many thing, but I draw the line at attempting humorous jabs at crucifixion and resurrection. No, instead I mean the day itself. Has been for year, no matter what I try to have happen on the day, I am doomed to spend the majority of it staring at the sky and KNOWING that somewhere there is a tribe of cherubim above me filming my actions for the heavenly chorus's version of “America's Funniest Home Video's”.
I had known in the back of my head there was something surreal about how I spent the day since childhood, but a few years ago it was verified that I would never spend the day in a “normal” manner. Allow me to spell that particular day out for you -
- Due to lack of funding for overpriced gas, and a car that was developing a disturbing tendency to shudder at the thought of moving, I had decided to stay home that year. No trip to the parents, the Prime Geek had to work, and his folks were out of town. So, my Easter plans involved laundry, household chores, and a bit of tv. A nice quiet day alone in my tiny apartment was all I desired.
Instead? Rednecks, Get Ready To RUMBLE.
Picture if you will, our intrepid heroine minding her own business, sprawled comfortably on her couch with a box of wheat thins and a can of diet coke, idly flicking through the channels in a search for something worth watching. A screech of tires and a shout distracts her from the episode of Charmed she had finally elected as her noontime must see tv. (hey, we all celebrate the holidays in our own special way!). Quickly following the tire spinout are shouts, curses, and what could be the sound of flesh hitting flesh. Concerned, she peeks out of her curtain window to see 9 redne.... I mean 9 individuals slugging it out on her lawn.
She gives them a few moments to work through their discontent – but when the fight seems instead to be picking up force and brutality, she sighs and resignedly picks up the phone to call the local friendly police department. Once put through to the officer she is asked to give descriptions of the crowd. Wifebeaters, Marlboro T-Shirts, and MuMus seem to be the order of the day. Mullets and shaved heads were also apparently back in season that year. The officer thanked her for performing her civic duty and as he hangs up is heard to yell "Another Redneck Reunion Wrassle, call the boys.”
Deciding to buck the trend of sitting out on her porch to observe the fight (and incidentally, run the risk of become a possible innocent bystander) she pops herself a bag of popcorn and opens the window to watch the fun unfold. Hmm, what were the highlights of this wonderful event?
Could it be the one-legged man on crutches using them as bats? Swinging at his opponents and hopping after them as they try to avoid his less then lightening quick maneuvers?
Or rather the moment when the 350lb gorilla in curlers and a lime green mumu yanked said crutches out of his grasp, forced him to the ground, and began to beat him with his own crutches?
Was it the moment when one women screeched and lunged at her victim, forcing her foe to the hood of her car and then sitting on his chest triumphantly?
Perhaps it was after the police arrived, and a nearby neighbor with a wonderfully twisted sense of humor and timing began to blare out of his front window the theme song to Cops. The lines BAD BOYS, BAD BOYS coming at just the moment the officer was attempting to handcuff one man causing said officer to begin to laugh so hard he fell to the ground on top of his prisoner.
No, to my mind it had to be the moment when the bandy legged man in the Motley Crew T-Shirt ran to his car, retrieved the remains of the family spiral cut ham and chucked it at the police officers while yelling "You let go of my momma you pig!"
He was arrested on the spot ...once the officers were able to stand without swaying. -
I knew in a crystalline moment of clarity that I would never have a Norman Rockwell Easter. No matter where I live, or where I may roam... my Easters will not be a Protestant picture of piety, complete with spring-time dresses and chocolate bunnies.
To prove my record, this last Easter found me once again dialing a familiar number while attempting to both hold back laughter... and confusion. But we'll leave that until tomorrow. I have some tomatoes to stake.