Saturday

Saturday. Hmmm. As saturdays go, this was the saturday-est. Of course, that doesn’t mean to say that today isn’t saturday, because it isn’t. Are you tracking what I’m saying? No, you’re not listening at all. In fact, I would have to say that you are a lot like my Uncle Edolphus Pestimeir the XIV, the XV, and the XVI. He was an unusual man, but we forgave him after his tragic death ended his illustrious life in 1947. That was fourteen years before I was born and twelve years after my dog, Facelift, ran into a truck and rearranged his molecules.

Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Saturday. I have never liked saturday. They last far too long and as soon as they are finished they slide you downwards at a crazy tilt right into the four or five worst days of the month…. Mondays. My Uncle Edolphus Pestimeir the III, the IV, and the V, earlier mentioned in a paragraph you haven’t read, was cursed on a Monday. Blue Monday, he called it. That was the day he married my Aunt Ana Stalinagravis. She was not a joyous wife. She was married to my uncle for his money and found out after they were married that he didn’t have any. Money, that is. Ana Stalinagravis came from a remote part of Kenya where they raise wild chickens that grow three legs when they are precisely conceived on a saturday.

Which, of course, brings me back to my original subject — Saturday. Are you listening, yet? Good. Now. About saturday. It was unbelievable! My girlfriend, Bertina Oddfellows Flythehellouttahere, was on an airplane. She was on a 747 that had a tendency to lean toward the left as it reached high speeds. When a gas tank in Texas blew up, decimating the entire state and throwing mapmakers into a rewrite scramble, the waves of energy, heat and flames raced upward high into the blessed blue sky whereupon the 747, with a tendency to lean to the left, remember, leaned left, unwittingly, cockeyed straight into the inferno. The 747, with my erstwhile girlfriend was dragged downward right into the midst of a grand birthday party going on in Bugtussle, Oklahoma.

Bugtussle is not a very large town, despite its attractive name, and all 475 of its residents were attending the party for Billy Bob Barty Joe Nasterwick; a rather snotty little brat, when you come to think of what he did to sweet LuAnn Pedililtwit-Smythe last Christmas eve at the annual AnaphalaBaptist Church’s (this is the south branch of that particular denomination) Whoop Em Up and Praise the Lord Jesus Mary & Joseph’s Pot Luck Supper…. when my soon to be fricaseed Bertina’s plane toppled down amongst them. That sent another scramble alarm to all the world’s mapmakers, because now, Bugtussle was now gone, too. Hmmm. I have digressed a little, I think. Yes, I was talking about saturday. It was the saturday-est, but not because of the other things I just mentioned. You see, while all this stuff was going on, I decided to take myself down to Ostermeyers Drug Store for an ice cream soda and was told that the machine had broken down.

I tell ya, I was sorely disappointed. Greatly, even. I could have taken any news in the world, but not that. No how. No way. So, I don’t like saturdays.

How about you?

Sometime in 1992