Sunday, September 8, 2013

Drawing a Line in the Dust at Val's Bad Taste Emporium

Yes, there are some things that even Val won't post on her blog. Uh huh. The gal who does not hesitate to keep you up-to-date on the latest feces transplant technology, show you Snowman Peeps with embarrassing appendages, and elaborate on her recent bout of workplace indisposedness...found this subject too controversial. Inappropriate. Unsuitable for internet consumption.

No, I'm not trying to sensationalize my topic. I'm no carnival barker, raking in your hard-earned cash for entry into a dim tent to view a hoax. It's FREE, by cracky! And no hoax.

Saturday, The Pony had the first meeting of this season's bowling league. He wanted to go to his grandma's house first, to download some game updates using her high-speed internet. Yes, like youth is wasted on the young, high-speed internet is wasted on my mom. Not my fault she can get cable in her neighborhood, and we can't. Mom agreed to meet Hick at the bowling alley at noon to transfer The Pony.

On our way to Grandma's, The Pony and I passed a bunch of oncoming traffic on our county road. Most unusual, now that we're no long a major detour. When we got out to the lettered county highway, I saw the reason. An auction. A sign pointed an arrow down our road. Public Auction Today. Of course I called Hick. He loves nothing better than a public auction. Unless it's pushing my buttons.

"Hey. There's a public auction somewhere on our road. We passed a bunch of cars, but the auction must be farther down. The other way from the mailboxes."

"Huh. I hadn't heard anything about it. Most public auctions start at ten. It's quarter till. I might go take a look." I knew he was beside himself, not knowing ahead of time, to get there at the crack of dawn to scope out treasures. I continued about my business. Dropped off The Pony. Talked to Mom. Shopped at Save A Lot. Picked up a 44 oz. Diet Coke. On the way back, I passed Hick about two miles from home. Not being your regular everyday hillbillies, we did not slam on the brakes and block the road both ways to chat. I called him.

"Why are you going so early? Bowling isn't for 45 minutes."

"I'm going to town to see if my chainsaw is fixed. I went by the auction, and they're not selling anything I'm interested in until 2:00. The Pony should be done by then."

The guys arrived home after 2:30. The Pony came directly to my office. "How was bowling?"

"Oh, we didn't bowl today. Just registered and got on teams. Dad and I both ate lunch there. Then he made me go to the auction with him."

"I guess he didn't get what he wanted? You're home pretty early."

"He got a box of stuff. He's taking it now to wherever he keeps that stuff."

"What did he get?"

"Some trays. And a drink dispenser."

I know that Hick collects Falstaff, and various other brands of beer memorabilia, to display in his BARn. When The Pony mentioned drink dispenser, I knew he wasn't talking about a SodaStream. I imagined a cut-glass decanter with an ornate stopper. Something not quite Hick's style. But since he DOES buy fancy cake plates because he swears my mom loves them, I could imagine him dropping a few dollars on a decanter.

"Drink dispenser? Like a fancy glass bottle with a stopper?"

"Um. No. I can't describe it."

"How hard is it to tell me what a drink dispenser looks like? I might want you to get a picture of it for me."

"No. You don't want that. It the shape of...uh...a BOY. And I'm not going to tell you where the drink comes out. You can use your imagination."

This morning, Hick showed me a picture of it on his phone.

Sorry. No photo. Some lines must not be crossed. Even at Val's Bad Taste Emporium.


  1. In the same vein, if you've heard the song "Blurred Lines" and have also seen the video, you might want to check out the "Blurred Lines" parody--a feminist version--out of New Zealand (I think).

    And I'm so glad you didn't cross any lines--this time. My sensibilities are still limping along after that horrid language in that Robby Benson movie excerpt. I have never!

  2. I applaud your family's delicate sensibilities in only purchasing such a thing rather than actually describing it. I must ask, though: if the water is cold, is there shrinkage? And what is this about Snowman Peeps with embarrassing appendages? However did I miss this?

  3. My imagination is swirling so fast trying to imagine this thing that I'm getting dizzy.

  4. Ha, ha, ha! A penis pissing pitcher!

  5. I have one major weakness at auctions. Antique silver. It doesn't matter what it is I'll buy it. Last Monday I ended up purchasing a large soup touraine. 5 minutes after my purchase I turned to my friend and asked, "Why did you let me buy that?" Do you think Hick will let me store it in the BARn?

  6. Yes I do, just from reading Val. Hick will probably think you said latrine not tureen. And then Val will ship it to France! Good god, somebody just shoot me.

  7. Sorry for sending you all the way to Touraine, France with my soup tureen. I had no idea what it was until I owned it, much less spell it. I just thought it was a punch bowl. And for the money I spent, it sure is ugly. Not only that, I'm now wondering if it isn't even silver. I'll just add it to my other 5 or 6 punch bowls. One can never have too many punch bowls.

    1. You are such a funny person. I love that you didn't take offense at my remarks. I also appreciate that you still had humor in your comment. I look forward to more. But, I really wish you had sent me to France for a tureen.

  8. Sioux,
    Sorry, I am not familiar with "Blurred Lines." That must be some ditty from the last forty years. I don't cotton to this new style. If you desire me to watch a parody, I suggest that you dip deep into your bottomless pockets and run cable out my back road, past the prison, so I can get me some of that high-speed internet enjoyed by the inmates. I am not able to watch video on my squirrel-wheel connection.

    Get real, Madam. You know your sensibilities are limping because your Crocs are rundown. Such language as heard in the sweet Robby Benson clip is bandied about by third-graders on the bus. And behind your back.

    I certainly hope your lips will never. It IS a decanter of sorts. To fill with hard liquor. Not designed for a hard licker...It's not a goatskin wine bota. Nor a 44 oz. foam cup with a long straw. It's made to spurt a jigger of two into a tumbler for sipping, I suppose. Hick reports that IT IS BATTERY OPERATED!

    I don't walk around with one of those things, so I can't speak for the shrinkage.

    We will pass it down like a treasured heirloom, from eldest son to eldest son. I stop short of clearing a space on the electric-fireplace mantle to showcase Hick's treasure under a glass dome, bathed in soft wattage to enhance its most-talked-about attributes.

    Here's your link for the PEEPS.

    Sorry. That's not going to trick me into revealing Hick's pick. A lady reveals nothing. Val's cold, cold heart does not thaw for a spell of dizziness. You might contact Ferris Bueller for lessons in barfing up a lung.

    Finally. The voice of reason. These other voyeurs are jostling each other for a peep through the knothole in the fence.

    You are two-thirds of a psychic. It's not a pitcher, but a battery-operated decanter.

    Hick's BARn is like some adult version of a Harry Potter apothecary. You never know what odd ingredient you might find there. I'm sure he's short one big soup bowl. But he's got more than one pair of antique eyeglasses. Just in case your vision is going.

    I would not ship anything to France, because I would have to stand too long in line at the dead-mouse-smelling post office. If France would like to pick it up at the end of the driveway, that would be fine.

    Geography was my worst subject. Thanks, Old Football Coach who was my teacher!

    Maybe you could sell your metal punch bowl for scrap. I know a good place...well, no I don't, since that last shooting. I'll have to tell my mom that "punch bowl" is the new "cake plate."

  9. I tried to share this story with he who forgot to purchase hearing aid batteries. I have no idea what he thought I said, but it had nothing to do with the content. I suppose I will have to go buy the batteries myself, or can I just leave him in Hick's barn?

  10. Kathy,
    I'm not sure of his resale value. But if he can catch snakes before they leave a giant skin on the work bench, or keep pink hairless infant mice out of Hick's coverall pockets, I'm sure we can find a place for him.

  11. With out batteries, I would call it a dribbling dick decanter.