The Conservative Cave
Current Events => The DUmpster => Topic started by: franksolich on April 17, 2011, 04:09:23 AM
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note: this is humbly dedicated to the sparkling husband primitive on Skins's island, a good friend of Mrs. Alfred Packer, the hippywife primitive down there in northeastern Oklahoma, in gratitude for the literary inspiration l'eunuco in Baltimore gives francescosolichi; sono quelli che ci detestano che ci ispirano; one hopes he, and others, find it entertaining.
Mrs. Alfred Packer does Easter. The mid-afternoon sun was shoving through the trees in the backyard as Mrs. Alfred Packer looked up from the table, out the window. She was preparing rabbit-and-eggs for Easter dinner, and it was sweaty, troublesome labor, keeping the chopped pieces of meat from slipping and sliding around the greasy oilcloth onto the floor.
She felt a spasm in her bent back, and stopped to rub it; where hippyhubby Wild Bill had jabbed her the day before.
The day before, the couple had been amid the noise and tumult of Tulsa, picking up lumber and supplies for Wild Bill's still-making business, when they had walked by the massive Roman Catholic cathedral whose central bell-tower and spires dominate the city skyline.
The cathedral was closed, but even through the thick stone walls one could hear the choir and orchestra therein rehearsing for Easter services, the Hallelujah chorus from Handel's Messiah. Mrs. Alfred Packer, feeling a tinge of nostalgia and regret, had paused to listen; it was so very much like her neighborhood in urban Ohio, and she imagined the priests and altar boys and worshippers, bearing the Cross and candles and incense, in a colorful pageantry of awe and wonder.
Seeing her hesitate, hippyhubby Wild Bill angrily grabbed her arm and dragged her along; "We don't do religion, woman; remember how many times I've told you, we don't do religion, and you better not forget it."
And upon reaching home, Wild Bill had locked up her shoes, leaving her barefooted so she wouldn't run away.
* * * * *
Mrs. Alfred Packer sopped her forehead with a dirty rag; Wild Bill was so hard.
Others had sensed how it would be, that long-ago day when she said "good-bye" to the family at the Greyhound bus depot up in Ohio, coming down to the wilds of Oklahoma to become hippywife to hippyhubby. Mrs. Alfred Packer thought about that maudlin scene often; her father silent and grim, his mouth clenched shut, her mother trying stoically to bear the burden of a lost child, her sister and sisters-in-law weeping copiously, her brothers and brother-in-law taciturn in their damnation of her for being such a fool, and the little nieces and nephews clinging to the hem of her skirt, begging and crying, "Don't go, dear Auntie, don't go. We love you, dear Auntie, please, Auntie, don't leave us."
And in the darkened recesses of the bus station, her long-ago beau from high school, Johnny, wishing that what should have been, had been, rather than this.....
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Mrs. Alfred Packer had been the oldest child, the oldest daughter, in a large family created by a decent honest hard-working laboring man and his equally-decent and devout wife, in urban Ohio. She had been the apple of her father's eye and the pride-and-joy of her mother, which was perhaps a little too strong to be healthy for her.
Considered a princess, in childhood she had acquired the notions and bearing of a princess.
As a little girl, imitating the robust religiosity of her mother, she had dressed up her Barbie dolls in nun's habits, but at about the age of seven years, she had discarded that extensive wardrobe in exchange for one in which Barbie had tiaras and long gowns; more tiaras than Imelda Marcos had ever had shoes.
When a teenager, she had met and fallen into puppy-love with Johnny, the darkishly-handsome Italianate son of another decent hard-working laboring man and his equally-decent and devout wife. For a teenager, Johnny was strikingly gentle and considerate and well-mannered, solicitous of her every need and want, having a sense of courtesy that would make Amy Vanderbilt look coarse and crude, and both sets of parents had beamed upon the prospective match.
But the association was severed when they were both 18 years old, because Johnny wanted to work at the local tire factory, so as to buy a four-bedroom bungalow to cram full of children; to live a modest retiring unassuming sort of life inevitably culminating in a healthy and well-financed retirement, and to treat his hausfrau as she was to him, a queen.
That was not good enough for Mrs. Alfred Packer; she was a princess and deserved a prince, not a tireman.
* * * * *
Mrs. Alfred Packer wearily picked up another dead rabbit and chopped off its ears, using one of those long heavy cadaver-cutting knives Wild Bill had gotten her at a surplus-property auction of the county coroner.
She sighed.
The years had gone on, and former beau Johnny and his second choice had indeed prospered and flourished, in a modest four-bedroom bungalow crammed full of children. The children all were grown and gone on in life, and Johnny was now getting grey and stoop-backed, and his wife fat and pleasant.
Just last Christmas, Johnny had sat down with pen-and-paper in hand, scanning various financial documents; his retirement plan had ballooned during the Reagan-Bush-Gingrich-Bush prosperity, but there was a dark cloud hovering on the horizon. Having put 35 years into the tire factory, Johnny decided to cash in those investments and retire, to putter around the house and dote on his wife.
The devoted children however had other plans for the couple; one was an attorney, another a judge, a third a physician, a fourth a college professor, a fifth an anesthesiologist, a sixth a bishop, a seventh a dentist, an eighth an abbess, a ninth a well-known literary figure out in Hollywood. Only the tenth, who had become a ward-heeler, and then a state representative, for the Democrat machine, had turned out badly.
No one had the slightest idea why that had happened, but it had happened.
The older nine children, grateful to their parents for the love and care and attention they had given them, had pooled their resources and bought for Johnny and his wife a retirement place down on the Gold Coast of Florida, once owned by a Harkness, complete with a private nine-hole golf course.
* * * * *
Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed again, chip-chopping off the feet of dead rabbits.
Since no man was good enough for her, a princess, she herself had remained a spinster until reaching middle-age.
Feeling the pressure of the years, she began looking for a mate; any mate would do.
On the internet, she had met Wild Bill, from the trees and mountains of rural northeastern Oklahoma near Tulsa, and as he was a man and she was desperate, she eagerly romanced him.
What Mrs. Alfred Packer had not known at the time was that Wild Bill was illiterate--he didn't do Christmas, and spent the day listening to "talking books" from National Public Radio; only the blind and the illiterate did such a thing, not being able to read actual books. And Wild Bill was not blind.
And so actually it had not been Wild Bill making all those written expressions of raw animal passion during their internetizing; rather, it was Wild Bill's sister.
Mrs. Alfred Packer oftentimes wondered why Wild Bill's sister, her sister-in-law, gazed at her in a way most women usually do not look at other women, and it discomfitted her considerably.
But at any rate, hippywife had married hippyhubby, who made it clear from the start that she was to adopt his own tastes, his own preferences, his own opinions of things, his own prejudices and loathings, his own hostility towards all that is good and decent in people, and in life.
If she didn't, he would wreak physical damage upon her, so she did.
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As Mrs. Alfred Packer chopped off the noses of the dead rabbits, tossing them into a chipped-enamel basin for later use, she sighed once again, thinking about hippyhubby Wild Bill. Wild Bill was a hard one, nothing as he had seemed to be on the internet when they were courting.
The oldest in a large family, Wild Bill had built a home at the end of a long deeply-rutted dirt road, over which trees hung, creating a winding tunnel-like approach to the house. He entertained fantasies about living like in the old days, Abe and Mary in a log cabin or Joe and Sadie in a sodhouse, and had nearly created that effect with this structure, which flapped and banged around whenever the wind blew, and snow when there was snow, coming through the chinks in the walls.
But really, the only thing reminescent of the old days was the shack down by the chicken coop, inside of which was a bench with two holes. Even though it had two holes, the brother, Mrs. Alfred Packer's brother-in-law, with a tongue too large for his mouth, was always missing both holes.
Somehow, both hippyhubby and hippywife herself never reconciled Abe and Mary, or Joe and Sadie, with a microwave oven in the log cabin or a cat-litter box in the sodhouse; an electric mixer in the log cabin or an internet connection in the sodhouse. And Mrs. Alfred Packer oftentimes wondered how Mary, or Sadie, got along without mood-altering chemical pharmaceuticals.
And Wild Bill was no Don Juan in bed; it was always poke-poke-poke, done, turn over, immediately fall asleep, and pass gas all night long. Mrs. Alfred Packer longed for the Wild Bill who had been so passionate, so lustful, so full of animal energy, so unbridled in carnality, that he had seemed in their pre-marital internet chats.
* * * * *
Wild Bill was a man of strong likes and dislikes, mostly dislikes. He disliked anything, or anyone, that was good and decent, including his own neighbors. Mrs. Alfred Packer, upon arriving in the area, had been struck at how aesthetic, how appealing, how beautiful and handsome, how warm and gracious and friendly, the people of Oklahoma were; the strong well-formed husbands, the comely wives, the well-groomed and well-behaved children.
But hippyhubby had disabused her of that notion, convincing her that they were actually sordid selfish mean ugly ignorant beings worthy only of contempt; "fundies," he called them, as if that were a bad thing.
It was not that Wild Bill's own family was anything to look at; his gap-toothed mother, the brother with both eyes on the same side of his nose, his stringy sister with the chicken-like cackle to her voice, the brother with a goiter the size of a grapefruit on his throat, and the twins, one whose jaw receded into his neck leaving him with no chin, and the other with his chin where his forehead should be.
She felt most uncomfortable with the brother with three nostrils, who upon coming up behind her, always lifted the back of her skirt to see if she had anything on under there.
And it was always discomfitting if she found herself sitting in between the twins, the chinless one groping one of her breasts, and the chinned-instead-of-foreheaded one groping the other.
The brother-in-law she disliked the most was the youngest brother of hippyhubby, the one born with no ears, the sullen, saturnine chain-smoker of cigarettes who never said anything, simply glaring at other people and things with a malicious insolence. Wild Bill insisted this one was the anomaly in the family, the aberration, that he was as dumb as a rock.
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Wild Bill and his brothers were independent businessmen and craftsmen, earning a living building clandestine moonshine stills out in forests and valleys of the area, and recently they had branched out into something new, what were called "meth labs."
The county sheriff was aware something was going on, but could never catch up with Wild Bill and his brothers; every time the police cruiser pulled up to a work-site, it looked as if Wild Bill and his fellow co-carpenters were putting up a chicken coop or hog shed or cattle shelter instead.
Despite that Wild Bill made a good income, cash only and tax-free, as he was always having to bail one of his brothers out of jail, he was compelled to take away from Mrs. Alfred Packer her paycheck from the local nursing home, where she cleaned the kitchen and brought home $200 a week.
In trade for her paycheck, hippyhubby gave her an allowance of ten dollars a week, paying it with a counterfeit $10 bill.
This had been going on for quite some time, and there had been many reports of funny ten-dollar bills being scattered around in Tulsa, and every time there was a report of yet another one, the county sheriff paid a call upon Mrs. Alfred Packer, to learn if she knew anything about the matter.
The sheriff, being an Oklahoman and a church-goer, was handsome and always courteous, tipping his hat to her, addressing her as "ma'am," and generally treating Mrs. Alfred Packer as if a lady, a princess even, but his visits always unnerved her. Fortunately, every time the sheriff showed up to inquire about fake paper (or an individual who had mysteriously disappeared, leaving no trace of his physical existence), any possible evidence was long gone.
* * * * *
Defurring a dead rabbit on the table, Mrs. Alfred Packer suddenly remembered something, and gasped.
Earalier that very week, the county sheriff had dropped by. He had not come by to inquire about any criminal matter, but to buy something instead. Mrs. Alfred Packer designed and hand-made earrings, jewelry which found great favor with residents of the nursing home, both the unsenile and the senile, many of whom were signing their whole social security checks over to her, they finding the jewelry so irresistible they had to buy it.
Either that, or they found it necessary, if they needed their bottoms wiped or bed changed.
Mrs. Alfred Packer had shown the sheriff her latest creations, the sheriff selecting the pair he thought most suitable for his wife.
"How much?" he asked.
"Ten dollars," she replied.
The sheriff pulled out his wallet, but fiddling among the contents, could find only four $20 bills.
"I'll have to give you one of these," he said; "do you have change?"
After which Mrs. Alfred Packer had given him the earrings, and a $10 bill......
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Mrs. Alfred Packer hadn't yet told hippyhubby about that lapse, but she had little time to wonder what to say, as Wild Bill and his brother with hair growing out of his retinas suddenly appeared in the kitchen.
Wild Bill was not in his usually-violent mood, and in fact appeared somewhat jocular.
"You'd better stay off your fat ass and hurry with that hare-and-eggs Easter dinner, woman," he told hippywife, "because we're working up an appetite here. We got to go to town to pick something up.
"A present for you."
Mrs. Alfred Packer dropped the cadaver-knife, nearly chopping off a finger.
"Right, woman, a present for you, an Easter present for you," Wild Bill insisted.
"Instead of having to cook any more using that explosive natural-gas range, I'm getting you an electric stove."
* * * * *
Wild Bill and his brother went out into the yard, and attached a home-made trailer to the back of the 1949 Ford pick-up truck, and as soon as they had disappeared down the dirt road, Mrs. Alfred Packer sat down and wept; wept tears of joy, tears of thanksgiving, tears of surprise, at how nice hippyhubby was being.
As she walked around the yard collecting chicken eggs, Mrs. Alfred Packer fantasized about this new stove; what it might be, where it was from, what it looked like.
She supposed it was one of those shiny, gleaming, smooth white ranges she'd seen once in the display window at Sears, Roebuck in Tulsa, the one with an oven on top, and an oven below. Or perhaps it was one of the nice ranges she'd seen another time in the display window at Montgomery Ward in Tulsa, with six burners on it.
Still dancing joyously around the yard, Mrs. Alfred Packer then remembered the ultra-sleek kitchen range she'd once seen in the display at J.C. Penney in Tulsa, the self-cleaning one.
She was still dancing on tip-toe, faux-pasing as if a ballerina, floating through the air, when Wild Bill and another of his brothers, the youngest one, the chain-smoking no-earred one, the maliciously insolent one, the one allegedly dumber than a rock, came back, something in the trailer covered over with canvas.
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"Get off your fat ass and go inside and clear out enough of the kitchen, woman," hippyhubby said, "so that we can get this inside for you."
Mrs. Alfred Packer rushed inside, and shoving the kitchen table against the wall, made haste to prepare the way.
After which Wild Bill and his unearred little brother carried in the electric stove.
Mrs. Alfred Packer gasped in disappointment, utter discouragement.
* * * * *
It was a large, bulky, dented Philco electric stove, about as old as Mrs. Alfred Packer herself. One of the hinges on the oven door was missing, being replaced with baling-wire. A burner on top was also absent, cut wires the only evidence it had ever been there. Two of the burner-knobs were similarly not there. The white enamel paint was considerably chipped, and there were decades-old grease build-up in the oven and around the burners.
"This is from Lucinda's house," she said, trying to hide her disappointment. "This is from her house that burned down last week."
"Shut up, woman," Wild Bill said; "it's a safe electric stove, compared with the dangerous natural-gas one here, and now get your fat ass out of the way so we can put it in.
"Be grateful that I cherish you enough to be concerned for your safety."
But first, hippyhubby and his sullen brother had to remove the natural-gas stove, and immediately arose a problem.
The problem was with the 3/4" copper tubing that fed natural gas into the stove; it was welded on both the stove and into the wall.
Wild Bill and his non-earred brother contemplated the situation.
The little brother indicated he had an idea, a great idea, a solution to the problem. Kneeling on the floor, a lighted cigarette chugging from his mouth, he grabbed a pair of 4' bolt-cutters and severed the pipe.....
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Okay, that's it, that's the end.
For a first draft I started writing only a couple of hours ago, it'll do.
As usual, this is fiction, but it's fiction based upon anecdotes of the life of the Packer clan as related by the hippywife primitive in the cooking and baking forum on Skins's island.
Some things may be a little bit exaggerated, other things greatly minimized, but on the whole, the story's probably at least 67-75% true-to-life accurate, faithful in most details.
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Superb yarn, coach! If only the DUmmies could apply even a speck of that skill in constructing their pathetic bouncy tales.
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If only the DUmmies could apply even a speck of that skill in constructing their pathetic bouncy tales.
You know, sir, it's got to be Hell, being the sparkling husband primitive.
You know he wants, badly, to critique this story, which is dedicated to him.
But he can't even do it in "code" from Skins's island, because the imperious primitive who doesn't like us, the "Theempressof_All" primitive, is a moderator there, and watching him like a hawk.
In case you didn't know, the imperious primitive, a habitue of the cooking and baking forum, is the one who has a near-middle-aged son who gets a new "life partner" about seven times a week.
So the sparkling husband primitive is gagged; he has no chance to praise this literary work.
And it's even worse than that, for the sparkling husband primitive.
As you know, he's a member of a certain, uh, organization that has a code of ethics; one of them is omerta, where one does not reveal his membership in this certain, uh, organization.
So the sparkling husband primitive can't come clean, and admit he's a member.
There's a second code of ethics, fifteen or so points, which reads like the Boy Scout oath, one point of which it says one cannot tell a lie.
So the sparkling primitive can't lie, and say he's not a member.
I'll bet the sparkling husband primitive's fit to be tied.
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You know, sir, it's got to be Hell, being the sparkling husband primitive.
You know he wants, badly, to critique this story, which is dedicated to him.
....
I'll bet the sparkling husband primitive's fit to be tied.
I'm sure DUmmy Husb2Sparkly is dying to comment. DUmmies hunger for nothing, not even illicit drugs, more than attention. Being mentioned so prominently has to be the biggest event so far in 2011 in this DUmmy's life. (Of course, a fresh batch of litter is a big event to this DUmbass.)
The only problem might be his designation as "l'eunoco", and his tacit admission. If he accepts that label, then it's a short journey to the next sexual stop, and his affiliation with a certain ethnic/fraternal/business organization makes that problematic. I know you don't do television, but many will see parallels between DUmmy Husb2Sparkly and the ill-fated Vito Spatafore, of the Soprano outfit.
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Seeing her hesitate, hippyhubby Wild Bill angrily grabbed her arm and dragged her along; "We don't do religion, woman; remember how many times I've told you, we don't do religion, and you better not forget it."
And upon reaching home, Wild Bill had locked up her shoes, leaving her barefooted so she wouldn't run away.
Does he really treat her like that? I feel bad if he does. :(
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What Mrs. Alfred Packer had not known at the time was that Wild Bill was illiterate--he didn't do Christmas, and spent the day listening to "talking books" from National Public Radio; only the blind and the illiterate did such a thing, not being able to read actual books. And Wild Bill was not blind.
And so actually it had not been Wild Bill making all those written expressions of raw animal passion during their internetizing; rather, it was Wild Bill's sister.
Mrs. Alfred Packer oftentimes wondered why Wild Bill's sister, her sister-in-law, gazed at her in a way most women usually do not look at other women, and it discomfitted her considerably.
But at any rate, hippywife had married hippyhubby, who made it clear from the start that she was to adopt his own tastes, his own preferences, his own opinions of things, his own prejudices and loathings, his own hostility towards all that is good and decent in people, and in life.
If she didn't, he would wreak physical damage upon her, so she did.
Is this true? I feel bad for her if it is, a woman totally loses herself when she allows a man to dominate her.
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And Wild Bill was no Don Juan in bed; it was always poke-poke-poke, done, turn over, immediately fall asleep, and pass gas all night long. Mrs. Alfred Packer longed for the Wild Bill who had been so passionate, so lustful, so full of animal energy, so unbridled in carnality, that he had seemed in their pre-marital internet chats.
She felt most uncomfortable with the brother with three nostrils, who upon coming up behind her, always lifted the back of her skirt to see if she had anything on under there.
And it was always discomfitting if she found herself sitting in between the twins, the chinless one groping one of her breasts, and the chinned-instead-of-foreheaded one groping the other.
The brother-in-law she disliked the most was the youngest brother of hippyhubby, the one born with no ears, the sullen, saturnine chain-smoker of cigarettes who never said anything, simply glaring at other people and things with a malicious insolence. Wild Bill insisted this one was the anomaly in the family, the aberration, that he was as dumb as a rock.
OMG! is this true? I don't really know any of these people hence the questions.
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In trade for her paycheck, hippyhubby gave her an allowance of ten dollars a week, paying it with a counterfeit $10 bill.
:(
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Mrs. Alfred Packer hadn't yet told hippyhubby about that lapse, but she had little time to wonder what to say, as Wild Bill and his brother with hair growing out of his retinas suddenly appeared in the kitchen.
Wild Bill was not in his usually-violent mood, and in fact appeared somewhat jocular.
"You'd better stay off your fat ass and hurry with that hare-and-eggs Easter dinner, woman," he told hippywife, "because we're working up an appetite here. We got to go to town to pick something up.
"A present for you."
Mrs. Alfred Packer dropped the cadaver-knife, nearly chopping off a finger.
"Right, woman, a present for you, an Easter present for you," Wild Bill insisted.
"Instead of having to cook any more using that explosive natural-gas range, I'm getting you an electric stove."
Awwwww!
It was a large, bulky, dented Philco electric stove, about as old as Mrs. Alfred Packer herself. One of the hinges on the oven door was missing, being replaced with baling-wire. A burner on top was also absent, cut wires the only evidence it had ever been there. Two of the burner-knobs were similarly not there. The white enamel paint was considerably chipped, and there were decades-old grease build-up in the oven and around the burners.
"This is from Lucinda's house," she said, trying to hide her disappointment. "This is from her house that burned down last week."
"Shut up, woman," Wild Bill said; "it's a safe electric stove, compared with the dangerous natural-gas one here, and now get your fat ass out of the way so we can put it in.
"Be grateful that I cherish you enough to be concerned for your safety."
But first, hippyhubby and his sullen brother had to remove the natural-gas stove, and immediately arose a problem.
The problem was with the 3/4" copper tubing that fed natural gas into the stove; it was welded on both the stove and into the wall.
Wild Bill and his non-earred brother contemplated the situation.
The little brother indicated he had an idea, a great idea, a solution to the problem. Kneeling on the floor, a lighted cigarette chugging from his mouth, he grabbed a pair of 4' bolt-cutters and severed the pipe....
Well darn! :(
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Okay, that's it, that's the end.
For a first draft I started writing only a couple of hours ago, it'll do.
As usual, this is fiction, but it's fiction based upon anecdotes of the life of the Packer clan as related by the hippywife primitive in the cooking and baking forum on Skins's island.
Some things may be a little bit exaggerated, other things greatly minimized, but on the whole, the story's probably at least 67-75% true-to-life accurate, faithful in most details.
Oh! it's mostly fiction but there are snippets of truth? :(
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frank, you're a brilliant writer!
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Mrs. Alfred Packer hadn't yet told hippyhubby about that lapse, but she had little time to wonder what to say, as Wild Bill and his brother with hair growing out of his retinas suddenly appeared in the kitchen.
:rotf: Hurrah!
Happy Easter everybody!
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Oh! it's mostly fiction but there are snippets of truth? :(
There's a lot more truth in it than just snippets, madam.
Wild Bill's hatred of God and religion, transferred to Mrs. Alfred Packer.
Wild Bill's contempt for his fellow Oklahomans, transferred to Mrs. Alfred Packer.
Wild Bill's depriving his wife of appliances and implements necessary for running a home.
Wild Bill's domineering family.
Wild Bill upsetting his wife so much she seeks solace in chemical pharmaceutical mood-alterers.
Wild Bill's less-than-stellar civic record.
&c., &c., &c.
All things which Mrs. Alfred Packer herself has admitted happened.
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OMG! is this true? I don't really know any of these people hence the questions.
It's a constantly continuing story, the story of the Packer clan.
Every story has some untied loose ends, to be tied in a sequel sometime later.
For example, you might recall the little Celestial peddlar of stainless-steel cookery, who mysteriously disappeared without a trace, after which Wild Bill and Mrs. Alfred Packer dined upon chop suey and chow mein for months, as side-dishes.
I still haven't cleared up the matter of the Federal Express deliveryman.
And now there's the sister-in-law, with her unnatural longing.
And of course the sheriff and the counterfeit $10 bills.
The lobsters from Maine.
The brother-in-law surreptitiously in competition with Wild Bill in the distillery-building business.
The fate of Wild Bill's first wife, who disappeared without a trace, after which Wild Bill rented a locker (freezer) at the local butchery for six months, filling it up and then slowly emptying it.
Wild Bill and Chief S itting Bull have it out.
Mrs. Alfred Packer and her relations with the contemptible "fundies."
The premature and unanticipated disappearance of residents of the local nursing home.
The African goat's-head stew.
Mrs. Alfred Packer saved by a package of praying jelly beans.
&c., &c., &c.
There's a lot of untied loose ends, as there had been in previous sagas (some of which eventually got tied up in this story)--the one new element in this story was the introduction of the ears-deprived chain-smoking sullen youngest brother, who's likely to be featured prominently in subsequent sagas.
Stay tuned.
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There's a lot more truth in it than just snippets, madam.
Wild Bill's hatred of God and religion, transferred to Mrs. Alfred Packer.
Wild Bill's contempt for his fellow Oklahomans, transferred to Mrs. Alfred Packer.
Wild Bill's depriving his wife of appliances and implements necessary for running a home.
Wild Bill's domineering family.
Wild Bill upsetting his wife so much she seeks solace in chemical pharmaceutical mood-alterers.
Wild Bill's less-than-stellar civic record.
&c., &c., &c.
All things which Mrs. Alfred Packer herself has admitted happened.
That's really sad frank and I feel more sympathetic towards her now.
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Excellent work, Frank. I now understand the hippywife a little better. The hippyhubby? Not so much.
And then there is this..........
And Wild Bill was no Don Juan in bed; it was always poke-poke-poke, done, turn over, immediately fall asleep, and pass gas all night long. Mrs. Alfred Packer longed for the Wild Bill who had been so passionate, so lustful, so full of animal energy, so unbridled in carnality, that he had seemed in their pre-marital internet chats.
Who doesn't love a little DUmmy hippy porn? I can say I'm thankful there are no pictures or home movies.
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It's a constantly continuing story, the story of the Packer clan.
Every story has some untied loose ends, to be tied in a sequel sometime later.
For example, you might recall the little Celestial peddlar of stainless-steel cookery, who mysteriously disappeared without a trace, after which Wild Bill and Mrs. Alfred Packer dined upon chop suey and chow mein for months, as side-dishes.
I still haven't cleared up the matter of the Federal Express deliveryman.
And now there's the sister-in-law, with her unnatural longing.
And of course the sheriff and the counterfeit $10 bills.
The lobsters from Maine.
The brother-in-law surreptitiously in competition with Wild Bill in the distillery-building business.
The fate of Wild Bill's first wife, who disappeared without a trace, after which Wild Bill rented a locker (freezer) at the local butchery for six months, filling it up and then slowly emptying it.
Wild Bill and Chief S itting Bull have it out.
Mrs. Alfred Packer and her relations with the contemptible "fundies."
The premature and unanticipated disappearance of residents of the local nursing home.
The African goat's-head stew.
Mrs. Alfred Packer saved by a package of praying jelly beans.
&c., &c., &c.
There's a lot of untied loose ends, as there had been in previous sagas (some of which eventually got tied up in this story)--the one new element in this story was the introduction of the ears-deprived chain-smoking sullen youngest brother, who's likely to be featured prominently in subsequent sagas.
Stay tuned.
You could explore in a little more detail all the peddling she does at the nursing home. It used to be cookies and other baked goods, since she purports to go through probably 25-30 pounds of flour a week, for a family of two. Now it's her glued together paste-and-pot-metal "jewelry". She is always offering something for sale to the feeble old folks who depend on her for their care. Examining the fortunes of the ones who resisted her sales pitches might be interesting.
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I found the rabbit preparation particularly amusing.
:cheersmate:
:-)
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I found the rabbit preparation particularly amusing.
:cheersmate:
:-)
I was horrified, does she really cut the ears, nose and feet off the bunny?
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I was horrified, does she really cut the ears, nose and feet off the bunny?
Most people don't like those parts to be included in the stew. Of course, most people also don't like chicken gizzards, so they're not so smart.
And remember, this is the Packer household, where Fedex deliverymen receive the same treatment.
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Okay, that's it, that's the end.
For a first draft I started writing only a couple of hours ago, it'll do.
As usual, this is fiction, but it's fiction based upon anecdotes of the life of the Packer clan as related by the hippywife primitive in the cooking and baking forum on Skins's island.
Some things may be a little bit exaggerated, other things greatly minimized, but on the whole, the story's probably at least 67-75% true-to-life accurate, faithful in most details.
Ya know, I've said this before and I'll say it again...get going on a book why don't ya? You are a great humorist and story-teller! :yahoo:
Free on-line publishers are available:
https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing
http://www.makeuseof.com/tag/publish-your-own-book-easily-with-some-help-from-publishamerica/
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Frank, I think I see where you are going with your story.
So far I see a bit of everyone in this family. As far as you have gone, small traits of this family bring to mind someone we have known or even our own foibles.
Good work, I can actually see a bit here and there of myself in some of the quirks of the family, some in my friends or family.
These querks also appear in familys of the rich and famious, those that make our laws and police our towns.
Then the question of what is acceptible behavior as everyone does it comes into play.
Example----Hubby bought lawn equipment for the spring clean up. We had big boxes that they were sold in everywhere. Now Hubby is the most honest man I have ever known, yet he tells me he is going to dispose of the boxes at work in a dumpster out back.
I pitched a shit fit, left him totally confused. Everyone does it, no one gets in trouble, why not ????
So who pays for the dumpster to be emptied, not us, it is the company that bares the cost. Why should we cost anyone else to dispose of our garbage, would he like to have the neighbor down the street to fill up our trash cans with their garbage and us have to pay an extra fee???????
He gave me a confused look like I imagne most posters get on their face when I post. A what the hell is she talking about???????
Even the most honest good hearted can fall into a trap and Your story reminds me of how and when we can all get a little quirk that this family has.
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I found the rabbit preparation particularly amusing.
:cheersmate:
:-)
Actually, I've never in my life seen anyone prepare rabbit, and so I was going out on a limb there, just as I did when describing the skyline of Tulsa, when I've never seen Tulsa in my life.
I assumed that's how one prepares rabbit.
But those two instances are perhaps probably the only cases in which I went out very far on a limb.
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That's really sad frank and I feel more sympathetic towards her now.
Well, but we all make our own destinies.
Mine's been lousy in some instances, great in other instances.
Where it's been lousy has been my own fault, and I accept responsibility for that.
Mrs. Alfred Packer's story is actually pretty common among the primitives; a story of someone who has rejected the people, the place, the culture, the values, that gave one life, and nourished one.
And what happens when one does that.
In the immortal words of Demonic Underwear some years ago, the primitives are as fish who reject the water.
The saga of the Packer clan is, really, nothing more than the usual standard medieval morality play.
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I now understand the hippywife a little better. The hippyhubby? Not so much.
Wild Bill's actually easy to understand.
His contempt for all that is good and decent--religion, the people of Oklahoma, Republicans and conservatives--is perhaps based on that Wild Bill came from an unattractive background, the poorer, rougher, elements in Oklahoma.
Since Wild Bill imagines himself not as good as other people, he projects his feelings about himself onto those he considers his adversaries (again; religion, the people of Oklahoma, Republicans and conservatives), in a twist making silk purses into sow's ears.
He hates those things because deep inside, he loathes himself.
Which is the usual standard customary primitive reaction.
The franksolich reaction is quite different.
For those who don't know, franksolich was born without ears, and is deaf. The deformity of course is covered up by wearing the hair a little bit longer than what men usually wear, but the social and intellectual chasm between franksolich and the hearing world can't be bridged. It is true franksolich was born with the acting talents of John Barrymore, which enables him to "get by" for a while, fooling others into thinking he's a hearing person, but the truth comes out sooner or later, usually sooner.
So like Wild Bill, franksolich is an outsider.
However.
Unlike Wild Bill, franksolich first gives other people, or groups of people, the opportunity to "reject" him before he goes around loathing and detesting them.
franksolich doesn't automatically think other people don't like him; in fact, franksolich has the bad habit of going too far the other way, automatically presuming he's going to be accepted by all. franksolich goes way too far this opposite direction, but is never likely to change.
And the record thus far is indisputable; in all his life, franksolich has found the hearing world remarkably receptive of him, from all socio-economic classes and castes to all ages and genders to all cultures and societies, which have been exposed to him. Rejection of franksolich is a rare phenomenon.
In fact, it's possible only the primitives have ever rejected franksolich, all the rest of the world accepting him.
And that's the mistake Wild Bill made, and is making.
Don't pre-judge. Give the other guy a chance, a chance to either reject or accept, before rejecting him.
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Well, but we all make our own destinies.
Mine's been lousy in some instances, great in other instances.
Where it's been lousy has been my own fault, and I accept responsibility for that.
Mrs. Alfred Packer's story is actually pretty common among the primitives; a story of someone who has rejected the people, the place, the culture, the values, that gave one life, and nourished one.
And what happens when one does that.
In the immortal words of Demonic Underwear some years ago, the primitives are as fish who reject the water.
The saga of the Packer clan is, really, nothing more than the usual standard medieval morality play.
It does explain the ideology choice, the left just loves misery, instead of trying to make themselves happy they would rather wallow in it and in turn they want the rest of us to be like them.
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Actually, I've never in my life seen anyone prepare rabbit, and so I was going out on a limb there, just as I did when describing the skyline of Tulsa, when I've never seen Tulsa in my life.
I assumed that's how one prepares rabbit.
But those two instances are perhaps probably the only cases in which I went out very far on a limb.
While my experience is with game, the only big question is if one is saving the pelt or not. Basically you kill the wabbit, decapitate it and skin it (How you skin it gets to the 'Saving the pelt' part), and gut it, then generally cut it into five pieces (Saddle and the hind- and forequarters). The ear-lopping, nose-saving, and defurring were highly amusing in light of the continuing warfare of ptarmigan vs. lagomorph here, unrelated to actual food preparation as they might be.
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Basically you kill the wabbit
Did you take a course under Elmer Fudd? :tongue:
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Did you take a course under Elmer Fudd? :tongue:
Huhuhuhuhuh, why do you ask, you wascal?
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Ya know, I've said this before and I'll say it again...get going on a book why don't ya? You are a great humorist and story-teller! :yahoo:
Free on-line publishers are available:
https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing
http://www.makeuseof.com/tag/publish-your-own-book-easily-with-some-help-from-publishamerica/
Better yet, just shoot a PM to DUmmy Raven.
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Great tale, Frank, I enjoyed it very much!
Another part we know is true: They don't "do" Christmas, rather, they spent Christmas night having some nondescript meal, then sitting down and listening to David Sedaris read his books on tape. Sedaris is featured on NPR, and he is quite openly gay with a pronounced lisp. I wonder why HippyHubby is into that sort of thing?
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Great tale, Frank, I enjoyed it very much!
Another part we know is true: They don't "do" Christmas, rather, they spent Christmas night having some nondescript meal, then sitting down and listening to David Sedaris read his books on tape.
I've always wondered about that, ever since the first time Mrs. Alfred Packer mentioned it.
Why would hearing people listen to an audio book, instead of just reading it?
Unless, of course, one is blind or illiterate.
It's not quite the same thing as the days when radio featured stories and dramas, which were expressedly scripted for purposes of hearing, rather than reading.
I just can't see it. I looked up the program when Mrs. Alfred Packer first mentioned it about a year and a half ago, and essentially, it seems to me they were merely listening to a script, not hearing a story.
I dunno. Even if I could hear, I would just as soon read books, not listen to them.
Incidentally, it was when Mrs. Alfred Packer first mentioned that they don't "do Christmas" that she metamorphosized from the affectionate "Grandma" to the more-sinister "Mrs. Alfred Packer," as it was painfully obvious she had succumbed, absorbed, taken in, the negativity of her husband.
I really dislike it when such happens--a spouse (either wife or husband, either one) suborning her or his better nature to the less-positive, less-happy, nature of the other.
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I've always wondered about that, ever since the first time Mrs. Alfred Packer mentioned it.
Why would hearing people listen to an audio book, instead of just reading it?
Well, if they listen to it together as a shared experience, nodding knowingly to each other in affirmation or chuckling wryly at the urbane sophistication of the humorous passages, then that actually is something a couple could do with an audio book, but not a hard copy.
I was unfamiliar with the work of David Sedaris. After looking him up on Wiki, I expect to remain so.
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Sedaris is featured on NPR, and he is quite openly gay with a pronounced lisp. I wonder why HippyHubby is into that sort of thing?
I imagine Wild Bill listens to the dainty, effeminate gayboy in fascination, dreaming of tender chops and steaks and other succulent cuts.
Nothing like Fedex deliverymen, who always bring the pressure cooker into play.
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I've always wondered about that, ever since the first time Mrs. Alfred Packer mentioned it.
Why would hearing people listen to an audio book, instead of just reading it?
Unless, of course, one is blind or illiterate.
It's not quite the same thing as the days when radio featured stories and dramas, which were expressedly scripted for purposes of hearing, rather than reading.
I just can't see it. I looked up the program when Mrs. Alfred Packer first mentioned it about a year and a half ago, and essentially, it seems to me they were merely listening to a script, not hearing a story.
I dunno. Even if I could hear, I would just as soon read books, not listen to them.
Incidentally, it was when Mrs. Alfred Packer first mentioned that they don't "do Christmas" that she metamorphosized from the affectionate "Grandma" to the more-sinister "Mrs. Alfred Packer," as it was painfully obvious she had succumbed, absorbed, taken in, the negativity of her husband.
I really dislike it when such happens--a spouse (either wife or husband, either one) suborning her or his better nature to the less-positive, less-happy, nature of the other.
Reading for pleasure I have found is a most selfish act, it is like having sex with oneself. Close off others, enjoy a good tale by ones self. I have fallen into a book occasionally where I am so engrossed it takes a shaking to get me back to reality.
Audio books allow as does watching the TV enable others to partake of an experience with you. Listening to a story read is perhaps like reading a book to the kids at bed time, something soothing for the child and parent.
Reading for pleasure can become addicting to some of us, a way to close off the reality of the present, we can leave the bills and problems aside for a while and go to India and ride an Elephant, off on a space ship to another world or be an on looker to ancient history.
Audio books are a help for me when I have to tackle a big job, cleaning out a spare room or cleaning top to bottom the kitchen. As I work I can as my grandmothers did listening to the radio as they cooked or did the wash, just work automatically and still go far away in my mind as the story progresses.
Biggest difference I find between sight reading and audio listening is that if interrupted one can close a book and return to it later. Listening to the TV or radio, if interrupted one will miss out on what ever is being said if they have to turn the sound off.
I am a book person, I like the smell of the paper and ink, the feel of the pages as I turn them, books are personal to me. Audio is a quick fix if I have no time to sit and do nothing but read.
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Reading for pleasure is like having sex with oneself. I am a book person,
Way too much information.
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It's a constantly continuing story, the story of the Packer clan.
Every story has some untied loose ends, to be tied in a sequel sometime later.
For example, you might recall the little Celestial peddlar of stainless-steel cookery, who mysteriously disappeared without a trace, after which Wild Bill and Mrs. Alfred Packer dined upon chop suey and chow mein for months, as side-dishes.
I still haven't cleared up the matter of the Federal Express deliveryman.
And now there's the sister-in-law, with her unnatural longing.
And of course the sheriff and the counterfeit $10 bills.
The lobsters from Maine.
The brother-in-law surreptitiously in competition with Wild Bill in the distillery-building business.
The fate of Wild Bill's first wife, who disappeared without a trace, after which Wild Bill rented a locker (freezer) at the local butchery for six months, filling it up and then slowly emptying it.
Wild Bill and Chief S itting Bull have it out.
Mrs. Alfred Packer and her relations with the contemptible "fundies."
The premature and unanticipated disappearance of residents of the local nursing home.
The African goat's-head stew.
Mrs. Alfred Packer saved by a package of praying jelly beans.
&c., &c., &c.
There's a lot of untied loose ends, as there had been in previous sagas (some of which eventually got tied up in this story)--the one new element in this story was the introduction of the ears-deprived chain-smoking sullen youngest brother, who's likely to be featured prominently in subsequent sagas.
Stay tuned.
When was the last time Chief S itting Bull WAS heard from on the Isle of Misfit Dems?
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the brother with both eyes on the same side of his nose
Maybe a common dominant gene in the Packer clan?
Seems to me there was once a sister, blown up long ago, with the same interesting arrangement.
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When was the last time Chief S itting Bull WAS heard from on the Isle of Misfit Dems?
February 2011, and that wasn't Chief S itting Bull there in person; some other primitive reported for him.
The last time Chief S itting Bull was there his own self was, I think, early December 2010.
The bird-smacking stoned red-faced primitive is still recovering, apparently (according to the primitive who reported for him), from the beating-up he got election night when he mouthed off to the wrong person.
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Way too much information.
Glad I didn't read it!
Sedaris is actually very funny when he sticks to 1) The printed page, and 2) Remembrances of his family.
His parents were conservative, and his mom was an absolute riot.