Wednesday, December 19, 2007

RS: Little Debbie's Christmas Newsletter

Dear friends,

I hope this year has been filled with great joy and this letter finds you—oh, fuck that shit. I hate these goddamn newsletters, pretendin to make you feel special with pretentious bullshit, soundin like their trying to rewrite the fuckin US Constitution. I swore to myself that I would never write one of these fool things. But here I am. I absolutely could not git around to gittin no cards bought. Ever year seems like it gits worse and worst. At this rate I will be sendin out Easter cards. Now wouldn't that be about a tacky way to celebrate the resurrection of our Lord and Savior! Well, I will try to do better next year.

It has been one busy fuckin year here in New York City. Now I will tell you what, it is Christmas time in this god damn city. Ring a fuckin ding ding. It is pretty and all, but there's so many gawkin shits on the sidewalks, you cain't enjoy nothin. Why, you look up to see a single flashin light and run head long into some fool standin on a corner tryin to figure out where 5th Avenue is when they have just walked over from 7th to 6th. You would think, any moron could tell the numbers was goin down. They ain't gonna just throw you a 9 out of the goddamn blue.

And these stupid fuckers will be standin not 30 feet from the tree in Rockefeller Center and will stop you and ask you where it is. I just think to myself, "Well, look up, dumb ass." But, now, these country folk, they may be a bit simple but they are just out of their element. Why, they could find the very spot in a 80 acre pasture where their favorite cow calved two springs back. Walk right to it without skippin a beat. But ask 'em to spot a tree three stories tall with a thousand pounds of sparkles on it, and they are struck dumb. Saddest thing I ever seen.

But, now, this silver bells musak bull shit has just about got me plum out of the Christmas spirit. I swear to the Lord above, if I hear that fool song one more time, I am gonna rip the speakers right out of the walls at Duane Reade. Why I go in there in the first place is a mystery to me. I do not know where they find people to work behind the register there, but merciful Jesus if they ain't a slow bunch. I can feel my thighs begin to atrophy just standin and waitin to buy a box of Kotex. Hell, my eggs is gonna turn to powder one of these days just standin at the check out.

Now, I realize that them girls don't git paid a whole lot. I've done my time in a minimum wage job before, and I know that shit don't give you no kind of motivation to move your ass. But this is right down ridiculous. Back when I was married to my second husband, Hershel, I was workin for minimum wage over at the Kum and Go. Now, I had to run that register, mop them floors, and restock the pop coolers. I didn't set the world on fire but I'll tell you there wasn't a customer come in that store that had to wait too awful long on me. And I greeted ever one of the mother fuckers with a smile, ever time. Some of em would just stand there a gawkin at you like you'd just farted or somethin. Just a look of disgust on their faces. But, now, I gave them the same level of service that I give ever one else.

I worked there with Rose Zella Wendler for three years. She helped git me through my divorce from Hershel. Lord, I suffered so with him. I took him back time after time. They caught him masturbatin up on Grave Yard Hill one time, got the police involved and ever thang. Now, what kind of a fool do you think I felt like when I walked into that police station and saw him sittin in that cell with his hands cuffed and his dirty Wranglers slung down around his ankles? He clomped over to me with his big ass belt buckle just scrapin up sparks against the concrete floor a poutin and a beggin, "Oh baby, this ain't what it seems like." I said, "Well, it seems like your too goddamn stupid to pull up your pants and a sick son of a bitch to be jackin off on Ray Tabor's tomb stone." I asked him if he was plannin to pack up the pick up and haul his ass out to San Francisco or what. He said, "Naw, baby, I love you. I love you with all my heart." I said, "Well, by God, you better figure out how to start lovin me with your zipper pulled up." And I turned around and took his ass back. I knew good and well he was gonna figure out some other way to fuck things up, and he did. He burned up the trailer tryin to fry a turkey on Thanksgiving Day. Pulled the entire volunteer fire department away from their own dinners to stand and watch a tin can go up in flames. I thought to myself, "Now, Debbie Sue. You have got about as little to be thankful for as you ever had." I don't know if he thought he was some kinda goddamn Chef Boy R Dee or if he thought he was gonna scheme his way into collectin some big insurance settlement. But, now, he was too stupid to scheme his way out of a wet sack so he sure as hell was not gonna fool them slick bastards at State Farm.

They wuddin like no good neighbors at all. Dropped us like a hot rock and never give us the time of day again. Even when I went back to em with my third husband, Dwain, they just shook their heads and said there was nothing they could do. I had to drive 45 miles over to Souder Springs to git myself some insurance.

Well, now, anyway, I worked with Rose Zella Wendler for 3 years and we had us a good time. Oh, lord, we laughed and laughed. She could imitate about ever customer that come into the store, and she was spot on. Just got to the heart of what made each one of em tick. We had fell out of touch when she moved out of state. She claimed that she had met some fella on the internet and had fell in love. Rose Zella was a good person but I knew she'd floated a bad check or two, and the word around town was that she was stayin about 2 steps ahead of the law. She got out of town pretty damn quick so I don't have no trouble believin that. You know, I want to think good of people, but even the good ones gits to actin a fool. Somebody said she was spendin all her money on that Home Shoppin Network and the Home Interiors and then sellin it and not payin for it, but I didn't believe em. Cleevel Clavenhagen come around snippin about how whatever happened was comin to her because she was thief, just a common criminal for buyin all that shit she couldn't afford and runnin out on her responsibility. I tell you what, I flew mad as a hornet just about that quick and I tore that lyin bastard a new asshole. I said, "Don't you never let me hear you spreadin that sick pack a lies again or I'll snatch ever last hair right off your balls." I meant it too.

So, Rose Zella went off, and she'd write me a quick letter ever now and then. Didn't say too much. You know, they can use what you write down in a court of law, use it against you. Least I think I heard that on one of my programs or round here at the law firm. Cain't remember which one it was. But she must have cleared ever thing up because she called me about 4 months ago. She had just found out that she had cancer and wanted to do all the things she'd never got to do. One of the things on her list was to go visit the Aztec ruins in Mexico. I said, "I don't know what you want to pay to go see a ruin for, you can visit Uncle Shady's dumpin silo back home for free." But she thought it would be a healin experience. Got over there and she told me she wanted to go swim with the fuckin dolphins. I said to myself, "Now, Debbie Sue, now this is one dumb fuckin idea." First off, they are gonna see me a comin and think their lives are bein threatened. I outweigh the fuckers by a hunnerd pounds. Then they told us the dolphins git excited and might release on ya. Now, they wasn't foolin me one bit. I knew what they meant by "release". I ain't the least bit squeamish about some animal shittin down my leg. But I thought, "What if I git tired out there and start to take on water?" I know that fat floats, and I've got a pretty steady dog paddle, but I don't swim very often anymore. You cain't just walk into any store and find somethin for me to wiggle into. And not just any bathing suit will work on a full figured gal. I usually have to venture out to the Home Depot for some patio furniture upholstery. But in this case, gittin me into the bathing suit was not the biggest challenge. I have been in pools my whole life. And I know people piss in 'em ever day. But there is no chlorine in the ocean. So you are takin on the full contents of a dolphin dump, possibly in one gulp, and that stuff is down your gullet before you know what hit you. So, I watched Rose Zella from the boat. It tickled the shit out her to pet on that slick little bastard, but I didn't want near that thing with a ten foot pole.

Turns out, that water wasn't what I should have been afraid of. We went into town that very night and I got sick as a dog. I shit my guts out for the next 12 days. Lost 7 pounds, which was a delightful outcome, but I didn't care much for the path to get there. And I didn't even drink any of the water. They said it might have been the water that the dishes was worshed in. Someone needs to tell me how them little jumpin-bean mother fuckers manage not to spray the contents of their stomachs ever day. I haven't been that miserable in my entire life. And I couldn't complain. I mean, Rose Zella is sittin there happy as a god damn clam to be fulfillin a life-long dream, facin cancer, and I'm gonna complain about some diarrhea? You know, that just wouldn't be right.

You'll all be sad to hear that Aint Omi died this past spring. She was a crazy old heifer but you couldn't help but like her. It is gonna be hard goin home for the holidays this year. She used to make the best green bean casserole you have ever tasted. I know that anyone can dump a can a beans, some cream of mushroom soup and some fried onions in a dish and make the same damn thing. But Aint Omi did something special. I think I seen her put garlic powder and a little hot sauce in there once, but I cain't be sure. She caught me a lookin and slammed the cabinet door shut before I could git a real good look at the labels. And now she cain't teach me the recipe. I nearly bawled my eyes out for a week.

Lonnie got out of prison two months early on good behavior. I told Lonnie the next time he decided to whip up a batch of crystal meth with a stripper he picked up outside Cooter's All Nude, he had better make damn sure she wuddin a fuckin under cover cop. I told him he'd better leave that drug shit alone anyway or he wouldn't have to worry about some serial killer in the upper bunk makin his brown eye blue, I would beat his ass til hell wouldn't have him my damn self. He knowed I was serious too. I asked him what in the hell he was doin at Cooter's anyway. He said, "Aw, I just wanted to git me a peek of some." I asked him, "Now why didn't you just git some horny gal drunk down at The Pour House like ever other fool man and be done with it instead of payin to look at that nasty shit?" They don't git the cleanest gals down at Cooter's as you might imagine. I went in there once with Hershel. I tell you what, that is some goddamn ridiculous shit. Just sittin around starin up at some dirty crotch. I told him to just stick to his magazines. He said, "Oh baby. Oh baby, sometimes you just need the real thang." I told him he could git that look out of his eyes cause I wuddin about to spread out like a roast chicken and have him stare at me with the lights on and huff and puff and jiggle his weiner. I said, "There is a reason them things is called privates—that shit belongs in the dark." So, I let him keep on goin to Cooter's; but, now, he had to worsh his hands ever time he come home.

My friend Connie and me went to Las Vegas. You know how they say that whatever happens there stays there? Well, they got that one right. Connie showed her ass from the minute the plane touched down until we took off. I said, "Now, Connie, it is your life and Lord knows that I want you to have a good time. And I don't mind the hootin and hollerin at ever man that gives you a second glance, and I don't even mind you flashin your titties at the Circus Circus, as inappropriate as that was, but, by God, will you keep your goddamn panties on?" She thowed them fuckers on stage at three different shows. The last straw was when she run up to the second row and flung her undies at Elton John. I thought, "Now what do you think he wants with your drawers?" The man is gay as a goose, says so hisself. Them lace thangs probly turns his stomach. He never flinched, but I was disgusted for him. I said, "Connie, now I don't give a piss in a gentle wind what you think about what that man does when his lights is off, but you ought to respect that it ain't never gonna include your dirty panties." She got bout half hocked off at me, but you know, that shit ain't right! She humped up, suckin on her third pomegranate margarita. That sweet shit just about makes me wanna gag, but she acts like it is the fuckin antidote. And, by God, bout half way into that sucker, she was happy as a five-peckered coon dog and forgot the entire thing.

Oh, I nearly forgot. In March I thought I was dyin. I got this growth on my lip that took on a life of its own. I was sure it was a tumor. I woke up one morning, all numb and pink. Fucked up my smile. Connie looked at it and diagnosed me with Bells Palsey but she didn't know no fuckin more than I did. Couldn't even talk plain. Sounded like my Cousin Twisha. Her name is actually Trisha but she's got a hair lip and just spits and slurs and cain't say nothin so's you can understand it. I swear to God sittin across from her when she is eatin fried rice is like lookin up in a rain storm. We ate Chinese once and I come home lookin like I had a head full of maggots. I wouldn't eat nothin but Italian with her from then on. You cain't spit a noodle too far unless you chew it up real good, and she don't. She busted up her lip when she was 16. Ever body told Aint Horence not to git her a Trans Am so young, but she'd got her house fire money and I guess it was hot too, burnin a hole in her pocket. She was hell bent on impressin ever body in town but they all just think she is cheap carnival trash right down to the core. Twisha was haulin ass down to Granny Teensie's house to show off and run over one of Bud Porter's hogs that had got out. Them little fuckers rolls like dice and flipped that little car end over appetite right there by the Girdner Cemetary. Granny said if she'd a been goin any faster they'd a just thowed a head stone up right there, wouldn't even have to move the body. She busted her lip on the steerin wheel. God, we made unmerciful fun of the way she talked after that. I woke up thinkin, "Now that is some fuckin karma for you." That thang carried on for the better part of a month, swelled up like a dog tick full of pus until, I swear to God, that thing had its own heart beat. Turns out it was a goddamned ingrown hair. I got tired of colorin my upper lip, then I got tired of waxin, so I shaved the fuzzy son of a bitch one day. I thought, "Well, Debbie Sue, here your go. Mouth like a cat's ass." But I went down fightin. I don't do that shit no more though. I wax that sucker ever three weeks whether it needs it or not.

Twisha's got two girls. Couldn't be more different. Named one of em Tina Louise, turned out just ugly as a witch's tit. And little Annie Faye (named after Princess Anne no less) was just pretty as a picture. Simple as syrup but just a darlin. Got her head stuck in the middle hole of Granny Teensie's out house when she was 4 years old. Swattin flies. There was a goddamn army of the little fuckers swarmin down there, and she thought she was gonna git ever damn one of em. She was just a good flake of lead paint away from bein a complete retard her entire life. But both of Twisha's kids made news this year. Annie got knocked up on Homecoming night and little T was on Jeopardy. She didn't do not good, ended up with one dollar; but, you know, she must have done better than a lot of kids to git on the show. I was real proud of her.

Poot Porter finally got married. He was my boyfriend in the third grade. Gave me my first kiss. Little fucker tried to slip me the tongue and nearly made me puke. He didn't know what he was meant to do with his tongue but he was bound and determined to git that nasty thing in my mouth. I slapped the tar out of him and sent him home cryin. He never mentioned it again. When we was in the fourth grade, we had a tornado drill. Poot was a little kiss ass and he was one of the ones picked to open up the windows. Miss Hampton asked for volunteers and he thowed his hand up so hard I thought it was gonna snap plum off. I sure as hell didn't stick my hand up. I didn't want no part of that bull shit. Now, why would anyone want to git one bit closer to a oncoming tornado than you have to? That drill bell rang and I was the first one under my desk. Not that that little wad of kindling was gonna protect you from much. Anyway, Poot shot up at the first ring and ran over to the window and gave it a yank. Nothin. He grabbed her again with both hands and laid ever pound of hisself against that window frame. Well, the dumb ass forgot to turn the handle so it was locked down tight as a wedge. It didn't budge but he let out a fart that you could have heard into the next county. From that day on, he was Poot. Until I saw the announcement in the paper, I didn't even remember what his real name was. It was Eukel Dale. If I was him, I would have been happier with Poot.

Well, I have decided to go on to school. There is a program over at the law firm where I'm workin in the word processin department that will pay for half of a degree if it is work related. I figure I see them long words ever day, so they won't be no trouble for me. So, I been studyin on it, and I thank I'm gonna sign up. I can git me a paralegal degree goin nights. I been waitin for a awful long time for somethin to come along and change things for me, and this just feels like it might be the very thing. Just keep me in your prayers is all I ask.

Well, I got to go. I have wrote until my hand's plum sore. And, that's most of the big happenings from this year anyhow. I have got to git out there and finish my shoppin. God, I hate that. The thought of fightin them crowds at Macy's just puts me into a homicidal rage. Wouldn't Jesus just love that on his birthday?

Have a happy holiday and talk to you next year. I love ever one of yuns.

Merry Christmas,
Debbie Sue

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