Author : Bob Viosca

This is the information plaque on an antique outboard motor that was beautifully restored by my cousin Charlie Viosca and donated to the Louisiana State Museum in Baton Rouge for display.

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This Johnson Sea Horse outboard motor was manufactured prior to 1937, when I was 11 years old. It was purchased new for $72.00 by Joseph Pleschia, a dear friend of my father Felix Viosca. Dad was an automobile mechanic and we had use of it any time for fishing, crabbing, and hunting trips, with or without the adults.

During the Great Depression few people had boats, but you were able to rent skiffs for a dollar at various marinas. Some of our favorite locations were: the “trestles” at North and South Shore, Lake St. Catherine, Irish Bayou, Grand Isle, and Gulfport.

From 1941, when WW II began, until I returned home from service in the Air Corps, the first order of business was to contact uncle Joe and get the motor that was unused since the war began and get set up for fishing and hunting. When I picked up the motor, uncle Joe told me to keep it as a welcome home gift since he was in poor health and not using it anymore. My younger brother Jerry now became a fishing buddy since Randall died as a gunner in a B-24 in Europe. While attending Tulane, I could be seen most Fridays on Lake Pontchartrain at Bayou St. John using the motor to run the 100 crab nets my childhood friend Tom Satterlee and I had knitted.

Upon graduation I moved to Pittsburgh and stored it “out of the way” in the rafters of the garage of our home in Lakeview where it roosted from 1955 until 1970. When on a visitation I noticed it and put it in the luggage compartment of the Cessna I had flown there, planning to rebuild it “someday.” It therefore found a resting place in the rafters of my garages in Minnesota, where I then lived, and it suffered uncomplainingly through 31 severe winters.

Upon retirement I moved back to my ancestral breeding grounds here in Louisiana. On the last tour of my Minnesota house I discovered the motor in a not too visible place in the garage rafters. It became the final item put into the moving van, still waiting for its “someday.”

Its salvation finally came when my cousin Charlie Viosca was at a crawfish boil here at my Mandeville home, and noticed it in my garage.  He is an expert restorer of antique cars, and a model airplane builder of extraordinary skill at the air museum in Dallas. We put it in his car with the idea that he will see if it is worth restoring. Some months later he gave it back to me in the incredible pristine shape you see here. Rather than use it again, we decided to donate it to the museum where others can appreciate it here in Louisiana.

Uncle Joe’s motor has found its “someday”.

Bob Viosca,
Mandeville, Louisiana

The older you get, the more you receive impassioned pleas to include various organizations in your will. These pitches invariably appeal to you to “give back” something that you probably never got from them in the first place.

I have just scanned several such items of the “Begging” component of the three B’s (Begging, Bills, and Bullshit) that constitute a major portion of the junk mail that I have to pay Waste Management to haul off. With the spirit of giving back still fresh in my mind, I happened to view a television documentary about a people high in the Himalayas who “give back” to the world in the ultimate way.

The “Sky Burial” funerary ritual of this Tibetan and Mongolian sect is based on Vajrayana Buddhism and a belief in the transfiguration of the spirit and giving back to the earth. The bodies of their dead are chopped up by specialists (equivalent to our undertakers and autopsy performers, I assume) and fed to the vultures. The rite is performed at two adjacent sites, one for men, and one for women as the avian main course. After the vultures complete their work, the bones are crushed and mixed with a form of gruel and pelletized, the dining table is then completely cleaned off by the crows and jays. This is probably to eliminate the possibility of stray dogs dragging a tibia, clavicle, or skull into their masters’ huts.

No doubt, the surviving families take comfort in knowing that their beloved departed one’s final resting place is as buzzard poop deposited on crags and roosts high in the mountains as close to heaven as you can get on earth.

Some scholars speculate that the rite is not religious, but evolved over centuries as necessary due to the thin and rocky soil making interment in a normal manner hard work.

While devouring some lovely Lake Pontchartrain crabs recently, it occurred to me that here is an opportunity for me too to give back in a meaningful way. In consideration of the thousands of crabs consumed over a long lifetime, rather than cremate my remains, it would be a noble gesture to feed my mortal remains to the crab population of the lake.

This could be either of two ways. The first, The Ker Plunk approach would be to weigh the body down with concrete blocks and drop it from the stern of a boat at a location destined to become a genuine “man-made” fishing reef. Thus, after the crabs finish dining, the skeletal remains and cement blocks would become a “manmade” reef for juvenile speckled trout to find refuge from larger marine predators by hiding in the rib cage.

The second approach would involve chopping my remains into small enough pieces to fit into crab traps. This has the advantage of possibly selling them as bait for crab fisherman or bartering with them for the main course to be featured at a crab boil at a reception in honor of the deceased, me. A disadvantage to this approach is that some of the guests at such a reception may be squeamish and feel cannibalistic, since the crabs would likely contain some molecules of the not so dearly departed. The Ker Plunk approach appears to be preferred since it reduces this possibility by increasing the odds in favor of eliminating the middle man.

Enjoy the party.

Bob Viosca

At the first diagnosis the doctors said to me:

Rheumatic fever, and death by 33.

At the second diagnosis the doctors said to me:

Glaucoma eye drops
Rheumatic fever, and death by 33

At the third diagnosis the doctors said to me:

Transurethral Prostate Resection
Glaucoma eye drops
Rheumatic fever, and death by 33

At the fourth diagnosis the doctors said to me:

Basal cell carcinoma
Transurethral Prostate Resection
Glaucoma eye drops
Rheumatic fever, and death by 33

At the fifth diagnosis the doctors said to me:

Kidney Disease Phase 4
Basal cell carcinoma
Transurethral Prostate Resection
Glaucoma eye drops
Rheumatic fever, and death by 33

At the sixth diagnosis, the doctors said to me:

Cataract surgery
Kidney Disease Phase 4
Basal cell carcinoma
Transurethral Prostate Resection
Glaucoma eye drops
Rheumatic fever, and death by 33

At the seventh diagnosis, the doctors said to me:

Erectile Dis-function
Cataract surgery
Kidney Disease Phase 4
Basal cell carcinoma
Transurethral Prostate Resection
Glaucoma eye drops
Rheumatic fever, and death by 33

At the eighth diagnosis, the doctors said to me:

Five cardiac bypasses
Erectile Dis-function
Cataract surgery
Kidney Disease Phase 4
Basal cell carcinoma
Transurethral Prostate Resection
Glaucoma eye drops
Rheumatic fever, and death by 33

At the ninth diagnosis, the doctors said to me:

Mild heart attack and stents
Five cardiac bypasses
Erectile Dis-function
Cataract surgery
Kidney Disease Phase 4
Basal cell carcinoma
Transurethral Prostate Resection
Glaucoma eye drops
Rheumatic fever, and death by 33

At the tenth diagnosis, the doctors said to me:

Cancerous Nephrectomy
Mild heart attack and stents
Five cardiac bypasses
Erectile Dis-function
Cataract surgery
Kidney Disease Phase 4
Basal cell carcinoma
Transurethral Prostate Resection
Glaucoma eye drops
Rheumatic fever, and death by 33

At the eleventh diagnosis, the doctors said to me:

Bladder tumor removal
Cancerous Nephrectomy
Mild heart attack and stents
Five cardiac bypasses
Erectile Dis-function
Cataract surgery
Kidney Disease Phase 4
Basal cell carcinoma
Transurethral Prostate Resection
Glaucoma eye drops
Rheumatic fever, and death by 33

At the twelfth diagnosis, the doctors said to me:

Transcatheter Aortic Valve Replacement
Bladder tumor removal
Cancerous Nephrectomy
Mild heart attack and stents
Five cardiac bypasses
Erectile Dis-function
Cataract surgery
Kidney Disease Phase 4
Basal cell carcinoma
Transurethral Prostate Resection
Glaucoma eye drops
Rheumatic fever, and death by 33

At my 91^st birthday checkup, my doctor said to me:

“Keep up whatever you’re doing you’re putting my kids through college.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My vision’s changed, I’m seeing red.
The doctors don’t know why.
Why do you think, I paint clouds of pink,
Against a violet sky.

You’ve never seen a pink cow.
You say there cannot be one.
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’m surely going to see one.

Show me a cobalt blue cow.
If one you can ever find.
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’ll paint a mauve bovine.

So far, with apologies to Gellet Burgess:

Greens are gray and grays are red.
Blue is purple instead.
I see the world anew, when looking through
A  glaze of cadmium red.

Picasso had his blue and green phase,
Mine will be purple and red.
I’ll warmly paint abstracts these days
Seeing red,  until I’m  dead.

It’s not a curse, it could be worse.
I could see sienna or umber instead.
My paintings, I admit, would then look like shit.
Soooooo…
Tho I have no choice, I’m not adverse
To painting the the town in red.

If we see normal MRIs, of the brain behind the eyes.
Several opthamologists said.
Your chronic crimson visual haze,
Will evoke the cowardly cold war phrase
“Better red than dead”.

Continuing, with apologies to Omar Khayyam:

To see the veins in the retina, an injected dye is the mode.
It causes the red pee you see, when at your abode.
This can be quaint if used to paint a watercolor.
And given the lovely title, “ Sunset in the Commode.”

(on painting with peg usner one day)

Painting at a marina,  the weather is very hot.
Why plein aire “en rouge,” the doctors don’t know squat.
lf Omar Khayyam was here, he’d see
I’ve evoked an old joke to paint a genuine ruby yacht.

Feathers of pink, I think, look great on flamingos.
And red is fine on Rudolph the Reindeer’s nose.
But can you wink, at an egret of pink
in a swamp of lilac and madder rose?

A model in ante bellum garb, a house that could be Tara.
An artist’s set up, not the get up for a Verdi opera.
Rose-tinted sight, no sweat, unlike  Rhett, I frankly do give a damn.
So I’ll paint for you in colors true, a realistic Scarlett O’Hara.

As he drove his earthmoving machine making a cut that would become the roadbed for a new highway across the country now known as Polemiczyk, Jozef Buzzzwicki was appalled to notice that he had uncovered an ancient ruin.  He was dismayed because he now would have to file a compliance report to the Ministry of Antiquities which had decades ago in the year 5004 BCE decreed that work would have to cease until a permit was issued following an archaeological dig. This would prevent him from virtually attending the championship game of his favorite sport.

Flagpoleball was a step of the evolutional descendent of a game three millennium ago known as “Basketball.” Over the centuries, through selective breeding, the professional players had evolved to be nine feet tall. However since it became boring to the fans and public interest waned when every possession resulted in a basket, changes were initiated requiring that the players crawl around on all fours and move the ball with their noses. Hence the wildly popular game “Noseball”, Jozef”s passion evolved.  Of course, the basket was changed to a net, smaller, lower and similar, to that used in what was then known as football in most countries, but soccer, in one, due to a prior claim to the use of the word “foot”.

The chief archaeologist in charge of the dig, Dr. Louiski Leakeyski, was sitting at his field desk reviewing the amazing findings and with the aid of his GPS and a little of help from Google, he was able to pinpoint the dig location to an ancient town known as Wadowice in a country then called Poland. Along with most of the known world it had been buried under many feet of ash from the eruption millennia ago of the volcano Yellowstone. His studies of the strata had indicated that the ruined structure had been built well before the known date of the eruption.

He was interrupted by the entry into his tent of a lovely but breathless Doris Nojusticewicz. She was his lead graduate student aide who had achieved a small measure of fame as a female activist who justly complained that “even here in the fifth millennium, due to bribery of politicians by PACs, women are still not paid equal wages to men.”

She quickly gasped “We have unearthed a significant find,” and was holding the remains of what appeared to be a very old sealed bag made of the material then known as plastic that had survived intact all those centuries.

Taking it from her trembling hands, Leakeyski placed it upon his desktop and gingerly unzipped the bag to examine its contents which were not visible due to the thick ash coating. To his amazement, inside he found a book, a pair of very much worn and aged cleated shoes, and an item of rotten fabric that could be a towel or part of a garment.

Taking first the book, he was able to make out the title “Catechism 101.”  Opening the cover he was amazed to find the owner’s name, Karol Wojtyla and the date 1935 BCE. He quickly Googled the name and became so excited that he lost a bit of bladder control. “Holy shit, Doris, this is obviously the gym bag of Saint John Paul II, this site must have been his high school, and he must have lost this somewhere in the building. Do you realize the significance of this? His bio says that he was an athlete in his youth and as Attacking Midfielder led his football team, the Wadowice Tadpoles, in their defeat of their arch rivals the Krakow Polecats. He scored the winning goal in that memorable game.”

In an effort to increase revenue the politicians took control of the items and immediately placed them on E-Bay.  The bidding across Christendom reached over 50MM euros for each item since it was obvious that such a relic in any church would astronomically increase donations by visiting pilgrims and tithing by the devout. The winning bid for the fabric item was placed by reigning Pope Sicola, using Pay Pal.  He immediately assembled a team of experts, similar to those who studied the Shroud of Turin, to verify its provenance and age. This team, using carbon dating, of a shred of the fabric and DNA comparisons of a hair attached to the fabric to that of a descendant in the Wojtyla family tree was able to confirm that it was indeed a garment worn by the revered Saint during his high school years circa 1934 BCE. Two of the analysis team were reported to have been cured of serious illnesses upon exposure to the fumes arising from the fabric sample; one was cured of terminal haemorrhoids and the other of cancer of the sweetbreads. Needless to say, this news electrified the world. Ailing and worshipping pilgrims seeking cures flocked in droves to view the relic, and, upon insertion of large euro notes into a machine in St. Peters Basilica, could inhale a slight whiff of fumes vended from the climate-controlled sealed display case, which is closely guarded by Swiss Guards to avoid desecration by jealous and zealous fanatics of competing faiths.

St. Peters Square, outside the Vatican, has been occupied 24/7 by massive crowds. The world demand for rosaries has outstripped production capabilities, and new, highly automated, Vatican licensed, factories, are springing up overnight in China.

At a CNN broadcast, a reporter interviewing people inside the basilica at the display said that she had cornered an Italian woman dragging her reluctant young boy and followed by her husband who obviously would rather be playing bocce ball. The high decibel prayer sounds could be heard as far away as the Trevi Fountain where numerous new Baptist converts were being baptized by total immersion, without even wearing personal flotation devices as required by the Coast Guard.

Upon completion of her allotted ten second viewing of The Relic, the boy, pointing at the relic asks, “Che cosa e’ che conchiglia facendo li.”ⁱ  After the mother admonishes him, pointing at the relic, he asks his father, “Quelle est cette tache jaune?”ⁱⁱ His father replied, “Sa coupe de’borde.”ⁱⁱⁱ

Amen

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i    “What is that jockstrap doing there?”
ii   “What is that yellow stain?”
iii  “His cup runneth over.”

Justin and Zeke stood at the edge of the frozen lake. “Do ya think it’s thick enough yet to go ice fishing?” was Zeke’s question to Justin, his friend for the ten years of their lives, all of which had been spent here along the pond. Everyone called it a pond, but actually it was a small Minnesota lake of over 150 acres. Justin said “I can’t wait to put out the ice shack and pull in some walleyes and northerns.”

He continued as he put one foot onto the ice to test its strength. The ice held, but he could swear he heard it give a sigh as he added his weight to it. He said, “Maybe we’d better wait another week.” Zeke said, “Take a walk on it Justin. Check it out. Don’t be chicken.”  His response was, “I’m not chicken. Here goes nothing.” He then stepped onto the ice and his dog Max, the retriever, always his companion, followed and ran ahead about fifty feet.

Justin’s heart sank when he heard the crack of the ice breaking under Max’s feet. “Holy shit, Zeke, it’s an ice hole!” Justin shouted to Zeke. He was referring to the random places around the lake where the ice would always be thin, being above one of the sulfurous hot springs that fed the lake. These were the reason that the Ojibwas had named the lake “Ughnosa” which actually meant “Place Where the Fart God Dwells.” The more prudish whites over a century ago translated it as Stench Lake.

Residents alongside the lake included a high percentage of citizens who suffered from severe flatulence. They were attracted to the area because they were less likely to be blamed for any vile odors that wafted across their dinner table.  The Olson family dining room wall, in typical Minnesota fashion held a moose head, deer head, and a muskie, all evidence of the family prowess in predation on the local fauna. Usually the source of the insult to the olfactory was from the lutefisk dish being served.  Lutefisk, practically a staple among those of Scandinavian descent, was about as popular among those locals classified as “outsiders” as grits among Yankees. Max too, appreciated that, at least in the Olson household, such accusations were no longer ultimately blamed on the dog, but were now blamed on Lake Stench.

Max gave his “get my ass out of here bark.” Justin knew exactly what Max meant since he and the dog had a relationship rarely seen between man and canine.  Max, who everyone thought was a golden retriever, was actually a Bavarian Brauhund. As such, he had the peculiar dietary habits of his breed. He would only eat his kibble if it was soaked in Lowenbrau, although, if it was not available he would sometimes settle for Spaten. He demanded sauerkraut and knockwurst as a main course during Oktoberfest.

But for all these peculiarities, he was a dog with a brilliant mind. He had a Grade Point Average of 3.99 out of four during his training in Obedience School as shown on his transcript. He had covered the seven years of courses in only one dog year. He would have had a solid 4.0 average except for the course “Slipper Fetching 101.” Dr. Phineas Dogbody, his professor had a deep prejudice against anything German, having lost his lower left leg to frostbite during the Battle of the Bulge.

He was suspicious from the outset due to the name Max, but his suspicions were confirmed that Oktoberfest when Max came to class wearing the darling lederhosen that Mrs. Olsen had tailored for him from deerskin. Max considered the embroidered edelweiss border on the shoulder straps to be a lovely additional touch.

When he ascertained that Max was Bavarian, he downgraded his grade to B+, the lowest he could without turning both cheeks of his bias. This was particularly unfair since Max had perfected slipper fetching to a science and would actually put the slippers on his master’s feet, after fetching them.

Max retaliated when at the graduation ceremony he peed on Dr. Dogbody’s good leg. He, having no time for a registration round, astutely “fired for maximum effect”, avoiding Dogbody’s prosthesis in favor of his good leg and nailing him on the gastrocnemius five centimeters below the patella. Dr. Dogbody did not respond immediately. He merely thought that his Depends had failed. He did however realize the next morning that Max was responsible for the severe rash that developed on his leg and the dissolved portion of the lower pants leg of his best Brooks Brothers suit. For, indeed, Max had used the same industrial strength caustic charge that had stripped the paint off all the fire hydrants within two kilometers of the Olson residence.

Justin had raised Max from puppyhood, and had spent long hours teaching him to communicate in American Sign Language. He was hampered by the fact that Max lacked an opposing thumb and long well defined fingers. Max’s signs therefore were abbreviated but he could readily understand what Justin signed. All of this made Justin’s job easier, as Max’s ears had become frosted over.

Justin’s mother could not know this as she watched from the kitchen window. She immediately called 911 and dashed to the barn to find a rope. The ladder was too short to do any good, and all she could find was Justin’s rod and reel, which still held his favorite large red and white lure. She grabbed it and ran to the lake edge. By this time Justin had signed Max to quit struggling and just hold on to the edge of his ice hole.

Lying down on the ice to spread his weight, he removed his trousers and slithered on his stomach toward Max. He stopped long enough to sign Max to grab one of the pants leg cuffs with his teeth and lay flat on the ice. He then he tossed one leg to Max while holding the cuff of the other leg. Max understood and did as directed. Then Justin tried to slide back to shore pulling Max, but couldn’t get enough traction. He heard an ominous loud crack indicating a possible massive break in the ice.

Meanwhile at the shore, Mrs. Olson was conferring with their ancient neighbor Mr. Svenson who was feeding the birds at the lakeside. “Do you have a long ladder?” She asked.

Cupping his hand to one ear he replied “Vot’s a wrong father?” he asked.

“Not a wrong father, a long ladder” she responded.

“Eh?” was the reply from Svenson, cupping both hands to his ears.

“Uff Da!” she said, “How about a long rope?” Svenson said “Vot do you vant vith a long robe now. Let’s get dem off de eis before vorrying how to keep dem varm”

Exasperated, Justin’s Mom took Justin’s fishing rod and checked the drag. She made a cast toward Justin and Max now struggling for traction in one place on the ice just as a large crack opened behind them. Unfortunately she was short by ten feet. Retrieving the line, she again opened the bail of the spinning reel and casted again and again. Finally, she struck home and nailed Justin’s left buttock with the lure. Justin gave a howl as she set the hooks firmly, but his mom persevered. Fortunately, Justin had 30 pound mono on the reel, being after large northern pike. Setting the drag to maximum, she gingerly played in Justin and Max using the same pumping action her husband had taught her to use when she caught the dining room muskie.

With each five foot advance the ice crack kept ominously following them closely toward shore.

Mr. Svenson contributed to the confusion by helpfully offering advice, shouting “Dot’s it Miz Olsen. Dot’s it. Play him, don’t yackass him and break the line. Gute! Gute! Is this vot dey mean whan dey say you’re ‘hauling ass’.” In this manner, she landed Justin and Max on the shore just as the 911 team arrived.

They immediately asked her to show a current fishing license, then measured and weighed Justin and declared him a record catch for Lake Stench. Justin’s yells could be heard as far away as downtown Minneapolis, as they excised the multiple treble hooks from his left gluteus maximus, stitched and bandaged it.

Two weeks later at dinner, Justin was still sitting on a pillow. To avoid any false accusations, Max prudently crept from the room, when the lutefisk arrived.  On the wall, alongside the deer head (odocoileus virginianus), the moose head (alces alces), and the muskie (esox masquinongy), there is now prominently displayed the exact replica of Justin’s pink rear end with the red and white lure embedded that his mother had a taxidermist prepare. The name plate on the plaque reads (Homo Sapiens Justinius Sesquiculus). Max could be seen in the doorway to the dining room with an obvious smile on his face. For he had had aced Latin from CI through CCCII at Obedience School and knew that sesquiculus translated as “asshole and a half”.

Mary ran from the house. She was desperately trying to make it to the outhouse on time. She was particularly panicky, being completely dressed in her wedding gown and suffering from Chronic Diverticulitis, Chrone’s Disease, and Irritated Bowel Syndrome, she had been particularly susceptible to an intestinal calamity being precipitated by the nervous jitters she experienced while awaiting to be picked up by her Uncle Ezra and Aunt Henrietta. She was reviewing in her mind just how to handle the numerous crinoline petticoats she was wearing when she would be trying to function within the confines of the crude one-holer.

Dear uncle Ez would be walking her down the aisle since she had been orphaned several years ago when both of her parents succumbed during the wave of Bubonic Plague that swept through her home town of East Overshoe, Iowa.

For today was the day she would become Mrs. Harvey Winebucks, wife of the scion of the Winebucks family, and the sole inheritor of the Winebuck vintner’s fortune. He, of the family dominated by the mean spirited matriarch, Sara Lee Winebucks, who had tried numerous devious means to discourage Harvey from marrying Mary, persisted, but everyone knew that Sara Lee, who had the temperament of a wolverine, would make life difficult for Mary.  Fortunately, one of the wedding gifts Mary received from a friend, the local mafia don, was an offer to put out a contract on Sara Lee if things got too unbearable in the future.

The Winebucks wines enjoyed a great following over the years. Harvey’s father, the late Merlot Winebucks had come to America during the phylloxera infestation that wiped out the French vines. He had anglicized the family name “Vinfranc” and prospered to become one of the largest vintners in the world.

At the outset of World War II, his vineyards in France were seized by the Nazis and his signature Grand Crud became Hitler’s favorite, but his ordinaires were so toxic as to have been selected by Eichmann as his favorite house wine.

His strict adherence to traditional winemaking procedures featured the rejection of modern masceration equipment in favor of hand, or rather foot, techniques. Through genetic engineering, he solved the serious problems of pollution of the wine by tinea pedis fungi transmitted from the feet of the people tromping on the grapes. Tinea pruris fungi which also had been a problem in the deeper vats also became rare.  His wines developed not merely a resistance but actually killed off these infections.  As a result, athlete’s foot and jock itch are no longer a threat to vintners using his grape strain and time-honored methods.

His Chateau LaFeet Winebucks is being collected by wealthy oenophiles and put aside for their death. Contracts have been signed for their use then by the world-wide funeral director Plantem & Mourne for their embalmment. In this manner they can spend eternity “accompanied by a fine wine.”

As Mary, holding up her lovely gown, dashed madly for the privy, she bumped into Jake, the hired hand who had for years been making crude, unwelcomed attempts to seduce her. He grabbed her roughly and said “Gimme a kiss Mary, gimme a kiss”. Mary was as usual, repulsed by the crude, uncouth, unwashed Jake.  He had long nose hairs. And the few remaining teeth were so coated as to resemble the pilings in Lake Stench. Mary felt a moment of pity for Jake when she noticed that he had braided his nose hairs in anticipation of attending her wedding reception, but she rapidly overcame it.  She mustered all her strength and delivered a powerful knee to Jake’s groin which caused his collapse.  Unfortunately, the time lost and pressure of this action was too great and produced a calamitous result for Mary.

Jake, who had now partially recovered, again approached Mary, but quickly gave up the chase since he was downwind of her. Then he, who bathed regularly every year whether he needed it or not, left gasping and heading into the prevailing westerlies en route to his straw pile in the barn loft where he slept amidst the other vermin.

Undaunted , but free of Jake’s clutches, Mary now turned and rapidly ran down the path leading to Skunk Creek which meandered  through the farm on its journey  ultimately  to join the Mississippi downstream. Taking a deep breath  ,  as she had done so many times growing up, she mounted the tire on a rope hanging from the old oak, launched herself out to the middle , and dropped  into the creek. She then thrashed about violently.

As she started from the creek, another problem arose.  Downstream , one Harry Testes, a field inspector with the Environmental Protection Agency  was conducting routine water quality tests and was appalled by the results he was getting.  He followed the pollution upstream to its source where he found Mary standing dripping on the bank. He promptly issued her a citation for discharging untreated effluent into the heretofore pristine waters. This would carry a fine of $2,000 at her court appearance later at which it would be revealed that she had polluted the Mississippi successively  from Cairo, to St. Louis, to Cape Giradeau, to Memphis, Vicksburg, and onward  to New Orleans. Later tests would show that she was also responsible for a two square miles increase in the dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico.

With time running out, she dashed madly into the house and mustering all of her resourcefulness devised a plan to save her wedding day.  Since the well had gone dry, she dried herself off as best she could using a box of Kleenex and within the time frame she was compelled to work in.  It was not possible to consider washing, drying, and ironing the dress, and having read “Gone with the Wind” several times, she remembered Scarlet O’Hara’s solution to her costume problem.  She then ran into her boudoir and tore from the windows the organdie curtains.  Locating her white bikini swimsuit, she then, working on the kitchen table, proceeded to staple and duct tape the organdie material to strategic spots on the two piece suit.  The result was dramatic in that it displayed the heart and arrow tattoo on her midriff with the words “Mary Loves Harvey” inscribed in it in 50 point Times New Roman Bold.

As she worked she reflected on the romantic night that Harvey had proposed. She recalled how he had knelt on his good knee and said “Mary, I pledge my troth to thee, will you pledge thine to me?”  He was prone to using flowery language.  Mary, not knowing what her “troth” was, thought he had said “trough”, but she agreed.  At their next meeting, she proudly brought him, cleaned and gift wrapped, one of the ones that had been used for decades to slop the hogs on her farm. It had developed a lovely patina and the chewed edges gave it the appearance of a perfect item to take to the next “Antiques Roadshow”.

The doorbell rang and she answered to greet Uncle Ez who hugged her and said “You look gorgeous Mary. The swoosh on your white Nike running shoes keys beautifully with the cockroach tattoo on your left buttock.”  With a flick of her index finger, Mary dispatched a Periplaneta Americana saying “That’s no tattoo, Uncle Ez, the damn things are taking over the joint. They seem to find me particularly attractive today, as do the house flies.”  This she said while attempting to shoo away a squadron of Musca Domestica circling her in search of a safe and nutritious landing site on her lovely, once white, now greatly exposed epidermis.  Then, obliterating one that landed on her Nike Swoosh, she said to Uncle Ez “Let’s get the hell out of here, Sara Lee can’t be any worse than this dump.”

Mary entered the car and sat in the back seat. Uncle EZ quickly used the controls on the driver’s side door to open fully every window in the car. As they started to depart her cell- phone rang and Mary, excusing herself, quickly answered  it.  She said into the phone “Yes, this is Mary… Yes. …Yes…Yes… Oh Nooo” and that’s when her difficulties began.

Bob Viosca