Okay, first I need to mention that the Flying fucking Monkeys in The Wizard of Oz horrified me as a youngster. It's a wonder I don't have a deep-seated fear of primates in general, due to watching The Wizard of Oz, but miraculously, I don't. [I am afraid of them getting upset and throwing poo, but that's another story.]
SB once had a friend, named Nicole, who was deeply afraid of wasps, not due to a fear of being stung, but instead they reminded her dumb ass of tiny little flying monkeys.
Uhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmm, okay. To this day, when I see a wasp, I have to laugh, at least before they sting me. I don't really laugh after. It's not as funny then.
Moving on, this post really focuses on the Wicked Witch, and more specifically, on my Cousin John, who really looked a lot like her, especially on a bicycle, pedalling against the wind with his bony little legs.
Cousin John had a problem with the drink. I know that's a shocker for you readers, but it's true. Anydamnhoo, John got tired of racking up the DUIs and jail time, so his defiant ass decided he was going to ride his bike every afternoon out to the Eagles to drink his libations and then back into town after dark. That way, the fucking pigs couldn't nail him with a ticket.
So, in pretty much all weather, the locals, and sometimes family, would see John's skinny, long-bearded, hippy-ass peddling about a mile-and-a-half from town in the late afternoon and back to town each night. Sometimes, in especially foul weather, some good Samaritan (fellow drunk whose ass shouldn't have been driving either) would offer to load John's old bike in the trunk and drive him back into town, which was nice, I guess.
Due to ill-planning or possibly being a cheap-ass, John had no lights on his bike, only reflectors, so you could see John's bike from the sides, but not really from the front or the back. This wouldn't have been so bad on a damn sidewalk, but John's ass was forced to ride on the roadway, because the Eagles was out in the country. I am sure there was a shocked motorist or two, who wondered if Cousin John was some sort of ghostly wraith, riding the roads at night, out of the bowels of hell, and who shook their tired heads in wonder at what they were seeing.
As John pedalled his old bike, his stick like legs furiously pumping, his long, thin beard would blow back behind his bony ass. Once, when I passed him on the road, I couldn't help but notice that he resembled the Wicked Witch. Basically, if you had painted John's face green and stuck his bony ass in a dress, he'd have been smack on.
I always enjoyed sitting next to John at the Eagles and hoisting some brews. He rarely managed to get my name right, and insisted on calling me Lisa, after another cousin of ours, but I was okay with that shit, because Lisa was prettier than me. After all, what does it really matter, people? Remember, SB is not her name. It's just a symbol for an actuality. Besides, I'd sure as hell have picked a better name for myself than the one I have (sorry Moms), something like Richard Hell, for instance. Although I guess that would be a little weird for a girl.
But, I digress. . .
For some damn reason, they made Cousin John vice-president of the Eagles (maybe just because he was there a lot), and one weekend, when John was in charge, he created quite a drunken disturbance and threw himself out of the club. So, the next Tuesday night, when the club officers were meeting, John told on himself and nominated himself for temporary expulsion from the Eagles and he banned himself from the club for several painful weeks.
Cousin John's gone now. His ass is riding his bicycle in heaven, if you believe that shit, and I miss him. Nobody calls me Lisa anymore.
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