Early one Friday afternoon, I was standing in a long line at my local Piggly Wiggly with a cart-load of cold beer, collards and a freshly butchered pork butt. It has absolutely nothing to do with this story, but a “pork butt” isn’t really a pig butt…it’s actually the shoulder.
Seems that in the late 1700’s, folks in New England would store their pork shoulders in barrels they called “butts,” giving way to the name “Boston Butt.” Since the Southerner in me refuses to cast accolades upon a Massachusetts town when it comes describing this “south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line” staple, I’m gonna stick with “pork butt” for this story…consider yourself educated.
There appeared to be some confusion ahead of me as Ms. Lisa (my favorite cashier) carefully explained the difference between rutabagas and turnips to the bag boy. Delayed by an impending price check, I noticed the lady in front of me was entranced with the latest edition of US Weekly.
According to the cover, Sarah Michelle Gellar is apparently preggo with a real-life vampire’s love child. If you don’t see the irony in that, I can’t help you. I reached for my own copy (cause, hello, Sarah Michelle Gellar), and I see this lady’s son, a scruffy, mullet-head 8-year-old boy, standing at the end of my cart shotgunning a 20-ounce Mountain Dew like a Natty Light on race day. After placing the bottle BACK IN THE COOLER, he began rifling through candy bars like a crack head searching for spare change.
He was a portly, surly-looking little kleptomaniac, rocking a Ninja Turtles wife-beater covered in either mud or chocolate…it was tough to tell which. We locked eyes just as he ripped a monster belch that easily registered a 2.3 at the US Geological Survey station in Colorado.
To be truthful, I wasn’t expecting an “Excuse me,” (and certainly didn’t get it). Instead, I got the stone-faced lear of a future diabetic serial killer who stared me down through steely, sugar-filled eyes and murmured “I bet ya can’t beat dat!” No sir, no I couldn’t. This kid was obviously a pro. That burp had the depth and tone of a dual exhaust Chevy with cherry bomb glasspacks. Instead, I complimented him on his strong oratory performance as he peered into my cart clutching a fist-full of Almond Joys…
”Nice burp there, boss.”
“Yep,” he heartily agreed, then stared up at me with a furled brow.
“Hey, what’s all dat green crap, man?”
Resisting the urge to correct his grammar, wipe the vestiges of a stolen Hershey bar from his chin, and wear out his backside with a splintered 2×4, I explained in my best south-of-the-river accent, “Dem dare is collards, man.”
He chuckled, and we connected…I spoke his language.
Now keep in mind I don’t really like talking to people’s kids, but his Mama was too busy gasping at the lurid details of Buffy’s immaculate conception of a blood-sucking progeny to notice her heathen child pocketing York Peppermint Patties. I felt it was my duty to keep this kid talking so he wouldn’t shoplift a box of Marlboro Lights, or worse, shiv me with a sharpened Twix bar.
I asked little Javier Bardem if he liked helping his mother shop…and he said no.
I asked if he played any sports…he said no. I asked if he liked school…he said no. I asked if he liked BBQ…he said no. I asked if he knew any words besides “no”…and he said, “yep, nope.”
Sadly, before I could ask if he was excited about going to the penitentiary in a few years,
his mom finished her purchase. She beckoned him to her side and admonished him for the handful of Almond Joys…”You don’t even like Almond Joys, boy!” (Something tells me if they were Twizzlers, she wouldn’t have said a word.)
I’ve got to admit, after watching him walk off, I began to feel a little guilty. I’m sure he wasn’t really a bad kid. Probably just misunderstood. Perhaps he didn’t get the attention he deserved. I began to wonder how my own kids were perceived by others? I mean, who am I to be so judgemental, so high and mighty? Shame on me. Shame, shame, shame. I paid for my beer, butt, and collards, then spent a couple minutes listening to Ms. Lisa’s advice on rubbing my butt. I finally made my way to the door, determined to be a better person.
I stopped outside the doorway as a shiney new Volkswagen rolled past with music blaring.
Just as I was putting away my wallet and reflecting upon my new outlook on life, I was suddenly hit with a pain in my right kidney that literally dropped me to my knees. I feigned a scream that only came out as a whimper. My pork butt rolled across the sidewalk as I struggled to stand, unable to catch my breath. The smell of Mother Earth Dark Cloud wafted from the broken bottles as they shattered on the concrete.
Who hit me? Was I being mugged? Assaulted? Had Elizabeth put out a hit on me with hopes of cashing in on my collection of James Bond DVD’s? My mind was racing as my defensive instincts completely eluded me. This was it…was I really going to die at the hands of a stranger in the doorway of a Piggly Wiggly for a wallet containing $7 in cash and 2 losing Powerball tickets? I tightened my body and prepared for a second blow. Through the wincing pain, I peered over in a futile attempt to catch a glimpse of my assailant…
And then I heard it…
“PUNCH BUG! Hahahahahaha! Enjoy dem collards!”
He waddled quickly across the parking lot, pilfered Almond Joys falling from his rear pocket as he ran. At first I was angry, but apparently, I’ve made a new friend. And maybe one day, he can snag me sixer of MEB Dark Cloud. 
~dso
(I found this helped to weed out the spoiled lasses who were only looking for a life of leisure and soliloquy at my expense….thus saving them years of disappointment down the road.)
One who has never been subjected to the shear cleaning power afforded by a 120-grit sheet of John Wayne industrial grade single-ply balled up like a Danny Duzit scouring pad? Hey, I know I out-kicked my coverage, but I had no idea I married into some sort of toilet paper royalty who reigned from the golden thrones (get it?) of Biltmore Estate. I can only assume that she married me out of pity. It happens. Women love a project…especially one that that never gets finished (and I’m forever in the bathroom). Today’s revelation only confirms what I’ve long suspected: She has an ill-conceived notion
that one day, this poor, overweight, balding, noxious frog will become a prince. Obviously, I haven’t…and likely never will. So, ribbit.
Except snoring. Whole lot of snoring. But no dreams. Weird, huh?
To my left, miles of unspoiled pristine beach in it’s natural habitat. To my right, a massive family of pasty-white Yankees feeding a 5 pound bag of Cheetos to an ever-growing flock of seagulls from beneath an EZ-Up tent whilst they poop upon the hood of my truck (the seagulls, not the Yankees). Just a typical day on the North Carolina coast. Then it happened…
The puzzled looks of the hairy-backed, orange-fingered visitors from the great white north told me that this was certainly not in my head. This was really happening. Something bad. The wind had all but stopped and the sun was beginning to glow a deep reddish orange…pimento cheese orange. And then, once again… KABOOOOOOOOM.
The Yankees had long ditched the safety of their EZ-Up fortress and were sprinting to their Vanabego as quickly as their Crocs and knee-high black socks would take them. My truck was literally bouncing in the sand. Pimento cheese was everywhere. The dulcet tones of Steve Winwood crooned through the speakers…
sand dunes shifting to flat plains, and boats saying their final goodbyes as they succumbed to the the 50 foot swells enveloping the beach with each passing concussion. Prudence demanded that I dig around the floorboard in search of that final piece of pork belly, as assuredly, this would be my last meal…
: I completely lost all composure at this point and inadvertently uttered a pitifully disguised laugh that resembled a loud obnoxious ‘verp.’ Credit to ‘Amanda’ … not her real name … she deadpanned like Rita Rudner reincarnated.)
(that’s police radio code for “public disturbance.” Don’t ask me how I know this. It’s not relevant to the situation at hand).
head…calmly, quietly, invitingly. Soon the cashier began nodding…then the others in line softly muttered and began to nod, smiling in agreement. It was a beautiful thing. People coming together for the common good.
ng her way toward me. I had noticed her in line earlier, complaining loudly about the lack of meatballs on her 12 inch sub. The only thing restaurant employees hate more than people on diets are people that SHOULD be on diets, especially those complaining about the dearth of food on their plate. Seems she had only received 8 measly meatballs…in her mind a pauper’s portion, given the size of the bun. And had she sweetly requested another meatball to offset that vacant bun space, I’m sure they would have happily obliged.
Charlie. The young woman behind the counter squirted that Miracle Whip like she was wringing someone’s neck and staring the old lady down with every creamy line. “Hit it again!” she bellowed. Must have been half a bottle of mayo on that sammich. What the old lady lost in extra meatballs, she made up for in mayo. Ha. That’ll teach’em.
faded Wrangler jeans, a cheap plaid shirt, a starched white cowboy hat, and a giant belt buckle, the likes of which I had only seen on the Nature Boy Ric Flair. His ornery attitude was equaled only by the wheezing beast he was attempting to mount.
eventually won the thing after 3 successful rides. I understand he took home $350 for the trouble. We watched from the parking lot as he flicked his cigarette at a group of kids hoping for an autograph, then climbed into a ratty old Ford F100. He sprayed dust and rocks against the other cars as he drove off nursing a Budweiser tall boy concealed in a brown paper bag.
system. Jason Derulo…at a rodeo? Um, ok. I get it…I’m in marketing. Appeal to a younger, more diverse crowd. Of course, I think the diversity discussion should probably begin with getting Pepsi & Coke in the same restaurant, but if you wanna start it with Jason Derulo at a rodeo, then Ok. Weird, but Ok.
people, I notice he’s wearing what appears to be…yes, it is… a bullet-proof, Kevlar vest. And Kevlar gloves. And Kevlar pants. And Kevlar arm pads. And a Kevlar helmet covered in energy drink stickers and a full metal cage across the front. As I’m wondering aloud how he’s gonna spit a wad of chaw through that wire mesh or reach through for a tug of his Marlboro I see the huge “NO TOBACCO PRODUCTS ALLOWED” sign plastered behind him. What in the wide world of sports? No Red Man? No Levi Garrett? No (gulp) Marlboros? Bet they’re serving tofu at the concession stand with Stella Artois on tap. Travesty. Meanwhile, this little canuck guy is petting old Freckles like a long lost Labrador retriever and whispering sweet nothings into his ear before he finally stammers out, “Okie-dokey guys, let’s turn her loosey!”
back into the gate 2.3 seconds into the ride, but I lifted it just in time to hear him opine that maybe his “glove was loose.” His Kevlar glove. His PINK Kevlar glove. The very one still lashed into the rope that Freckles was dragging past a barrel painted like a friggin Stella Artois bottle (told you). By the end, this guy finished third, thanked no less than 47 sponsors and collected a check for $5,000. Clutching a diet Coke, he walked off the stage hugging everyone along the way and signing autographs for scantily clad super models (who are inexplicably on the front row of a rodeo).
t to bed. Whether she actually liked the name or was simply exasperated with my sloth-like ability to make a decision will need to be inferred by you, the reader. Regardless, I’ve plunked down my 12 bucks, bought the name, and made at least some semblance of a commitment to bring literary entertainment to people outside my Facebook circle.
s those thoughts make it to type, and sometimes they annoy my wife on our back porch after a couple of frothy adult beverages. She pretends to listen, nods her head at all the right times, and subtly reminds me that she’s the spit and sweat that’s held this marriage together for almost 20 years (all without even uttering a word). Amazing woman.
for craft beer, smoked pork, and classical movies like Smokey & the Bandit.