American Thighs (14 page)

BULLETIN

Just in from U.K.—Big Panties Save House!

 

Kentucky Queen Cheryl alerted me to this amazing story from northern England, where it seems a woman's home was saved from what could have been a horrific fire—by the timely and fortuitous application to the blaze of a big giant pair of panties. The woman was away from home at the time and her teenage son John and her nephew Darren were frying bread—which is apparently a normal thing to do with bread in England—perhaps they were making French toast? Who knows—deciphering British English can be so tricky at times—anyway, the “extractor fan”—which I took to be the Vent-A-Hood—suddenly fell out and landed on top of the stove and the whole thing burst into flames.

The lights went out and the room quickly filled with smoke. John initially made matters worse by dumping water on the flames. Clearly, John never took seventh-grade home economics with Mrs. Boone at Peeples Junior High School in Jackson, Mississippi, or he would have known better than to do such a bonehead thing. Luckily for John and the house itself, Darren had apparently received proper kitchen-fire procedural instructions from Mrs. Boone's British counterpart because he knew that what was needed was a large something or other with which to SMOTHER the flames. In the dim smokiness, he couldn't really see well enough to locate a lid for the pan and he
didn't recall there being any fire blankets lying about; however, he did remember that there was a pile of laundry in the room nearby.

Quickly locating the clothes heap, he blindly snatched what felt to be a sufficiently largish item off the top and, after dousing it with water under the tap, he utilized the wet garment to handily extinguish the inferno. The house/day–saving item was later determined to be an enormous pair of panties—they call them knickers over yonder—belonging to the lady of the saved house.

She arrived home shortly after the crisis had been averted and happily posed for a news photo—holding up her own charred size 20s, grinning from ear to ear. (Personally, I do believe I would rather be burned up in the house fire myownself than have to pose for a picture for the NEWSPAPER holding up my big giant underwear that they PUT OUT THE FIRE WITH for all the world to witness. But I'm sure that's just me—I'm sensitive like that. I don't mind WEARING them—prefer them, actually, as we've already established—but I don't want to SHOW them to anybody.)

But this is just one more prime example of the Benefits of Big Giant Panties. If Darren had blindly snatched and grabbed up a little teeny-tiny thong—the story would have been a tragic one indeed. As it was, the headline read:
FIRE FIRE, PUT PANTS ON FRYER
!

More Important Panty News

Just this very day, there is an article in the paper about a woman suing the world's foremost perpetrator of pretty but painful panties for something approaching the gross national product, plus 10 percent for mental suffering, because she suffered PERMANENT CORNEAL DAMAGE when a metallic decorative something or other on a THONG flew off and hit her with excessive force smack in the eyeball.

Horrifying story—and made all the more so by the very fact of its total
avoidability
. Those of us clad in big, giant, soft Russian immigrant underwear breathe a sigh of relief that OUR eyeballs are safe from random attack by crazed, embellished, minuscule panties and we are smug in our comfort and safety. OTHER PEOPLE'S eyeballs could be in danger, should they happen to SEE us, accidentally or on purpose, in our big'uns—but clearly, that is THEIR problem and none of our own.

I
grew up listening to the Kingston Trio sing a song that has baffled me from the first time I heard it. It's says “away out here”—without ever making clear just where that might be—“they”—without ever a hint as to who “they” ARE—have a name for rain and for fire and for the wind. It seems that, according to the trio, “they” call the rain “Tess,” “they” call fire “Joe,” and “they” refer to the wind as “Mariah.” Never in the song does it tell who these people are nor does it even try to explain WHY they have assigned human-type names to these elements of nature or how they came to choose those particular names. I've always found this to be a very odd song.

I've never come across anything in American literature to support this musical claim—that there are people out there
somewhere on a first-name basis with wind, rain, and fire. If you know of any reference source that might be helpful to my understanding of this—please e-mail me posthaste at hrhjill@ sweetpotatoqueens.com. I cannot wait to hear from you.

It rains here all the time—nobody has ever called it Tess. I know people whose actual houses have burned completely up—there was no talk of Joe. I checked and this is not a Yankee deal—my mama is a Yankee and she doesn't know any Tess, Joe, or Mariah—we can't blame it on them.

Well, anyway, “Mariah” blows through down here quite often at certain times of the year. Once in a while, we will get the afterblow of a pretty big wind—we generally call 'em hurricanes and I can't recall one ever being named Mariah, but we also get our very own smaller but nonetheless powerful versions of these storms and nobody calls THEM anything but “tornado.”

And that's what I had in mind to talk about when I started this rant—tornadoes and how they can sometimes reveal some real innerestin' stuff about folks when they least expect it. You can live with or around 'em your whole life and think you know pretty much all there is to know about 'em and then whoosh!—let a tornado rip through the area and you might just be surprised what's under their personal rocks.

First of all, just because somebody's past a “certain age,” don't be thinking they're grown UP in any way that might be indicative of anything you could have come to think of as wise,
reasonable, and/or mature. You have only to observe their reactions to stressful, fight-or-flight-type situations to get a picture of what I'm talking about.

I know two women—we can call them Tammy 1 and Tammy 2—who, on a good day—one that would include fair weather—both of them are just as rational and smart—they're not brain surgeons but they coulda been if they'd been so inclined—but let a tornado siren go off and all that good sense just blows right out the window on the first stiff breeze.

Tammy 1's severe weather response is to immediately locate and pick up her purse. If she's got her purse strap on her shoulder, she's good to go—or blow away, as the case may be. Now, one qualification on this—if it should happen to be the middle of the night, she will first put on a housecoat and THEN put her purse on her shoulder and consider herself well prepared for any outcome. I guess she imagines that if she is blown into the next county, she will be soooo glad she's not stranded over there naked and without her handbag.

Tammy 2 is not as fearless as Tammy 1—purse or no purse, Tammy 2 is terrified of tornadoes. Well, actually, she's not so much afraid of the tornadoes as she is of the possible result of a tornado hitting on top of wherever she's hiding. She is deathly afraid that one day a tornado will swoop down out of the sky when she least expects it and leave her to be interviewed as a survivor on national TV—with unsupported bosoms. Yes, Tammy 2 has a phobia for which I have been unable to find a
medical name: she fears that she will be struck by and survive a tornado—at such a time when she is not wearing a bra and all her lingerie will have been blown to the next county—and that she will then be interviewed on national television with saggy tits. Let's be clear about this now—she does not fear being discovered and displayed while naked and/or dead—just that she will somehow end up on national news—with no bra under her T-shirt.

She seriously worries about this every time there is a storm warning. I think her insurance company should pay for her to have a breast lift just so the poor thing can sleep braless at night without worrying about ending up looking like she belongs in a National Geographic special.

And just when you think you reeeeally have got somebody pegged—along comes ole Mariah blowing their little secrets out in the yard for the whole world to view. Picture it: storm passes and neighbors venture outside to see that only one house has been damaged—the one belonging to the stodgy old couple down the block who happened to be out of town when Mariah came calling. The neighborhood guys took it upon themselves to do what neighbors do in these situations—help out. So they were going all around, retrieving the household goods of Mr. and Mrs. Oldfolks. There was no problem with determining ownership since only the one house was damaged.

Imagine their surprise when after picking up about a hundred pairs of Mrs. Oldfolks's undies, they came to the shocking
realization that there was not a single CROTCH in a single pair of any of those panties. The guys were so mortified at discovering Mrs. Oldfolks's spicy little secret that they threw all her underwear away and pretended like they never saw it. They were also pret-ty surprised to discover that Mr. and Mrs. Oldfolks were not wheezer-geezers after all—to the contrary, they apparently had A Lot Going On. Suffice it to say, Mr. Oldfolks was accorded a whole new respect from the guys at neighborhood gatherings from then on.

I
sn't that just a fabulous Queen name? I do believe that sometimes we need a different name to call the Selves that surface, often unbidden, from within our very own personages, don't we? I'm told that in some cultures, parents name children at birth for qualities they hope they will come to embody, and then at some point in adulthood, the children choose other names for themselves—again, to represent qualities that they themselves hope to grow to embody.

That's a good plan for us all as we consider names for our alter egos, I think. I'll tell you, when I ordered my first treasured pair of genuine Dr. Bukk's Teef (www.drbukk.com), I went right on and joined the Bukk Fambly, choosing for myself a new name by which I could be identified in the Bukk Fambly Tree. It is believed, by the Bukks and by anybody who ever owned a pair
of these most fine Teef, that one is so completely transformed by the donning of the Teef, a whole new person is born and thus a new name is required. My Bukk Fambly name is GEMI MOORE. I do try to live up to it every day.

I wrote about Dr. Bukk in my very first book,
The Sweet Potato Queens' Book of Love,
but it's been a long time since I mentioned them to y'all and so if you don't already own a pair of GENUINE Dr. Bukk's—you need to go right this second to www.drbukk.com and git you some, darlin', and by all MEANS, tell 'em I sent you!

There are crummy knockoffs but nothing compares in quality. First of all, Dr. Bukk's are made right over yonder in Georgia and there is NO LEAD in them—which is SUCH a plus. I mean, I love my Teef, but even I am not willing to DIE for them. Second—and just as important, I believe—they fit so well, you can even DRINK while wearing them. Undreamed-of bonus, right there. I love the “Cowcatcher” model—my seester, Judy, has those and I'm wantin' 'em bad for myownself. I have “Summer Teef” (some are here, some are not) and also “Sole Survivor.” They have a number of new models that I am coveting as well. Please, when you get yours—send me a photo of yourself! Send 'em to me at [email protected]. REALLY, I wanna see you in your Teef, so be sure and bring 'em with you when you come to the PARADE in Jackson—we can have a group photo made.

I'm thinking of getting my still underage daughter to get me a few fake IDs for Gemi Moore and some of my Other Personas that pop out from time to time.

And while I'm on the subject—just how is it that there are all these totally believable fake IDs available today? I swear, there is a kid around here putting himself through college selling fake IDs—I think he's got, like, a real official driver's-license-maker thing from Arkansas or somewhere—got it off the Internet. Now, THERE'S something. How is it that you can buy—no, not you, YOUR KID—can buy, right off the Net—no doubt using YOUR credit card, though—something like that that surely is illegal? I mean, don't you figger it's illegal? Otherwise, why do I bother fooling with the Department of Transportation every few years, getting an updated driver's license? Of course, from THEM, I can still have the same weight that I had on there from when I was, like, twenty-two or something. If I tried to do that with this KID, he'd prolly take one look at me and say, yeah, RIGHT, lady. Little asshole. He charges a hundred bucks for 'em, too.

At least he's got a JOB…of sorts—more than I can say for MY kid. Of course, she's not risking jail time by lolling around, sponging off me—dismemberment and death, perhaps, on a given day—but certainly not jail time.

Did I Say That?

Queen Janice had come to the Sweet Potato Queens® Million Queen March™ in Jackson, Mississippi, the third beautiful weekend of one particular March and went home a Changed Woman. Upon her return to Nashvegas, she developed a problem with the seatbelt mechanism in her car and, not wishing to risk her very life any longer than absolutely necessary, she betook herself forthwith to the auto repair shop, even though to do so constituted a full-fledged errand…and you know how we all feel about those.

Nonetheless, the bullet was bitten and her turn with the mechanic came sooner than expected and she explained to him her problem. He listened gravely to her and then solemnly examined the mechanism, paying special attention to the buckle. Gazing thoughtfully into it, he remarked that there was “something in it,” and with that he commenced to fishing around inside it with his screwdriver, and what should he pull out but a single black feather.

Without a word, he looked at the feather and then at her, and then back at the feather. He then resumed his screwdriver fishing expedition, which yielded quite a few more bird hairs. Now, Queen J admits to being over fifty and possibly JUST a tad overserved at the dinner table, although I am certain she is exaggerating that part. Her hair is gray because she refuses to dye it and end up looking “like I'm wearing a bad Elvis wig—
like some folks I know”—but politely does not name, naturally. She can tell that the mechanic is not totally comfortable asking her the question that he feels, nonetheless, that he MUST ask her: “Ma'am, have you been wearing a feather boa while driving this car?”

And you know how it is, your Inner Queen just WILL pop out sometimes when you least expect her to, and so it was not “Janice” but Queen JaJa GaBoa who gave him a sidelong glance from underneath her thick black eyelashes (all natural, of course) and said, in a Southern accent so thick it would scarcely roll off her tongue, “Why-y-y-y…ye-e-e-es…I ha-a-ve!”

Totally bowled over by the right-before-his-very-eyes transformation of his formerly normal customer, he gaped at her for a long moment as if he expected her to break out into a Fan Dance next. He finally pulled himself out of his trance, went back to fishing feathers, and stammered, “Well, I-I-I've ab-b-bout g-g-got it f-fixed here, j-j-just try not to w-w-wear it while you're d-d-drivin' next time, ma'am, okay?!” She huskily assured him that she “wouldn't DRE-E-AM of it and thank you SO much for ALL your he-e-lp.”

She had a fair-sized chuckle to herself as she drove away, secure in the knowledge that she'll be getting much improved service THERE in the future.

Not Particularly Queenly, but Certainly Snappy

I love those little short stories that come out in the newspaper—just a paragraph and a half usually—they come from a wire service and fill in gaps, I suppose. They're nearly always way more intriguing than the stuff they've devoted whole FEET of column space to—and it's always just enough to make me wonder what the hell was REALLY going on there.

FOR INSTANCE: Last year, there was this teeny-tiny mention in our local paper of an event in a small town in Pennsylvania. It seemed that—for some undisclosed reason—the police had been summoned to a private residence—by person or persons unknown—and once on the scene, the woman, with whom I assume the authorities had been summoned to deal, met the officers at the door and “held them at bay” (I love that term) by “brandishing” POISONOUS SNAKES at them.

There was no information at ALL about what exactly it was that she had been doing to spur the unknown party(ies) to call the Law on her—no explanation of how come her to have all those poisonous snakes—didn't even tell us how many or what kind, eggzackly—nor what might have led to her snatch up a coupla handfuls of 'em on her way to answer the front door—was she always toting them around by the fistful or was this a special circumstance? They didn't even describe the alleged “brandishing” so we don't know if she was waving them around in big circles or waggling them, in a taunting fashion, right up
close under the cops' noses or WHAT exactly? NONE of that was explained and I'm quite certain I am not the only person in the country who read that little blurb and wondered to herself,
What the fuck?

But her response when asked for a statement before her sentencing (they didn't even tell what all she was charged with and convicted of)—to house arrest and probation—was one of my All-Time Favorite Snappy Comebacks to a Stupid Question—this ranks right up there with “That's My Story and I'm Sticking to It.” What she offered by way of, I suppose, explanation and/or justification for her now-admitted acts that included, but I guess were not limited to, Willful Poisonous Snake Brandishment at a Law Enforcement Officer was this—and only this: “I JUST WASN'T IN THE RIGHT FRAME OF MIND THAT NIGHT.”

Now, THERE is a By-God ANSWER, I'm sayin'! I am so lovin' this woman! I just want to sit down with her and have her tell me the Whole Story—I especially want to know ALL about her frame of mind that night—what the “right” frame would have been and what all led up to her being in the “wrong” frame and, of course, who was responsible for THAT and where is he now—did she feed him to the snakes, I hope? I fear this will be one of those things in life that I just never get the chance to do and it will haunt me. When I am a thousand years old, sitting in the nursing home in my diaper and staring out at nothing, looking blank, if you ask me what I'm thinking about—this could very well be it.

But Even at Our Worst, We Make More Sense Than “Some”

Some of my Queens have shared with me that they often suffer great torment regarding their Queenly Transformation at the hands of their most loved ones—namely, their wretched teenagers and/or their own personal husbands, who ought to know better.

Regarding the wretched teenagers—or even now-grown children who certainly were ONCE wretched teenagers—who dare to express shock, horror, and dismay, accompanied by a fair dose of humiliation and embarrassment, at the thought and/or sight of you, their mom, engaging in full cavort-mode while wearing all manner of sparkly, glittery, spangly, and feathery garb and also demonstrating your unswerving intent to carry on with this outlandish display IN PUBLIC—yeah, regarding them—BWAHAHAHAHA! SERVES 'EM RIGHT, doesn't it? Is it not one of the Fondest Dreams of Any Parent of a Teenager that they will be blessed to just live long enough to one day BE an embarrassment to that teenager? (THE Fondest Dream is, of course, to be blessed to live long enough to see that kid with his or her OWN teenager—but Causing Them Embarrassment is one of the top Dreams, for sure.)

So, I'd say, unless you've got them shrieking “OH MY GOD!” and running to lock themselves in their rooms—you're not wearing QUITE ENOUGH bling. Just keep adding rhinestones
until you get the desired reaction, then you'll know your outfit is perfect.

As to the HUSBANDS who dare to not only LOOK askance at your Royal Garments but further compound their error by VOICING some unsolicited and unwelcome opinion regarding the supposed “suitableness” of such attire and behavior, let us consider for a moment some of HIS OWN pursuits and weigh THEM on this same scale.

For your consideration: You are being questioned and/or criticized by an individual who will crawl out of your very own warm bed and get up in the absolute DARK of night to dress up like a TREE, and he can't tolerate your cologne but he will douse himself with a foul elixir with an equally foul name, like “Doe in Heat,” and go hide in the woods, just on the off chance that a boy deer will happen by and he can shoot at it. Sometimes he wears bobcat urine—no one knows why.

Now, I ask you—do you REALLY CARE about this person's opinion of your outfit and Queenly Intentions? Good, glad we got that settled.

He Did Know the Job was Dangerous When He Took It

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there was a husband of a Queen who insisted on coming along with his Queenly Wife
and her Queenly Girlfriends to Jackson, Mississippi, for the Sweet Potato Queens® Million Queen March™ weekend. He willingly agreed to all the terms they specified for his attendance to be approved—those being for the most part that he would be around to tote, fetch, and pay for things and assert loudly and repeatedly to everyone within human earshot that THEY themselves were, in fact, not only the Cutest Things in the Whole Town, They Were Furthermore the Cutest Things He Had Ever Seen Anywhere at Any Time in His Whole EN-tire Life, but other than that, he understood that he was to be Wallpaper.

Whatever They Said, he assured them in his fevered desperation to tag along, and they finally assented and allowed him to accompany them. There were constant reminders of His Word during the long car trip to Jackson and one final unified chorus as they all exited their vehicle upon arrival at the Jackson Hilton. Yes, yes, he understood and he would not be ANY trouble, he promised.

So, of course, what did he do but come down with APPENDICITIS that very night, just LIKE a man, I swear. Lucky for him, he was in the company of a pack of nurses who identified his symptoms quickly enough that it did not disrupt their evening much at all. They did take time out to PERSONALLY drive him TO the hospital on their way to the SPQ™ Ball, in their full regalia—although there were perfectly good ambulances nearby that could have spared them the time and trouble—nurses AND SAINTS is all they are, obviously.

He was maybe a leetle bit surprised, I think, when they LEFT him at the emergency room, but they reminded him—a deal's a deal—made sure the nurses on duty promised to keep the pain meds coming—gave him a little pat and told him they WOULD come back and fetch him for the drive home—he did not need to worry about getting a cab to the Hilton or anything. They're coming to take you to the OR any minute now, you just sit tight after surgery, take your drugs, watch huntin' on the teevee in your room and we'll be by to get you on Sunday afternoon—BYE-BYE!

As it turned out, he was released from the hospital late Saturday afternoon—after the parade but before Pearls & PJ's—which was SO lucky for THEM because that meant he was available to go down to the Hilton lobby to fetch their coffee on Sunday morning before they went to the Bathrobe Brunch™. He was thrilled that he was at least able to provide this small service for them. He still wants to come back next year. Now, that's a Good Man, right there—a true Spud Stud™—and we LOVE him for it!