Shoveling it to the public

Beulah Snodgrass: Life In The Fast Lane

Oh, my! How time flies. I can't believe another year has come and gone. All in all, 2004 wasn't a bad year for ol' Beulah. I went to the Madonna concert, I scored with a lot of singles, willing and unwilling, from the Cactus Corners Singles Adventure Club, and I hit a $1000 jackpot at Cactus Valley Casino a few months ago. Of course, I don't mention to people that I spent $3,000 to win it. That old crank Chester Einstein would just love to rub my gambling problem in my face.

As you might expect, none of us here at the BilgeBucket were too happy with the election outcome. Another four years of Dubya, and I'm liable to become a raging alcoholic to boot. I've pretty much been gambling away my social security money at Cactus Valley Casino and in Vegas. I've also hit a dry spell as far as the va-va-voom department goes. I'm horny as hell! I'm about ready to grab a broom and go sweeping if you get my drift. Even Shirley Ray Bodine is out of town apparently admiring the cocks of some Mexican cockfighter. I think she's going to be greatly disappointed.

With nothing to do for the holiday season, I decided to go the Snodgrass family Christmas get together. If you think those families on those reality shows are dysfunctional, you haven't met my family. We're a dysfunctional circus. All the Snodgrasses from all over the West gather over in Apache Junction at my older sister, Elma Mae Buttner's house. Elma's a widow: her husband Dirk, who was a prospector, died in a mining accident back in the 60's. It seems he got in the way of a burro love tryst. Not a pretty sight. She never remarried. Before Dirk died, she bore him seven children. She's still a plucky little devil. She's got osteoporosis so bad she looks like Gollum, she smokes like a smokestack, and drinks whiskey like a miner. Amazingly she just turned 85. She's considered the matriarch of the family. Since I never married, I'm just weird, horny, childless, old maid, Aunt Beulah. My younger sister, Mabel, who married the honorable Commander Curtis Custard of the Coast Guard also shows up with her brood from El Cajon. The old Commander is ninety-eight and senile. Some people think he's just hanging on to be recognized by Willard Scott. As you might expect from a dysfunctional family, one branch thinks it's shit doesn't stink. The Buttners and Custards both think that, which always makes for an entertaining visit.

I showed up at Elma Mae's house at noon on Christmas day. I had finagled Elmer Scoggins to drive me out and drop me off. He had completely forgotten about our Vegas adventure last year at the Madonna concert, so he agreed. He was visiting with some of his own relatives in Mesa, so he said he could swing by later to retrieve me. I was wearing my traditional red cotton ankle length dress with frilly white lace around the collar. I wore my green orthopeds, my green satin gloves and a stylish green floppy hat to complete my yuletide ensemble. I made some of my world famous egg-nog brittle for the family to munch on. The tradition in the Snodgrass family is that both sides of the family show up around mid-day where we grunt acknowledgements and complain about everything we can think of. Then everyone eats dinner at around 2-ish. After 15 straight minutes of shoveling down the grub (no talking allowed), we gather around the television to watch whatever sporting event happens to be on. Sometimes games of cards, Monopoly or Clue would break out; sometimes bone crushing brawls. It was a crapshoot. The deciding factor was usually how much alcohol was being consumed.

I knocked on the door. My sister Elma Mae waddled to the door to greet me in true Elma Mae fashion; dressed in a simple flowered dress with a cigarette dangling from her mouth and craggy voice.

"Beulah! It's so nice to see you," she croaked. "What? Still no man, eh?" She then cackled her way into a hoarse hacking cough.

"No," I said with a coyly. "My lesbian lover is out of town." Boy, she about swallowed her cancer stick! She hadn't heard that I swing both ways now. Sure I lied about my lesbian lover, but I didn't care. I breezed past her into the house as she doubled over spitting up tar on her tattered carpet.

The Buttners had showed up, but the Custards hadn't rolled in yet. There were all Elma Mae's children and some of her grandchildren packed into the 400 square feet that comprised her living room. The great grandchildren were scattered throughout the rest of the house and back yard. You'd think I'd stepped onto the set of Jerry Springer. My God, my relatives are a bunch of inbred yokels. The place smelled of cigar and cigarette smoke and beer already. Sitting on the couch were three of Elma Mae's winner children, all smoking stogies: Dirk Jr., who just lost his fifth business to bankruptcy; Betty Lou, who recently divorced her fifth husband; and Delbert, who recently got released from prison for armed robbery. Sitting and deforming one of Elma Mae's chairs was Clete, who just lost 50 pounds, bringing his weight to a svelte 400 pounds. He was the only 'child' (he's pushing fifty) who still lived at home. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen chain-smoking and hunched over was Myrtle Mae, who looked like she was following in Elma Mae's footprints. Standing in the hallway to the bedrooms chain-smoking and hunched over was Mildred Mae, who was on her third husband. Finally, lying on the ground, in front of Clete was Enos, the most successful of Elma Mae's children. He was a sanitation engineer for Queen Creek (translation: garbage man). Of course each one of Elma Mae's children had children (except Clete), and some of those children had children and some of their children had children. Among the winners who showed up today: Betty Lou's thirteen-year old granddaughter, Alberta Mae, who just got knocked up by her high school teacher; Dirk Jr.'s son, Dirk III, who panhandles at the 3rd Avenue I-10 Exit; Myrtle Mae's forty year old daughter, Maxine, who got arrested for prostitution last year and Mildred Mae's genius son, Jim Bert, who recently lost his life savings "buying" the Golden Gate bridge from some guy on the street. And I'm considered the weird one.

A few of them looked up from the Hee Haw DVD they were watching and mumbled greetings. Dirk Jr. even let go a belch. I nudged myself past a couple of the myriad grandchildren and placed my six tins of egg-nog brittle on the living room coffee table. In a matter of minutes, the horde had converged on my goodies and gobbled it all up. It took me four hours to create that batch of brittle. It was devoured in two minutes. One of the more rotund grandchildren, cried, "That was good! When's dinner? I'm hungry!" Which started a crescendo of whining and complaining about when dinner was. Myrtle Mae took charge.

"Shut up, you morons!" she sneered. "Those damn Custards aren't here yet. Once they get there snooty butts here, then we'll eat."

"Sssssshhhh!" said Clete. "I can't hear what Junior Sample's saying."

"Oh, shut your trap, you fat oaf," said Betty Lou, blowing smoke from her cigar into the air.

"No, you shut up, you whore," said Dirk Jr., elbowing her in the ribs.

"Don't you talk to my momma that way you loser," said Betty Lou's forty-something son, Lyle Lou, who had a paper route in South Phoenix.

"Don't you talk to your uncle that way, boy, or I'll kick your ass," growled Delbert, chomping tightly on his cigar.

"You and what army," replied Lyle Lou.

"Need I remind you I just got out of the slammer," bellowed Delbert. "I'm a hardened man. I could...do things to you." He then glared at Lyle Lou and feigned a grab for him.

Lyle Lou let out a high-pitched yelp and galloped from the room. Delbert howled with laughter. Everyone else was yelling at one another. Even the great grandchildren from the back yard pushed their way past the fleeing Lyle Lou and into the house and commenced arguing. "You're stupid!", "No, you're stupid!", "Your butts big!", "You're wiener's small!" I needed relief... quickly. I broke into the fridge, grabbed a can of Generic Beer and chugged it. Then I grabbed a nearby bottle of Two Buck Chuck and guzzled down half the contents. Mercifully, the doorbell rang. The Custards and their snooty butts had finally arrived.

Elma Mae opened the door, and in walked my sister, Mabel. She looked cheerful and was festively decked out in a fur coat with what looked like an elegant red velvet gown underneath. Tres chic! She sure didn't shop at the same stores I shopped. The Buttners commenced their snickering.

"Mabel!" exclaimed Elma Mae. "How good to see you. Where's the Commander?"

"He's in the Winnebago," explained Mabel. "He's not feeling well, so we just propped him up in the window. Our eldest, Buster, is in there tending to him."

We all gathered around the window to have a look. There in the Winnebago, looking out the side window, was senile old Commander Custard with his son Buster standing beside him. Buster then raised the Commander's hand and waved it back and forth. All the Buttners waved back. It was a touching moment.

"Alas," said Mabel sadly. "Beside Buster, the only one who could make it today was Lemon and her family. My other two children, Carl and Rhubarb, had other plans. Carl is at her wife's mothers house and Rhubarb and her family are vacationing in Burbank."

"Ah, gee whiz. That's too bad," smirked Dirk Jr. while elbowing Delbert in the ribs. "You think Buster might want to play ball with us later." They punched each other in the arm. Rumor had it that Buster just wasn't right. He was in his late fifties and was never married. By all accounts, he never had a date; female or male. He was more a eunuch. He looked like one of those stereotypical butlers from the old movies: tall, pallid, and non-expressive. He had a fine job as an accountant, but as far as interest in sex, or people for that matter, the tank was empty.

Lemon, her husband George Pye, their three children and five grandchildren were milling about on Elma Mae's front yard. George was a corporate lawyer and Lemon volunteered with many worthwhile charities in the San Diego area. Their children all attended San Diego State and were successful professionals. They were soon joined by several of the Buttner grandchildren, who invaded from the backyard via the living room. A few exuberant children even tackled some of the nicely dressed Pyes, which put Lemon and George into early peacemaker mode. Now I'm no logistical genius, but there was no way all of us were going to fit into the dining room, let alone the house. I don't know who was in charge of seating, but I certainly wasn't getting a warm fuzzy. I found that bottle of Two Buck Chuck and quickly downed the rest of it.

Mabel let one of the Buttner grandchildren take her coat. Little did she realize but she'd probably never see that coat again. The Buttners took the phrase "take your coat" literally. I could tell by her wincing, that she was overwhelmed by the environment. Mabel had become accustomed to the opulent lifestyle of a Coast Guard Commander. They ate at the finer restaurants and shopped at the finer malls. Elma Mae took no notice of her apprehension and instructed some of the grandchildren to set up some card tables out on the front lawn for Mabel's family.

Well, the next hour couldn't have gone by quicker. That's probably because I found another bottle of Two Buck Chuck. I sequestered myself in a corner of the living room next to poor Mabel, and shared the bottle with her. She kept looking out the window to see if her daughter Lemon was doing all right. Every time I looked out, it was like a scene from The Road Warrior when the Punks were riding around the compound like angry ants, hungry for the smell of gasoline. The Buttner great grandchildren must've been hooked up to a sugar machine, because they kept barreling around the Pyes, who were nervously seated in their rickety lawn chairs by the dilapidated card tables. I sensed impending doom.

The alcohol was flowing and things were getting rowdy in the living room. It turns out Delbert was having an argument with one of Mildred Mae's boys, Dwight, who was an auto mechanic in Glendale, over who was the best pro wrestler.

"I'm telling you it's Kane," said Dwight.

"It's Triple H!" said Delbert.

"Kane!" said Dwight.

"Triple H!" said Delbert.

"Let's take it outside, old man," challenged Dwight.

"You're on, you punk," said Delbert, ignoring the fact that Dwight was overweight, in his forties, had a crew cut and was hardly befitting of the 'punk' moniker.

The two rose and ambled out into the front yard. We all got up to watch them go at each other, except Clete and Enos: Clete couldn't get up and Enos actually had a touch of class. Mabel took the opportunity to scoot into the front yard, gather her clan and pile into the Winnebago like a worried mother hen. At least the marauding Buttner delinquents had stopped their harassment to watch the match of death between fat old Uncle Delbert and 'Doofus' Dwight, as he was affectionately called in the Buttner clan.

The two 'titans', circled around each other like they were on the WWE. Then Delbert, still chomping on his stogie, grabbed Dwight into a headlock. He then hurled him on top of the card tables, which promptly busted to pieces from the weight. Dwight rose up and charged into Delbert. They both went crashing into some of the lawn chairs, demolishing them in the process. Delbert, got up and attempted to grasp Dwight so he could do a piledriver. Dwight kicked him in the mouth. Delbert's eyes went wide. He'd swallowed his stogie. He started choking. Everybody just stood around. I leapt into action. I hopped on his back and tried to give the big lummox the Heimlich maneuver. Unfortunately, Delbert, in his drunken stupor, perceived my attempt at life saving as an additional attack. He spun me around like a propeller. I felt like hurling. He finally spit up his stogie and tossed me like a rag doll into the crowd of relatives. Fortunately, there were several corpulent nephews and great nephews to break my fall. I think I landed on Myrtle Mae's grandson, Buford, who was a 350-pound lineman at Buckeye High School. I sat up and looked around me. Apparently, some of the natives didn't like that Delbert was throwing weird, old Aunt Beulah around and a full-scale riot had erupted. Everybody was wrestling, doing suplexes, elbow drops and body slams. Even Betty Lou was out there, punching out one of her nieces. Then it hit me. I threw up like Vesuvius. Then I felt faint. The last thing I remembered before I lost consciousness was seeing my sister Mabel's Winnebago speeding away. There in the window was the Commander, with help from Buster, waving goodbye to all the Buttners.

I came to with a splitting headache. I was in a bed I assumed was Elma Mae's, since it reeked of cigarettes. The clock said four o'clock. Sitting next to me was one of the Buttner grandchildren. She identified herself as fifteen-year old Loretta Lou and that she was Betty Lou's grandchild. She was a gawky looking thing. She wore pigtails, had eyes like a pug, buckteeth, and was rail thin. I asked her where everybody was. She said that the police came and arrested most of the boys and Betty Lou. She said they had to bring a wagon to load everybody. She also said that some man had showed up to pick me up. She went over by the door and motioned for the visitor to enter. In walked Elmer Scoggins. I was never so happy to see that old fart in my life! He said that he got sick of his relatives and as soon as the meal was over he split. I told him I felt like leaving, too. He and little Loretta Lou helped me to my feet and toward the front door. Elma Mae showed up, with a smoke dangling from her lips, carrying containers of food.

"Since you missed dinner dear, I decided to give you some food for the road," she said. I thanked her and gave her a hug. I glanced around the room. Her only children that weren't arrested were Clete and Enos. They were still watching the Hee Haw DVD as if nothing had happened. There were a few grandchildren and great grandchildren milling about like zombies. I had definitely had enough of my family for another year, maybe even another decade. Elmer escorted me down to his Cadillac and we sped away from Buttnerville at a brisk thirty miles an hour. I was feeling a mite peckish and decided to dig into some of the food Elma Mae packed for me. At least that was good. The meat dish was especially interesting. I'm not sure what it was but it tasted like chicken.