Ah, New Orleans. As this photo shows, the city is filled with many examples of lavish, exquisite architecture in the most unexpected places. Who wouldn’t enjoy walking out onto what, in other cities, would simply be a mundane, unexceptional balcony on a modest townhome, and instead finding this treasure of extravagance. Unfortunately, since this is New Orleans, this is also what many victims of Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau reviewed before a summoned demon threw their asses onto the quaint cobblestones below. You win some, you lose some, but the city still offers the best fried-oyster po’boys that you can find…
Marie, taping me on the shoulder: “Excuse me.”
Me: “How the hell did you get past my security?”
Marie: “Your security? Child, surely you don’t mean that mangy cat named Scotch who hissed at me when I opened your front door with my mind.”
Me: “Maybe.”
Marie, waving a hand: “Honey, that cat don’t have nothin’ on me. I took care a him. Looks like you tried to take care a him before, cause he ain’t got no balls, but that’s why he hissin’. He don’t forget.”
Me: “Took care of him? Are you saying that you…”
Marie: “Naw, I didn’t put him down. I just put a curse on him, made him go in another room and think about gettin’ revenge for the berry pluckin’. Tit for tat, Momma always said.”
Me: “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Marie: “Course not. You a white boy from Oklahoma. But you might wanna keep one eye open tonight.”
Me: “I don’t really care for what you’re trying to imply about my background.”
Marie: “Welcome to the club. And I don’t really care for this little story you writin’. I’m a Voodoo Queen. And you makin’ fun of voodoo queens. Do you understand what voodoo means?”
Me: “Maybe.”
Marie: “No you don’t. You shouldn’t piss off a voodoo queen. Just look at Sarah Huckabee Sanders. She mad.”
Me: “Well, you’re supposed to be dead, so I didn’t think it would matter.”
Marie: “Voodoo queens never really die. Just look at Theresa May. And why you havin’ me talkin’ all ghetto and shifty? You ain’t doin’ that with your other characters.”
Me: “Actually, if you’d bother to read some of my posts instead of just clicking ‘like’ and then moving on to the next-”
Marie: “I do read your posts. Ain’t nobody got an accent. Except you, Oklahoma Boy. You done ripped the twang out a your hick-ass words, soundin’ like you from England. Ain’t nobody buyin’ that mess, clodhopper. You all full a pretense and misdirection, just like the Fox News and the NRA.”
Me: “Look, it’s 12:52am and I’m past the point where I normally make a new post. 73 percent of the people who started reading this bit have stopped reading and gone on to greater things. How can we wrap this up so I don’t look like a racist and you don’t look like someone who is pointing fingers at other people instead of accepting responsibility for their own actions. Just like Donald Trump.”
Marie: “Rewrite the story.”
Me: “But I spent a lot of time getting us to this point and-”
Marie: “Do it!”
Me: “Fine”
Ah, New Orleans. As this photo shows, the city is filled with many examples of unexpected treasures, if only you take the time to get beyond the preconceptions and embrace diversity. Just like it should be everywhere in America, regardless of the accent. And if someone doesn’t want to love thy neighbor, well, we’ll just have to do some berry pluckin’ and vote those clodhoppers out of office…
Originally published in “Crusty Pie” on 05/16/15. Considerably revised and extended for this post. And for the record, I never had an Oklahoma accent. I always had a Brian accent, much to the chagrin of those who done tried to raise me…
Categories: Past Imperfect
Bonnywood Manor 
Yay, I’m in the top 27%!
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Did you ever doubt that you would be?… 😉
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I doubt everything, that’s my problem. 😞
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Me too🤷🏻♀️🤣
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It’s always much more fun at the top…
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Gosh, Marie is bossy. And no wonder Scotch is crabby.
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Welcome to my world… 😉
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You do have a Brian accent, and that’s what’s important! I love your accent! 🙂 (And after hearing the threat Putin, er, correction, Trump just made to free speech, your accent is more important than ever.)
And Miss Leveau. It’s interesting that she’s named after a baby beef and seems obsessed with berry pickin. Was there a prairie oyster debacle in her past? 😉
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I think you’re on to something with the prairie oyster angle. Is the cultural divide in America the result of what people eat when they maybe shouldn’t have? Henceforth, I must now study all menus in all restaurants with a sharper eye, searching for signs of a conspiracy, especially in those eating emporiums where the prices are not listed with the entrees and the patrons are not fully aware of the cost of their choices…
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Berry PLUCKIN’? Son, if you referrin’ to that clodhopper in office, there oughta be some berry masceratin’ Somebody make them unuse-able….’ceptin’ that minor demon done already pro-creeated. A few times. God do have a weird sense o’ humor and likes, now and again, to torture His creations. Apologies implied to any non-believers in the crowd, don’t make a thing okay? You might wake up with a black cockeral (big ugly black chicken for those who don’t know what “cockeral” IS (and the word might be misspelled) in your bed. Scare the white (black, brown or yellow) right out o’ a body.
If Ms. Laveau (sp? Lav-ooo or whatever the spellin’ might be o’ the Voodoo QUEEN’s name) is miffed ‘cos a white woman from Utah is tryin’ to emulate her speakin’ voice, no offense missus. “Sides I got the ultimate in protection … a little book which accordin’ to some is right powerful. It’s all in what ya puts ya faith in as works ya know.
Scotch oughten calm hisself down a mite too. Iffen he axe Miss Cleo there (who has been spade, right?) he’d learn berry pluckin’ ain’t no thang. Try havin’ yer guts cut out and then talk to me. Wimmen always got it worse..
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Dear Lady,
I greatly admire your directness, conviction, embracing of revenge, and understanding of the inequality of medical procedures. You are so much more refreshing that the heathens in this house, all of whom are wretched beyond compare. Sauf moi. I trust that you will arrange for my safe passage out of this hell.
In anticipation,
Miss Cleo
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In fairness if I’m going to get a warm blood from a recently slain black rooster daubed on me prior to my levitating and flitting over the balcony to my certain doom on the cobbles, I would far rather the setting WAS as pretty as that wrought iron confection (and that the cobbles are to my taste) …. I live in horrors or dying in somewhere less than elegant, you see. Can you imagine …. the eternal humiliation one would have to endure if there turns out to be an afterlife. 😟
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I fully endorse this concept of a pretty passing, and we must make arrangements to ensure that we do indeed go out with great pageantry. Perhaps we should establish an exclusive organization dedicated to such, wherein we meet once a month at a rotating series of exquisite art galleries where people are actually quiet and pay attention, issuing proclamations and guidelines of an appropriate nature. This seems apt…
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Now THAT sounds like a Heavenly Society …. I am sure we can garner interest from many readers as a starter. Invitations should be so discreet as to appear dull to the raucous hoards whilst attracting the careful, thoughtful and softly muted companions that will understand and positively thrive in the atmosphere you describe.
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You do a swell job of creating character — didn’t need the “Marie:” and “Me:” to follow who was talking. That’s a sign of quality writing, that’s what that is.
Does Oklahoma have an accent? I’ve had a few friends from there and they never sounded all that different from Arizonans. Unless… *gasp*… we have an accent too?! 😮
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I am greatly beaming over the quality comment. Merci.
As for an Oklahoma dialect… honey, you done been talkin’ to the wrong kinda people. We got us an accent so thick you can bust a jaw tryin’ to get your words out…
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Nice, love the shadow on the floor in the photo.
Thanks for sharing.
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Thanks, Bill. That shadow is great. Too bad I can’t claim credit for taking this one… 😉
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👍👍
I like your message.
Take care —
Neil S.
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Thanks, Neil!
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Read about M. Laveau many years ago. It left me with a crawly combination of respect and revulsion. Had the same sort of creeped-out feeling from the cemetery scene in The Garden of Good and Evil, but I liked that Voodoo lady.
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Somewhat-pointless trivia: I’ve actually been to Marie Laveau’s grave in New Orleans, Saint Louis Cemetery No 2. The “respect and revulsion” theme continues there, with her tomb being both beautiful and yet covered with the graffiti of decades of folks seeking her protection…
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I’ve seen pictures of it. That creeped me out enough. I’m a wuss about some things and don’t think I’d want to be in its presence.
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I’m a heathen from l’il ol England and I have no idea what most of this is about. But it made me laugh, I love the photo and I’m just off to research Marie Laveau and Voodoo Queens. It has piqued my interest. Also, I’m in need of a new hobby and Voodoo sounds like a viable option to get us Brits through the coming years 😉
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Just remember that there is good voodoo and bad voodoo. I trust that you will use them both wisely… 😉
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OH BLOODY HELL, I LOVE IT! (I, too, am speaking in my proper English accent) 😂😁😊
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It’s like we’re there all over again!
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