It’s time once again to sharpen your #2 pencils and get out your Big Chief tablets. Your mission, as usual, is this: Explain what the hell is happening in this photo.
Some inspirational tidbits to help get you started:
It’s a New Year’s Eve celebration. (Therefore, we are a bit toasted.)
The photo was taken roughly two decades ago. (Thus explaining why I was able to hold my arm steady for said photo without requiring medical assistance.)
I’m on the right. (Sporting facial hair that I apparently thought sexy at the time.)
My oldest sister is on the left. (“Cactus Girl”, for those who know the story.)
I no longer remember why the microwave is on top of the fridge. (Maybe I wanted to make sure I was the only one who could use it? Perhaps you can help me out with this angle.)
I have no idea what is on top of the microwave on top of the fridge. (More story fodder.)
I am horribly ashamed by the pathetic “Prairie Home Companion” curtains hanging on the window over the sink. In my defense, I was still in the process of remodeling the 1950s ranch house I had recently purchased. Still, I don’t understand why I didn’t rip those curtains down on the day I moved in.
Oh, wait. I do remember. Money. I didn’t have much of it at the time, because I just bought the damn house. The “remodeling” took a few years, with little bits from each paycheck, so ugly curtains were not an immediate priority. (Does that methodology sound familiar to anybody? Thought so.)
Those may or may not be crime scene photos on the side of the fridge. (Things happen, you move on.)
That may or may not be Jimmy Hoffa’s urn on the far right. (I’m not signing anything.)
And, perhaps most importantly, I should point out that my sister is wearing a wig. (That is not her real hair, and it is not the result of her trauma from being flung into a cactus at a tender age.)
I no longer recall the origin story behind said wig, but it’s most likely mine. (Gay folks tend to have dramatic accessories, in case you haven’t noticed.)
Okay, that should prime enough pumps, so to speak.
Dazzle me with your flights of fancy. You are cleared for take-off.
Note: Photo provided by my partner, Terry, who lovingly delved into his extensive archives based upon my vague request that I needed “something silly for my Almost Wordless post”.
Categories: Flash Fiction