Shame and Confusion at the Dysfunction Junction

Willy, left: “I heard what people are saying about the wretched thing you did, and I just want you to know that I’m here for you, even if you really did the wretched thing. Because friends support friends, especially if that supporting involves one of the friends holding the other friend in an intimate manner, something I have dreamed about since that time I was your coach on the high school wrestling team.”

Jimmy Brian, center: “I’m just so torn up about it. I can’t believe that I made such a terrible mistake. It’s just like that time I was wrestling Virgil Clambaker from the Hooterville team and I accidentally grabbed his hooter. I’m so mortified. Maybe I should just stay in this bar forever and keep drinking.”

Hank, right: “Now, now. Don’t be gettin’ so worked up about that hooter-grabbin’ match. I was all the way up in the top row of the bleachers and I could see that boy had a plow blade that could give ya pause. Only so many places you can put your grapplin’ hand when somethin’s blowin’ in the wind like that. But when it comes to stayin’ in this bar until things gets better, you might oughta rethink that. I been here five years, and while I do like them roasted peanuts they put in those fancy bowls, nothin’ much ain’t changed and my life is still one a them TV movies about poor choices at wrong times.”

Willy: “I’m not sure what Cletus is babbling about over there, but maybe he’s right. We’ve got to work through this and get you to a better place, like my spare bedroom. How about we just talk out this thing you did and find a way to make things better.”

Jimmy Brian: “Well, it all started with this blog post I wrote.”

Fuzzy-faced gal in the background: “Blog post? Okay, I’m done. Ain’t nothin’ more borin’ than people who put their feelin’s into words. Hey, bartender! Can I get a taxi? And an order of peanuts to go?”

Willy: “Don’t pay any attention to the hazy harlot. She’s still bitter that being head cheerleader twenty years ago didn’t bring her the life she expected. Tell me more about this posting thing. It sounds… deep.”

Hank: “Hold up, y’all. No offense intended, but maybe the point of this here story would make a better impression if the two a you weren’t makin’ all them homoerotic undertones and such. And by the two a you, I mean Willy. Dial it back a notch, sister.”

Willy: “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But yes, let’s focus on Jimmy Brian and his naughtiness.”

Jimmy Brian: “Oh, so you guys are finally letting me talk now? I was starting to feel like the writer done forgot about me and the mess I done caused. And the fact that I didn’t have an accent until this line.”

Willy: “Writers are like that. They think they all fancy and whatnot with the plot twists, but it just means they ain’t really focused and they just throwin’ crap out there. Still and all, let’s get this one done before last call. Tell us what you did last summer. Or five days ago. Don’t matter, spill.”

Jimmy Brian: “Well, it’s basically this. I did a post about a writing challenge and I invited folks to send me an email if they wanted to participate, but the email address I shared was wrong. It’s not mine and it’s not real. And now all those requests have ended up in a void of nothingness, just like my toilet of a career.”

Fuzzy Gal, still at the bar, still waiting on some fool to simply pack up some peanuts so she could be on her way: “That’s just damn stupid. So you screwed up. Why you gotta drag all of us character actors into your hot drama when you just coulda said ‘here’s the right email address’. Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with makin’ a mistake, I do it all the time pickin’ out boyfriends.” She shot a hateful glance at Hank.

Hank: “Woman, you need to get on outta here. And don’t name any a your kids after me. I know we done hooked up that one time behind Old MacDonald’s farm, but I’m pretty sure you fell off that haybale before splashdown.”

Fuzzy Gal: “Well, I never…”

Hank: “Oh yes you did. Many times and all kinds of things. Now git!”

Fuzzy Gal snatched up her roasted nuts and clattered out the door.

Willy: “I knew she was trouble as soon as I saw that horrible blouse she was wearing.”

Hank: “I’m surprised you noticed her at all, since she’s not a wrestler and doesn’t have a plow.”

Jimmy Brian: “Enough! I appreciate both of you but I need to get the word out about this email jack-up. If anyone reading this blog has recently sent me an email at that wretchedly wrong “BonnyManor” address, please be advised that the correct destination is . I greatly regret that your original sends may now be in the ether, orbiting a planet in a different solar system, forlorn and neglected. Just like some former Trump officials.”

Willy: “Hmm. That was a rather subdued denouement for our little story. I would have much preferred a different ending.”

Hank: “Of course you would have. But you can’t always get what you want.”

Willy: “Sometimes you get what you need. And I got you, babe.”

Hank: “Ain’t no need to go there. We had a lot of whiskey shots that night.”

Willy: “But at least I managed to stay on the haybale.”

Jimmy Brian, sighing: “I hope they clean up this crappy hopscotch of a scene in the editing room.”

Real Brian: “Editing? Ain’t nobody got time for that.”


Note: Again, my apologies for the correspondence calamity, Jane. But at least you now have the intel concerning a happy missive you may have sent yet got nothin’ in return but blowin’ tumbleweeds and the faraway sound of crunchin’ peanuts.

Later that night, in the confessional booth at Our Lady of Tawdry Guilt and Swinging Incense…

Haybale: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Actually, I didn’t directly sin, but I may have allowed sin to take place upon me, which might be the same thing. There are a lot of fuzzy rules in that book you gave me. And I’m not even sure if it was real sin, but it sure sounded like them folks was havin’ a lot more fun than they should be. Except that one gal that fell off.”

Father Thyme: “Don’t trouble your mind, my scratchy son. Sometimes things happen that we cannot control and don’t entirely understand. I take it these incidents happened at Old MacDonald’s farm?”

Haybale: “How did you know?”

Father Thyme: “I used to be on the wrestling team in high school.”

15 replies »

    • Hank certainly has his issues, but at least he understands himself, unlike many of the other waffling wanderers in this directionless tale.

      Kudos on the reference-spotting. There are a few more, such as a Simon & Garfunkel nod, but that one is so subtly buried that I really shouldn’t get any credit for it…

      Liked by 2 people

  1. You just never know what can happen when writers throw their crap out into the world. Nice that you sucked in your gut, admitted the mistake and fixed it up so those of us who sent emails wouldn’t feel lost and ignored. As a heads up, I am sending an email to the new location.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I was so mortified by mistake (hell, I’ve typed that email address 4 billion times in the past but I somehow managed to lose my mind NOW?) that I had to do an entire post about the mishap. And throw in a bit of pansexuality, just for flavor…

      I just checked, and I see your email has safely arrived. Hopefully I can soon respond in a competent manner that was not apparent in the previous post about the challenge… 😉

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Of course you can get what you want! Just hop on over to the old MacDonald place and find the enormous hay bale. Can’t miss it. And if you leave a donation, said bale might do a confession for you. It’s as good as if you did it yourself. Really.

    Liked by 1 person

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