Ah the old prairie refrain: “Give me a home, where the buffalo roam, and I’ll show you a messy house.”
Yes, life on the ol prairie. As my Funk & Wagnell’s dictionary of words and definitions you could give a rat’s ass about defines:
Which also describes most of the lawn area in my front yard. Treeless, rolling and dead.
It’s such a nice folksy program with all sorts of entertaining folksy stuff like stories of “Lake Wobegon.” The adventures of “Guy Noir,” private detective.
So I wondered how a Prairie Home Companion program would fare here in New England. Minus the prairie, buffalos, and where the deer and the antelopes play. BUT….where there is always heard, a discouragingly word at least every day. Somewhat like, “Hey ya freakin’ jerk, ya took up two parkin’ spaces you idiot!”
Or if there were any folksy type stories like Garrison tells on his program.
(The MisfitWisdom version of “Rural Home Companion”)
Yep, ol Mildred Smirdornsky at the Lake Reekoswamp fire department weekly bingo after a confrontation with Helen Crasner and had to be transported to a local hospital. Horace Greenswerg, the Chief of the Lake Reekoswamp Volunteer Fire Department and Septic Service said that Ms. Smirdornsky had to be sedated on the way to Our Lady of Agony Hospital after screaming at paramedics that, “That bitch Helen better not try to steal my freakin’ bingo card!”
Meanwhile, down at the country store on Main Street, Elmer Flattsner entertained the locals with his recollections of patriotic battles he had fought in the very first year the local casino opened and there were only 75 slot machines and he had to fight off several old ladies and one guy driving a scooter in order to get one of those machines. Elmer proudly displays many of his casino battle scars incurred by being beaten by a number of canes and oxygen tanks.
Harvey Dieffenberg, the local resident part-time police officer and animal control officer as well as pest exterminator, recalled the time he stopped Elma Zaplowsky driving on the sidewalk at the local feed store in her 1982 Oldsmobile Cutlass thinking it was a Burger King drive thru and wound up with two bags of wild bird seed and a forsythia bush. In the nick of time Harvey caught her just as she was about to pour catsup on the bird seed and mistaking the forsythia leaves as lettuce.
Down at the local dog pound Horace Fifner was attempting to convince Bertha Rosnowski from the Termite Heights section of town that the perfect companion for her was a stray coyote that he had caught just last week. Unable to convince anyone else to adopt the coyote, because, obviously no one wants to adopt a coyote, he named it Fido and attempted to pass it off as a dog. Bertha, falling for the “Fido” ploy adopted the coyote and hasn’t been seen or heard from since.
The town’s only private detective, Frebus Glockner, was in the midst of an investigation as to who was responsible for the theft of several rubber cow brassieres from the Melvin Cow Farm just up the road from the town balloon factory. Considering the balloon factory holds the exclusive contract to supply the town with parade balloons and that there is a shortage of balloon material available, the factory is a prime suspect in this case. The local house of ill repute had previously been cleared of any involvement due to the fact that rubber gloves, although in appearance resemble condoms, are not really user-friendly. Presently authorities are centering their investigation on a local bovine strip club.
And that’s life in a small New England town folks. Where all he residents are really clueless. The men are couch potato slugs. The women all have constant headaches. And although there are no deer and antelopes playing, and the skys are usually cloudy all day, and you always hear an awful lot of discouraging words, it beats living out there on the prairie with all kinds of snakes, bugs, and various animals ready to eat your ass.
Take THAT Garrison Keillor.
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