Going Shopping Weazel Sneeze Style
In the previous episode, we learned how auspicious and honorable it was to be the Mayor of Weazel Sneeze. The Mayor had three important functions. Without these functions performed, the town would fall apart. We were given the straight dope on the first two.
Function #1. Step out of the Outhouse and check on his Shadow.
Function #2. The uncorking of the town jug and first drink on Get-a-Snort Day.
Now it’s time to discuss the most important function the local celebrity performed. It was a well-known fact that all the population of Weazel Sneeze were Do-Naughties. That doesn’t mean that the citizens were known to walk around in the buff. Although Clyde Perkelater was known to do el buffo once in a blue moon when his wife kicked him out of the house for not washing. His stunk stank up the town so bad that an anonymous someone inaugurated the biannual Washing of the Clyde.
Like Get-a-Snort Day, this Washing of the Clyde had developed into a festival. All sorts of perfumes and soaps and bathtubs were now sold. There was even a public bathing for anyone who wanted to participated. Talk about lines at the Women’s Restroom at a football game and you can imagine the line that formed for the Public Bathing.
The Mayor was Weazel Sneeze’s delegate to the Big Tent in the Sky, better known as the Do-Naught Party National Convention. It occurred once every quadrennial and had only one purpose. To nominate the Do-Naught Party’s candidate for President. Since it was Leap Year and a Presidential election year, P F Sneeze was going to the Convention. It was a must.
P F wasn’t averse to the trip. Anything to get away from the pig farm and B S. After all, he had taken to being confused who he should be saying “Sooey” to. B S or the pigs? But he was definitely not up to going out and buying a monkey suit. And a tall top hat. To make an impression, it had to be a tall tall hat. Since Weazel Sneeze didn’t have a monkey suit and top hat store, P F had no choice. He had to go over to Snort Holler.
In all his livelong days, P F never left Podunk County. He barely got out of Weazel Sneeze. Why, in the name of all that was holy, could he not wear a pair of his Sunday-go-to-meeting overalls, John Deere cap and Justin-in-cases. If they were good ‘nuff for his great grandpappy, they were good ‘nuff for him. He would have been fine from the tip of his tippy-tippy toes to the hair on Mount P F. And it was a mighty fine white head of hair, waving to anyone passing by. You think The Donald has hair. P F had hair. Not only that but his hair had hair.
You’ve heard of Shotgun Weddings, P F was about to participate in a Shotgun Shopping Spree. Saturday ‘fore the Saturday P F needed to catch the train to go off to The Convention, B S up and pointed a sawed-off shotgun at her dearly beloved and said, “Whether you like it or not P F, we’re going over to Snort Holler and buy yerself a suit and a top hat. It’s either that or you will be cleaning buckshot out of yer behind for a month of Sundays.” P F knew she meant what she said ’cause B S knew how to get things done. She may have been a sweeter-than-homemade-pie Pudding but she was a straight shooter and he didn’t aim to go the way Old Goof-off had gone.
With buckshot up his rear.
Goof-off’s wife had filled her ever-lovin’ twice-cheatin’ hubby with so much buckshot in his ne’er do well that he had to be buried moonside up. P F knew he didn’t want that fate worse than death. So he gathered up his altogethers, rustled up his Model T and headed over to Snort Holler for the first shopping expedition in his entire life. He was going to trade in his homemades for some brand spanking new store-boughts. He had better like it or else.
Next Wednesday, Chapter 6: Off to see the Wizard