The reporters descended on Weazel Sneeze in the fives. In the tens. In the fifteens. Geraldo Geraldo. That woman on Fox. The CNN guy. MSNBC’s liberal in residence. They all showed up. And they all showed up looking for rooms. But there was no room in the inn. Now they knew what Joseph and Mary felt like. Unwelcome. Considering the stars in the sky were not the stars. The news folks were the stars.
Depending on your point of view, it was either awful. For the reporters. Or wonderful. For the people of Weazel Sneeze. This was the perfect opportunity for the country rubes to turn the tables on the big city folks. When the yokels of Weazel Sneeze saw an opportunity, they were not about to turn tail and run. They were smart enough to know these city folk would eat their offerings up hook, line and sinker.
Corncob Jones, former mayor, and now City Councilman in charge while the Mayor was out of town, called a meeting.
The first point of business was the Biannual Washing of the Clyde. That was going to have to wait. Clyde would just have to stink. His stink’em would add a bit of charm to the old home place.
Betty Ann Butt’s offered up a free fix-’em-me-up at the Twirl-and-Kurl to all the natives. Oh, sorry. Indigenous people. In other words, if you were a Weazel Sneezer, you got a makeover free. Like Betty Ann said, “We all want to look good, don’t we?”
Ella of Sam’N’Ella’s All You Can Eat Buffet offered to fix up a a special menu of deep Southern delicacies like hog jowls mixed with a ton of grits, possum innards, fried green ‘maters, and polk salad with fatback as an appetizer. “We’ll throw in some chit’lin’s for good measure.”
“Ella, sweet Ella,” Corncob asked, “why y’all fixin’ all those specialties for them ‘porters? Why don’t y’all do that for us’ens?”
“You never ask,” Ella sprang out.
The piece d’resistance the Weazel Sneezers came up with was a Genuine Weazel Sneeze Moonshine. ‘Course there was no such thing. But Clyde Perkalater had an old timey recipe from his great-great-great grandpappy. It had half-kilt most of that generation. The survivors ended up being tough as nails. Nothing would kill them.
Since the town had so much manure, they figured why not bottle it and sell it. Call the P F Sneeze Cure-all for your aches and pains. The suckers, I mean, the reporters ate it up. The Weazel Sneezers were floating in a landslide of cash. Yes, I realize that’s a mixed metaphor. But this is America. We’re well known for mixing our metaphors.
There was one final question on the agenda. Where we gonna put all these Yankees?
Sam of Sam’N’Ella had the perfect answer. “Over on Slop Hill.” Slop Hill was the local garbage dump. Since the folks in Weazel Sneeze just about kept and used everything, Slop Hill got only the worst of the worst. It was one purgatory of a place. As one reporter put it later, “Gollee gee. I gotta tell you visiting Weazel Sneeze is enough to scare the Episcopalian out of a person.”
The way the localeers felt was the ‘porters deserved what they got. This would teach ‘em to leave well enough alone.
Little did the locals know that Weazel Sneeze was down as the old home place of a future president. There was no such thing as leaving well enough alone anymore. Weazel Sneeze was now a tourist destination. The small isolated community was about to become a World Heritage Site. How ‘bout that for a kick in the rump.
Next Week Campaigning to Beat All