You ever have one of those Coming-to-Jesus days? I know I have. It ain’t pretty. That was the kind of day that Big Al Fresco was about to have.
While Big Al was having his huh moment at Campaign Headquarters, Betty Sue Pudding was back in Weazel Sneeze enjoying a bottle of her daddy’s finest. She was dog-tired and that ain’t no lie. All that muffin baking had putt-putted her putter till she couldn’t putt no more.
She kicked back and rewarded herself with a jar of Doctor Pudding’s Own Home Brew. Her daddy had just made a new batch and this was the best she’d ever had. ‘Course she’d think so. When you’re dawg tired, a jar of likker is gonna taste ten times as good as a regular drink. She sat there, thinking good thoughts about herself, about P F, about America, about the Election. Life was good.
About this time, the phone rang. Betty Sue was in such a good mood, she just knew nothing but nothing would break her mood. Until she picked up that phone.
Al Fresco shouted into the phone, “Do you know anything about a Rapture?”
There was one thing Betty Sue knew, and she knew it for sure. Big Al was not a believer. So what in the name of Goof-off Sneaze was he talking about?
“Do you know anything about a Rapture?” the phone shouted at her.
“Big Al, don’t shout pretty please with sugar on it,” she said into the phone. “You’re about to give a girl a headache. On top of that, you’re about to spoil my day. And I was having such a good day.”
Big Al calmed down as much as a feller can calm down when he finds out that Jesus ain’t taking him to the Promised Land. He took a deep breath and said, his voice speaking real softlike, “Do you know anything about a Rapture?”
“‘Course I know about the Rapture,” she said. “What about the Rapture?”
Panic returned to Big Al’s voice. “I think it’s arrived.”
“What are you tawking about?” she said, confused as all get-out.
“Has it happened?” his voice was exhibiting all kinds of impatience. “I checked the front page of the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the Washington Post. I checked Fox News, CNN, MSNBC and CBS News. Not one word.”
“Why would you think it had happened?”
“Well, it seems that all the Campaign Staff have disappeared. So my estimate is that they were raptured. Because they wouldn’t dare not show up for work on Election Day.”
“They’re not there?” Betty Sue asked.
“Not a one.” There was firmness in his voice as if it was true. “Do you know where they are?”
“I do not.”
Betty Sue headed downtown Weazel Sneeze. She pulled the caddy up to the Do Naughty Campaign Headquarters and parked. She went inside. There were campaign workers sprawled everywhere. One looked up at Betty Sue and pathetically said, “My head hurts. And my body does too.” Around the office there were muffin platters everywhere. All the muffins were gone.
Betty Sue realized that they all had gotten stoned and now they were starting to wake up and their heads hurt like crazy. She knew exactly what was going on. “Been there done that,” she thought. But those muffins had caused this? She thought real hard. What had she put in those muffins that would do that? Then she realized. Weazel grass. Geez, why did I do that?
Quicker than quick, and that’s pretty fast, she was back on the phone with Big Al. She explained about the muffins. She hated to do it, but she had no choice.
“There’s only one thing to do,” she said into the phone.
Next Wednesday The Bottle is Mightier Than the Sword