One of my hero’s from the days of yore, was the late Louis Grizzard. Louis was a columnist for The Atlanta Constitution. He was also the author of numerous books and a much sought after public speaker. Many of his speech’s were recorded and I was fortunate to acquire a couple of them.
His boy-hood days were spent in a small town in Georgia and it was from here that most of his stories originated. One rendition that has been a favorite of mine was of the custom in many small towns that I vividly remember. It was called, “sitting up with the dead.”
I cannot recall, nor will I attempt, to re-tell these stories word for word; but will try not to deviate from the original. Any inaccuracies can be blamed on my fading memory.
Uncle Cleve died and his body was sent to the McKibben Brothers Funeral Home; where it was prepared for burial. In the last years of his life, Uncle Cleve suffered from an illness that caused him to be bent over. The brothers became concerned about how to lay him flat in a casket.
Rabbit; The oldest brother: (a graduate of Georgia Tech, School of Funeral Engineering), came to the conclusion that they would have to strap him down.
It was also custom to bring the deceased home for several days before the Funeral Service. The ones chosen to ‘sit up with the dead,’ were, Waylon, Bubba, and Earl.
When all the friends and neighbors had departed, the three assignee’s sat in the parlor where the casket was arranged between two floor lamps. For comfort, they fanned themselves with the hand-held, Funeral Home Fans that were provided by The McKibben’s.
The cardboard fans boasted a likeness of Heaven, on one side and a picture of McKibben Funeral Home on the other. The three Sitters relaxed as much as possible in the folding, metal chairs; and stared at Uncle Cleve’s nose over the side of the casket.
Around ten o’clock, Bubba said, “If y’all are going to sit up; I believe I’ll go to bed.” That said: he rose and left the room. A couple of hours later, Earl said, “Waylon: if you’re going to sit up; I think I’ll go to bed also.” He too, left the room. This left Waylon, sitting alone in the room with Uncle Cleve.
At precisely 2:00 a.m., there “Come up a bad cloud.” A storm so fierce that it rattled the windows. Thunder roared and lightning flashed for what seemed to Waylon, hours before the intensity of the storm reached its peak.
Suddenly, there came an extremely loud clap of thunder; and lightning lit up the room as if it were daylight. It was so furious that it knocked out every light from Moreland, Georgia, to downtown Spartanburg, South Carolina. The metal Funeral Home chair that Waylon sat in was charged with so much static electricity that he tingled from his head to his toes.
Perhaps it was coincidence; but it was at that exact moment when the strap, that Rabbit Mckibben had tied the corpse down with; broke and Uncle Cleve came rising out of that casket. It was right then that Waylon; “Cast down his Funeral Home fan.” “Rose up from his Funeral Home chair; and loudly stated… “UNCLE CLEAVE: IF YOU’RE GOING TO SIT-UP; I BELIEVE I’LL GO TO BED TOO!”
In my humble opinion; among humorists; The late, Louis Grizzard had no equals. I suppose the main reason that I make a feeble attempt to emulate his style of writing; is that we both found that laughter could ease the hardships of growing up “Lacking.”
Anyone who can say, “I caught myself looking”; has most probably; “Sat Up With The Dead;” at one time or another. Dj.
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The older I get, the more I’m inclined to believe that the hullabaloo of enduring the frantic crowds while searching for that perfect gift for a loved one is pure folly. We have been indoctrinated by way of television that the only gift worth giving is one from such & such store. Most stores in every mall have allotted, at least, 1/4th of their floor space to display Christmas items even before they remove the Halloween costumes. Perhaps their thinking is that the earlier the items are displayed, the easier it will be to separate the shoppers from their money.
It has always been my personal opinion that the best gifts are those that can be hand-made from materials readily available. A small wood carving, a knitted shawl, a painting, a framed family photograph, a pie or cake made from a secret family recipe, a small ornament that a friend or relative has admired, or even a hand-made greeting card.
It is so much easier to rush to the mall, purchase a displayed item that would be cast aside within days. It is easier still to simply write a check. However, if a lot of thought, as well as a lot of effort were expended, the gift will be treasured for years and perhaps become an heirloom.
One particular item has been prominently displayed in our home for better than forty years. It is a carving of a bird hand, crafted by a neighborÂ The material used was nothing more than a plain old 2 X 4 board. Obviously, weeks or perhaps months of spare time was spent on this object. This is only one of our treasured, perfect gifts.
By spending a little time thinking about a friend or relative, I’m certain that you can remember that little item that they have mentioned as something that will become a precious possession for them.
Believe me: This will be much better than to take a chance on being trampled by the stampede at the mall just to be the first in your neighborhood to get that one item that everyone else wants.
Have you ever wondered how you would know when you’re out of invisible ink?
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I suppose age has a lot to do with changing our attitudes toward the much touted after-holiday sales. I can well remember when we looked forward to these days with a passion that was almost erotic. Although we never spent the night in line at a favorite store to be among the first to take advantage of the tremendous bargains, we did set the alarm clocks to awaken us in the wee hours on the morning after Thanksgiving as well as Christmas.
In our younger days, we took advantage of a program inaugurated by our bank to prepare us for the spending spree that we felt was necessary during the closing days of each year.
This program was called The Christmas Club. Religiously, we deposited one or two dollars into this account each week when we visited the bank to cash our tiny paycheck.Â We would usually withdraw about half of the proceeds on the Friday after Thanksgiving and rush to the Malls to buy gifts for those on our short list.
The balance was left in the bank until the day after Christmas when we again fought traffic and long lines to purchase discounted Christmas cards, decorations, wrapping paper and sometimes other gifts, to be stored until the next season. This was merely our personal practice in frugality and was self-imposed by; “More month at the end of the money.”
I have not heard of a Christmas Club in years and I do not know if any financial institution still has such a plan; but when we were a young, struggling family, this program was a Godsend. It allowed us to put aside a few dollars while still meeting our financial obligations. In many cases, our Christmas Club savings averted a rather bleak Christmas season.
We went through many of the ‘after-holiday sales’ over the years; but we never experienced the viciousness of folks literally killing someone in their frenzy to be the first to get a bargain. Thank God, we have reached the point that we can accumulate a few meager gifts (on sale) throughout the year and are not required to fight in order to simply get into a store.
Chances are; the clothing that is on sale is either ugly or won’t fit!
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Everyone here in the foothills of North Carolina had been scurrying around for days before the holiday in order to prepare a feast of turkey with all the traditional trimmings. I tried my best to convince my child-bride of 63 years that we should celebrate Thanksgiving in the way that the Pilgrims did when they landed at Plymouth Rock in 1620.
In my logical mind, it didn’t make sense to survive on dry beans and potatoes for a year and then lay out a spread; that will be consumed within hours. Apparently, my rational argument went in one ear and out of the other as soon as I spoke. Sue’s only response was, “The children will be here; just shut up and go to the grocery and get what I have written on the list.”
She prepared as much of the feast as possible in advance of every ones arrival. As usual, I was explicitly warned not to delve into any of it before the big day. The children arrived the day before Thanksgiving and I was dispatched to purchase Bar-be-que for the evening meal. Fortunately, the Church was hosting a breakfast early on Thanksgiving morning, thus sparing us the chore of feeding everyone until the big feast, later in the day
We returned from the church and the frenzy began. I am convinced that every pan and pot we own was pressed into service, containing some delicacy, and awaiting their turn on the stove. Every square inch of all the cabinet counter tops were being utilized for one concoction or another.
Questions of “what can I do,” arose from every quadrant only to receive an answer of, “just stay out of my way!” No one wished to risk the wrath of the chief cook and bottle washer and adhered to this directive. ‘The Baby’ ignored this warning and stayed underfoot during the entire preparation with hope that a choice morsel would be dropped. He knew well that mama would refrain from scolding him.
The children entertained themselves with watching borrowed movies while I was assigned to the duty of assuring that ‘Th’ Bear’ was regularly taken for his constitutional walks to attend to his toilet.
Finally, in the late afternoon, everything was in readiness for the huge feast of turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, candied yams, traditional collards, Lima beans, fruit salad, dinner rolls, a couple of things that I could not recognize, and several varieties of pies and cakes.
When everyone had gorged themselves, the children insisted on helping clear and store the leftovers before again, settling down before the television and the final chapter of the movie. Exhausted, my child-bride literally collapsed in her recliner and soon was observed snoozing.
Sue and I are indeed thankful that our family was together for this special celebration. Hopefully; if it is the good Lord’s will, we will all be able to wear ourselves to a frazzle on many more occasions such as this.
Footnote: I had been mandated to awaken everyone in time to get to the breakfast, therefore I had been awake since 03:00 a.m. Regardless of a short nap after returning from the church, combined with my duties of looking after Th’ Bear, had made an extremely long day for me. At dark-forty-five, I excused myself and retired to the comfort of my bed for my beauty sleep. Alas: When I awoke this morning, I realized that the mattress salesperson had lied. One look in the mirror revealed that a soft mattress and a few hours of sleep cannot rejuvenate someone whose skin appears as cracked leather loosely draped over a washboard.
I would like to take this time to reiterate my remarks. DJ
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We were born in an era before the invention of such (unheard of) items as television, plastic, velcro, computers, credit cards, McDonalds, video games, Toys-R-Us, roller blades, rap music, discount warehouses, jet planes, air conditioning, microwaves, cassette recorders, the Amazing Vegamatic and many, many more which today’s society considers indispensable. Our period of time was even before the man in the moon became the man ON the moon. Our hero, Buck Rogers, was the only successful space traveler.
We are survivors simply because we were taught at a very early age to ˜make do.” The country was emerging from the worst financial catastrophe in history, The Great Depression. Jobs were practically unobtainable and any product or service was almost impossible to sell; therefore, the proverb of ˜waste not, want not” was strictly adhered to.
When the last strand of thread was removed from a wooden spool, we immediately sawed it in half and it became wheels for a child’s miniature car. Larger spools were converted into wind-up tractors by notching the outer edges and adding rubber bands and a small stick. Thousands of miles of roads for these vehicles were constructed anywhere there was soft sand. Empty snuff tins filled with sand leveled and packed these thoroughfares. Most importantly, this pastime cost no more than an imaginative mind.
We made rifles and pistols from any scrap of board that was not needed for repairs to the house or out buildings. Shaping the board into a replica of a gun was accomplished with a hand saw and pocket knife. Clothespins were attached to the butt ends to hold a strip of a discarded inner tube which was stretched to the end of the barrels. The operation of these weapons was simplicity itself. Aim the piece at the intended victim, depress the clothespin and the strip of rubber would quickly disable your enemy.
Bicycles were cost prohibitive for most of our families. Mechanical means of becoming mobile for many of us was in the form of metal roller skates which were clamped to the soles of shoes and tightened with a metal key. These were of little use to those of us who did not have access to sidewalks, parking lots and paved streets. The deep sand of rural America guaranteed many scraped elbows and knees. The grinding sound from the metal wheels rolling on any paved surface announced ones presence, especially early on a Christmas morning. If we lost the key, we were out of business until Parker’s Department Store began its annual “going out of business sale.”
Another method of innovative travel was through the use of homemade stilts (tom-walkers). We fashioned these from cast-off strips from a nearby saw mill. They elevated the rider anywhere from six inches to one foot. We were considered proficient when we could run while using them at the one foot level.
Games of the times were usually Chinese Checkers, Old Maid, Set-Back, Rook, Marbles and Hop-Scotch. We played baseball with A string-wound ball: A retired work glove, and a bat trimmed from a slab: (again from the nearby saw mill).
The nearest thing to fast food was served to us in a converted railroad car that specialized in hot dogs and bologna sandwiches if we were fortunate enough to have an extra ten cents which was not needed for family emergencies.
We basked in the only air conditioned building in town, the theater. A huge fan was positioned behind the screen and in back of a water soaked curtain or a tray which held a 100 pound block of ice. The air blowing through the soaked curtain or across the ice kept the darkened building comfortable. For .09 cents, we could stay cool for hours.
If our families were fortunate enough to own a battery powered radio, many of our neighbors would gather at our homes on certain evenings to listen to favorites like Lum and Abner, The Grand Old Aprey, Gang Busters, Amos & Andy, and, of course, The Lone Ranger.
Our hearing talk of live, color pictures being transmitted by air waves; walking on the surface of the moon; inserting a plastic card into a machine and receiving cash; corresponding with others via microchips in a computer and flying coast to coast in just over four hours was considered so much malarkey. Anyone believing in these fantasies was characterized as a ˜nut-case.”
Yes. We are survivors; Not by choice but by necessity. We bear no permanent scars simply because we never knew we were deprived.
Who are we?
We were the inhabitants of a by-gone interval in time. We are senior citizens. Demijon
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There was a time when every person above the age of fifty was considered wise. Foundation for this thinking was due to the fact that they had seen more of life and had absorbed valuable information; therefore, rendering them capable of imparting much needed advice to those of us who were lacking in experience. No one doubted that the advice given by these “elderly” people had merit. Whether or not the advice was followed, we certainly did not resent their offering it.
In some instances, the advice was contrary to the methods that we had been taught in the home and were cast aside, but never did we ostracize the person because we thought that they had become Senile If for no other reason, they were respected simply because they were our elders.
Children were taught from day one to respect others and especially those older than they. This was an important part of the training of a child even if it meant NOT sparing of the rod. Punishment was a sure thing if one had been deemed guilty of “sassing” an elderly person. It just was NOT accepted.
Impudence could do as much to damage a young person’s character as the committing of a crime. When they became an adult, instead of being thought of as “wise,” they were labeled “smart-aleck.”
In today’s society, the wise are mostly in the minority. Being a “smart-aleck” is even considered “cool.” Portrayals of old, dottering, individuals who are barely in control of their faculties is entertainment. Many times, unruly youths are cast as heroes.
Perhaps a lot of this can be attributed to the loss of the values of home training. In a world of violence, infidelity, ˜by-the-book” rearing of children and the importance being placed on “doing your own thing,” the respect for others has been likewise cast aside.
This brings to mind a little gem which I read years ago that states…“It is a wise monkey indeed that won’t monkey with another monkey’s monkey.”
Why then don’t we stop monkeying around and listen to those who are wiser than we?
The only thing we have to lose is our own self respect.
Everyone has a photographic memory; some just don’t have film.
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I am not sure if the law for proper following distance for vehicles on our streets and highways is Nationwide; but there is a State law that sets the distance at 1 car length for each 10 miles per hour of speed.
There are those, however, who feel that they can force the car in front of them to drive faster than the posted speed limit.Â These folks are the ones who will continually drive about 6 inches from the rear bumper of the vehicle ahead of them.Â Perhaps, they learned this from watching high performance race cars on a closed track.Â Actions such as this is inviting a collision that could result in serious injury of even death.
Apparently, these drivers are not aware of another rule.Â That rule states that to hit another car from the rear places the fault on the driver behind.Â Following closer than the above rule will surely result in a traffic citation.Â If this is not a law, it is certainly included in most Insurance contracts.Â Insurance Companies contention is; that the vehicle behind was following too closely, therefore, voiding the payment of a claim.
I have actually experienced this when another driver would follow my vehicle for miles, almost touching my bumper while flashing his headlights.Â Then suddenly, he would cross the double, yellow lines and pass on a blind curve.Â If an oncoming vehicle had been approaching, a three car crash would have resulted.Â On, at least, one occasion, we arrived at the next stop light at exactly the same time.Â So; why was he in such a hurry when it was obvious that passing was an unsafe maneuver?
Another rule of the road, and perhaps a law, is the lowering of headlights when approaching an oncoming vehicle.Â Every car has a bright and a dim mode for the headlights.Â Newer cars are equipped with Halogen headlights that are much brighter than the sealed-beam ones.Â Meeting an oncoming vehicle with bright Halogen headlights tends to blind a driver.Â Couple this with Halogen fog lights and a disaster is in the making.
Note to all drivers who follow too closely:Â Intimidation does not work. It does no more than to cause you to be unable to control your car safely and could result in catastrophe.Â It is much better to arrive a little late than not to arrive at all.
Possibly true:Â Half the people you know are below average.
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The Loyal Order of “The Sons Of Rest” convened on the wooden bench under the shelter of the Filling Station for their weekly meeting.Â Hardy Hastings, the Grand Marshal, called the meeting to order by banging his walker on the concrete and saying, “All Rise.”Â When no one moved, he said, “Be seated.”
The first order of business was for “Bigun” Sanders to recite the by-laws.Â Bigun stood, removed his NASCAR ball cap and began; “We, The Sons of Rest , do hereby vow to protect our sovereign county from the hoards of Yankees, politicians, and other varmints that impede our way of life.Â We are empowered to use all means at our disposal to discourage intrusion of these varmints, short of wasting shotgun shells on them.Â So says article 324.1-A of the Sons of Rest code.”
Minutes for the last meeting were read and approved and Hardy then asked, “What is the feeling of this body on the recent election?”Â “Bubba” Watkins was the newest member of the club and immediately raised his hand.Â Hardy said, “The chair recognizes Bubba.”
Bubba rose, pulled a cud of chewing tobacco from his mouth, walked over and deposited it in the oil barrel that served for a trash bin before he spoke.Â “Whaal, the way I sees it, that there Womern is gittin’ ‘xactly whot she wanted.Â She figures she is goin’ to be CO-President up ’til she screws everthing up; an’ then that Obana feller is goin’ to take the blame.Â Her an’ her Old Man has et at the givernment trough for so long that they ain’t no way they’s goin’ be put out to pasture.Â Neither one uv them could hold out to do a day’s work an’ yet we’s gotta scrimp an’ save to pay’em they pension whot’s more’n I can make in a lifetime.”Â “I yield the floor back to Hardy.”
Other pertinent business was discussed; the major ones being, taking a vote to ask Ot to lower the price of his gas and whether or not to rebuke that gal of Albert Jenkins for running off with that lightning rod salesman.
When all of the week’s business had been taken care of Hardy banged his walker again and the meeting was adjourned.Â Several of the members formed a group under the wash bay of the station that was well away from the bench.Â Archie Tadlock was the first to speak in hushed tones;Â “I don’t know about y’all but as fer as i’m consarned, That Bubba aught to be our nex’ Grand Marshall.Â That thare feller is some more smart.”
“I hyeard his daddy were a lawyer up in ‘Napilous, said Bud Parker; we jus’ may need him iffen things gits wurse round here than they already are.Â Never know when we’ll have th’ need to sic th’ law on somebody.Â Be good to have him backin’ us.”
Writ by Demijon
A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking.
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For my sixty-fifth birthday this year, my daughter-in-law (the dear) purchased a week of personal training at the local health club for me. Although I am still in great shape since being a high school football cheerleader 47 years ago, I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and give it a try.
I called the club and made my reservations with a personal trainer named Belinda, who identified herself as a 26-year-old aerobics instructor and model for athletic clothing and swim wear. My daughter-in-lawÂ seemed pleased with my enthusiasm to get started! The club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my progress.
Started my day at 6:00 a.m. Tough to get out of bed, but found it was well worth it when I arrived at the health club to find Belinda waiting for me. She is something of a Greek goddess – with blond hair, dancing eyes and a dazzling white smile. Belinda gave me a tour and showed me the machines. I enjoyed watching the skillful way in which she conducted her aerobics class after my workout today. Very inspiring! Belinda was encouraging as I did my sit-ups, although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time she was around. This is going to be a FANTASTIC week-!!
I drank a whole pot of coffee, but I finally made it out the door. Belinda made me lie on my back and push a heavy iron bar into the air; then she put weights on it! My legs were a little wobbly on the treadmill, but I made the full mile. Belinda’s rewarding smile made it all worthwhile. I feel GREAT-!! It’s a whole new life for me.
The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying the toothbrush on the counter and moving my mouth back and forth over it. I believe I have a hernia in both pectoral muscles. Driving was OK as long as I didn’t try to steer or stop. I parked on top of a Honda in the club parking lot. Belinda was impatient with me.Â She insisted that my screams bothered other club members. Her voice is a little too perky for early in the morning; and when she scolds, she gets this nasally whine that is VERY annoying. My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so Belinda put me on the stair ‘monster’. Why the h**l would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators? Belinda told me it would help me get in shape and enjoy a better life . She said some other s**t too that did not speak well of her trainer / client relationship.
Belinda was waiting f or me with her vampire-like teeth exposed as her thin, cruel lips were pulled back in a full snarl. I couldn’t help being a half an hour late, it took me that long to tie my shoes. Belinda took me to work out with dumbbells. When she was not looking, I ran and hid in the restroom. She sent another skinny b***h to find me. Then, as punishment, she put me on the rowing machine — which I sank.
I hate that b***h Belinda more than any human being has ever hated another human being in the history of the world. Stupid, skinny, anemic, anorexic little cheerleader. If there was a part of my body I could move without unbearable pain, I would beat the crap out of her with it.
Belinda wanted me to work on my triceps. I don’t have any triceps! And if you don’t want dents in the floor, don’t hand me those D**m barbells or anything that weighs more than a sandwich. The treadmill flung me off and I landed on a health and nutrition teacher. Why couldn’t it have been someone softer, like the drama coach or the choir director?
Belinda left a message on my answering machine in her grating, shrilly voice wondering why I did not show up today. Just hearing her made me want to smash the machine with anything I could lift.Â However, I lacked the strength to even use the TV remote and ended up watching eleven straight hours of the Weather Channel.
I’m having the Church van pick me up for services today so I can go and thank GOD that this week is over. I will also pray that the next time my daughter-in-law, (the little s**t), chooses a gift for me, it should be fun (like a root canal or a hysterectomy). I still say if God had wanted me to bend over and touch my toes, He would have put them on my knees.
I sincerely hope that I can re-gain the strength to contact my lawyer and change my will.
Love, Susie Mae
Note to Belinda:Â “When you’re talking to me;Â KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!”
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Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â While rummaging through my desk one rainy afternoon, I came across a list of titles that I had planned to write a story about.Â At one time, they probably made perfect sense, but now each was as foreign to me as Arabic.Â If I had pursued them while the ideas were fresh in my mind, who knows, perhaps one of them would be on the New York Times best seller list.Â
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â The very fact that the list was discovered months or perhaps years later is proof that I handled these titles in my usual method, that of procrastination.Â Here were wonderful, exciting titles but with no story outline.Â They were nothing more than a bunch of jumbled words at this late date.Â Not one of them caused the little bulb over my head to light up.
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Examples:
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œJOLENEâ€™S BRA.â€Â Now why in the world would I attempt to create a story about Jolene and her undergarments?Â I don’t even know the girl and even less about brassieres.
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œPASSIONâ€™S OVERTURE.â€Â Titillating to say the least, but nothing in my rather limited experience has qualified me to even think about passion and as far as I’m concerned overture was something that William Tell did.
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œTALES FROM THE GREEN SWAMP.â€Â I know where the Green Swamp is, but I have never been there nor have I ever heard any tales from there with the exception of the thirty-nine foot alligators and the hundred pound rattlesnakes.
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œSTRIP SEARCH.â€Â Apparently this would have been a story about police or detective work, but since my only encounters with either has been in the neighborhood of illegal parking,Â Why would I even imagine myself as an authority on police procedures?Â It would have made for fascinating reading though, don’t you think?
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â These are only a few of the titles which I had hoped to develop into best sellers and were laid aside until such time that I had the opportunity to give them proper attention.Â When that time came, I had completely forgotten about the titles to say nothing of the story line.Â Perhaps one day soon I will write a story about these titles.Â You know, possibly something like…
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â THE TEMPTRESS
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Jolene lived in a rather obscure cabin situated deep in the Green Swamp where she had to battle massive alligators and huge rattlesnakes to do even simple tasks like the hanging of her wash on nearby bushes.Â She was a passionate person who spent her days reciting overtures to the wildlife that abounded in the area while lovingly tending the illegal liquor still that was the major source of her income.Â The pride she took in her product was evident, due in part to her insistence on the use of the finest ingredients for its production.Â
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â It was a hot summer afternoon when Detective Drake and Officer Pike raided the Illegal operation.Â Officer Pike smashed the still and proceeded to empty the several cases of whiskey-laden fruit jars stacked nearby, obviously awaiting distribution.Â Detective Drake advised Jolene of her rights and gently handcuffed her, ignoring her passionate attempts to seduce him. When he attempted to strip search her, he discovered that she was devoid of one important item of her underclothes due to the fact that she had left her brassiere hanging on a small bush that Jolene used as a makeshift clothesline…..
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Oh well, maybe someday.
This Blog does not have CENSORSHIP:Â What it does have are limitations on what we can write about and still conform to the rating for General Audiences.
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Origin of The Demijon Team:
A Pictorial History
The Demijon Kid
Jay Henry and Susie Mae
Dressed to Kill
In Memory of Th’ Bear; Chief of Security
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