The Return of Dubya

Some of ya'll will remember my neighbor Dubya. For those who don't, Dubya was the thorn in my side, my neighborly nemesis, prone to yanking down power lines, knocking entire trees to the ground in the process and becoming the talk of the town when Bubbles witnessed his daughter doing the wild thing with Dubya's hairy troll-esque son-in-law through an open door, facing the road, on Bubbles' way to church with the youngins.

Precious the Elder was most likely scarred for life.

On one of the Amazon's breaks from college, she heard some strange sounds coming from across the road. When I explained that it was Dubya's other daughter, the forty dolla ho, entertaining a client, the Amazon commented, "It's a shame you can't even sit on your front porch without having to listen to fat slappin' sex noises from across the street."

Back in the fall, when Dubya was diagnosed with advanced emphysema, I was saddened by the news that he probably wouldn't make it much longer. He packed his things and moved to Florida to live with his daughter and her hairy troll bubbahubby. From time to time, Ma would call down there to see how he was and last we'd heard, he was still hanging on.

Imagine my surprise when he pulled up in front of his old house a couple weeks ago, dragging his oxygen tank, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

Dubya is back.

Aside from the pile of empty (I hope they're empty) oxygen tanks on his porch and a walker laying on it's side near the wood pile, you'd never know anything had changed. Hell, last weekend I saw him out replacing the old rotted porch on the side of his little house. It took him all day, but he hammered away until it was done.

I've kept an eye on the activity over there, holding my breath, waiting for him to do something to cause an uproar in our quiet little holler.

It's the way of the Dubya.

Dubya's property (The Dubya Estate) is bordered on one side by a vacant lot and on the other sits a pretty little double wide, with a perfectly manicured lawn and meticulously pruned shrubs. The double wide is owned by the Persnicketies, a couple in their mid to late fifties. Mr. Persnickety spends most of his time keeping their little homestead picture perfect. I've seen him with a wet wash cloth, out at the side of the road, wiping the dust off his white rail fence in the wee hours of the morning. The holler was a' buzz with gossip back about two years ago when both Mr. Persnickety and the guy who owns the vacant lot put up nine foot privacy fences to block the view of the Dubya Estate and it's constant state of disarray. The Persnickety property is currently up for sale, I reckon living next to Dubya has caused Mrs. P to long for a life back in the remote areas of the mountains, accessible only by dirt roads, where she spent her childhood.

Yesterday, Lulu was swamped with work, it being the first day of the month and she being the only remaining member of the accounting department at our location. There were about 3o minutes left in the day when she called me, dying to share some juicy gossip she'd heard the night before.

On Monday, someone between our trailer and the Grab n' Go (and go and go) had called the town to complain about a sewage problem. The Amazon had seen the town truck over at Dubya's and then later we heard the Frog Pond Holler fire truck over there. We thought maybe Dubya had finally burned the place down, but no.

According to Lulu, Lloyd and Buford, our two town employees, had tried to solve the sewer problem by doing what they do best... standing in the road, looking at the hole, scratching their heads and spitting tobacco. After a good thirty minutes, they consulted Dubya and he suggested they call the VFD for help.

Don't ask me why... it doesn't make sense to me either.

The fire chief (Bubbles' brother by the way) and the assistant chief (her daddy.. no lie.. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried,) under Dubya's guidance, decided to shove the big hose down the hole and turn it on, wide open.

"By gawd that'll flush 'er out," they were over heard saying.

In the meantime, the Persnicketies were going about their daily routine, making sure their persnickety little world was in order, not a hair out of place. They didn't notice the gurgling sound coming from their kitchen sink.. at first.

As Mrs. P straightened the lavender hand towel hanging in the guest bathroom, something sputtered in the pristine, white toilet bowl. As she turned her head to call for Mr. P to come investigate.. it began. In a display rivalling that of Old Faithful, the brown swill of raw sewage erupted from the toilet, soon followed by the drains in the master bath and the kitchen, a horrific shit storm of atomic proportions, raining it's stench down upon all the lemon fresh surfaces of the Persnickety house.

Lawd have mercy.

Dubya's back ya'll.. and with a vengeance.

The town of Frog Pond Holler is paying to recarpet the Persnickety house and the VFD is having to answer some questions set forth by the town's insurance company.

In the meantime, I think I know where someone can get a really good deal on some Frog Pond Holler real estate.

Happy Humpday ya'll. Hump it like you mean it.

Later Taters!