Howdy! How the heck are you? My name is Ralph Buick, and before you ask, of course that ain’t my real name. I plan on livin’ a year or ten more, you can bet, and if I tell you good folks all the stories I’ve got to tell, well, let’s just say it might be bad for my health should it get out who I really am. Another thing you can mark down: I’ll be changing ever’body’s name, not to mention the name of the trailer park these good folks live in, and which I have the honor to own. Not only am I the owner, I’m also a resident, so you can see the problem if I was to get too honest in my story tellin’. But here’s the gospel truth: I’ve seen things that would strain your imagination.
Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s some damn fine people livin’ here, people I’m proud to call my friends. Some of ‘em I’ve known since before I came into possession of Shady Acres (that’s a story all its own, but I think I might wait a while before I tell it). But those ain’t the folks I’ll be talkin’ about, for the simple reason that they don’t act like idiots. It’s the idiots who’ll be providin’ our entertainment. I think that’s why God put ‘em here, to give the rest of us a reason to feel good about ourselves.
First, let me tell you a little about Shady Acres. We’ve got thirty homes on wheels for rent, on three streets. We’ve got what I’ll call Hank Street, where I live, and where most of my friends live. Then we’ve got Williams Street, where the folks wished they lived one street over. Then we’ve got Senior Street. This is where you’ll live if you decide to move here, where ever’body lives when they first move to Shady Acres. (It’s really another country music legend they’re named after, but I’ve already told you all why I changed the names.)
You’d think we’d get a lot of country music fans, with streets like that. I always guessed that was the reason the original owners chose those street names, but nothing is further from the truth. We get rappers, metal heads, mariachi lovers, you name it. The one thing most of these folks have in common is poor decision-making skills.
At 27 Senior Street, you’ll find a woman of immense proportions named Jill Johnston. She’s been a resident for the last nine months, always pays her rent on time, never causes a fuss. At least till two months ago, when she managed to get stuck on the toilet. I didn’t know a thing like that was even possible! I might not know it still had she not thrown her boyfriend out the night before. As it was, I was the one she called. (She took her cell phone with her, or we might have found her corpse, so firmly was she bonded with the crapper!)
When I arrived, her embarrassment was exceeded only by her desire to get up, thus she didn’t hesitate to ask me to join her in the bathroom. She had covered all her privates, thankfully, and had the good sense to perform a courtesy flush, so I went right to work, thinkin’ as I did that time was not on our side. Her feet were already a pale shade of blue and her mind was leanin’ toward panic.
I decided on the direct approach. I grabbed her left hand and pulled. Now, I’m no Charlie Atlas, but I’m no George Goble, either. I was able to get good traction on the linoleum, but it didn’t make a dent. Next, I stepped up on the side of the tub, thinkin’ a different angle might help. It didn’t. I pulled till I was red-faced from the strain, but Jill Johnston was no closer to freedom. It was then that I remembered my daddy’s favorite sayin’: Give me a lever and I’ll move the world. I keep all manner of tools in my truck, a crow bar among them. I told her to wait right here (I know, that was a dumb thing to say) while I go to the truck.
Her eyes grew several sizes when I got back. She thought I was gonna bust the toilet, I guess, but I was quick to relieve her worries. “We’re gonna pry you off, young lady, unless you can come up with a better idea.” She couldn’t. I apologized for the cold metal she was about to feel, but I shouldn’t’ve. She was numb from the waist down, didn’t feel a thing.
I went to work, wedgin’ the sucker in as best I could. Sadly, this required me to manipulate her hip area, which was much larger than the space she was sittin’ on. What my brilliant strategy didn’t allow for was the strain the seat was already under. As soon as I commenced to pryin’, the damn thing cracked. Seein’ that the damage was done, I took to the job with renewed vigor. It didn’t take long for the seat to break altogether, but when it did, it managed to give such a pinch that even Jill’s numb backside felt it. She let loose a scream to make a banshee proud, then up she comes, free from her prison at last. This might sound like a successful outcome, but no. Bein’ on the toilet for nearly an hour robbed the woman of her ability to stand, a condition she sought to remedy by grabbin’ a holt of me.
Sadly friends, I was not man enough for the job.
Her frame listed hard to port, her hand clamped to my shoulder. I took a step back as soon as I saw what was about to happen, but she matched me step for step. Four of ‘em is how many it took to leave the confines of the bathroom, gatherin’ speed as we went. Another three feet was all the room we had left, but instead of hittin’ a wall that might’ve stopped us, we hit her back door. This fine piece of engineering was no more equipped than I was for the job of halting our progress. We crashed through it like it was paper, much to the surprise of Manuel Rodriguez, who was busy grillin’ some kinda meat that I couldn’t identify by its smell. Our path took us dangerously close to the flames, but we were spared that fate, thank the Lord. The last of her three back steps was the last thing my feet touched. I’m still not sure if Ms. Johnston touched any of ‘em. My back hit the ground and was immediately flattened by her large personage.
Here’s where things get strange. You’d think it’d be painful to have four-hundred pounds of flesh pin you to the ground, but it wasn’t all that bad. I felt her spreadin out as she landed, and due to the fact that she was so much wider than me, the ground took the worst of it. It knocked the breath out of me, for sure, but beyond that, I was fine.
She bounced pretty good, I must say. She did an impressive somersault, landed on her own back, leavin’ us layin’ head to head in Manuel’s front yard, both pantin’ for breath.
Manuel laid aside his work and came straight to the aid of his neighbor. He took off his coat and covered up her most embarrassing parts, talked to her kindly, ignored me altogether. Ten minutes later, the two of us got her on her feet, which were returnin’ to their normal color. It would’ve taken a blind man to miss what was happenin’ now. Manuel had eyes for Ms. Johnston! And apparently, the feeling was mutual.
The next day, he gave me notice that he was adding another resident to his household. I was sad to lose a good tenant, but if you could see the two of them together, you’d have to say the greater good was served. They act like they’re happier than pigs in … Well, you know what I mean.
Tune in next time, when I’ll tell you ‘bout the Fincher’s, Bob and his wife Charlotte. They have twelve cats and a taste for adventure!
Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s some damn fine people livin’ here, people I’m proud to call my friends. Some of ‘em I’ve known since before I came into possession of Shady Acres (that’s a story all its own, but I think I might wait a while before I tell it). But those ain’t the folks I’ll be talkin’ about, for the simple reason that they don’t act like idiots. It’s the idiots who’ll be providin’ our entertainment. I think that’s why God put ‘em here, to give the rest of us a reason to feel good about ourselves.
First, let me tell you a little about Shady Acres. We’ve got thirty homes on wheels for rent, on three streets. We’ve got what I’ll call Hank Street, where I live, and where most of my friends live. Then we’ve got Williams Street, where the folks wished they lived one street over. Then we’ve got Senior Street. This is where you’ll live if you decide to move here, where ever’body lives when they first move to Shady Acres. (It’s really another country music legend they’re named after, but I’ve already told you all why I changed the names.)
You’d think we’d get a lot of country music fans, with streets like that. I always guessed that was the reason the original owners chose those street names, but nothing is further from the truth. We get rappers, metal heads, mariachi lovers, you name it. The one thing most of these folks have in common is poor decision-making skills.
At 27 Senior Street, you’ll find a woman of immense proportions named Jill Johnston. She’s been a resident for the last nine months, always pays her rent on time, never causes a fuss. At least till two months ago, when she managed to get stuck on the toilet. I didn’t know a thing like that was even possible! I might not know it still had she not thrown her boyfriend out the night before. As it was, I was the one she called. (She took her cell phone with her, or we might have found her corpse, so firmly was she bonded with the crapper!)
When I arrived, her embarrassment was exceeded only by her desire to get up, thus she didn’t hesitate to ask me to join her in the bathroom. She had covered all her privates, thankfully, and had the good sense to perform a courtesy flush, so I went right to work, thinkin’ as I did that time was not on our side. Her feet were already a pale shade of blue and her mind was leanin’ toward panic.
I decided on the direct approach. I grabbed her left hand and pulled. Now, I’m no Charlie Atlas, but I’m no George Goble, either. I was able to get good traction on the linoleum, but it didn’t make a dent. Next, I stepped up on the side of the tub, thinkin’ a different angle might help. It didn’t. I pulled till I was red-faced from the strain, but Jill Johnston was no closer to freedom. It was then that I remembered my daddy’s favorite sayin’: Give me a lever and I’ll move the world. I keep all manner of tools in my truck, a crow bar among them. I told her to wait right here (I know, that was a dumb thing to say) while I go to the truck.
Her eyes grew several sizes when I got back. She thought I was gonna bust the toilet, I guess, but I was quick to relieve her worries. “We’re gonna pry you off, young lady, unless you can come up with a better idea.” She couldn’t. I apologized for the cold metal she was about to feel, but I shouldn’t’ve. She was numb from the waist down, didn’t feel a thing.
I went to work, wedgin’ the sucker in as best I could. Sadly, this required me to manipulate her hip area, which was much larger than the space she was sittin’ on. What my brilliant strategy didn’t allow for was the strain the seat was already under. As soon as I commenced to pryin’, the damn thing cracked. Seein’ that the damage was done, I took to the job with renewed vigor. It didn’t take long for the seat to break altogether, but when it did, it managed to give such a pinch that even Jill’s numb backside felt it. She let loose a scream to make a banshee proud, then up she comes, free from her prison at last. This might sound like a successful outcome, but no. Bein’ on the toilet for nearly an hour robbed the woman of her ability to stand, a condition she sought to remedy by grabbin’ a holt of me.
Sadly friends, I was not man enough for the job.
Her frame listed hard to port, her hand clamped to my shoulder. I took a step back as soon as I saw what was about to happen, but she matched me step for step. Four of ‘em is how many it took to leave the confines of the bathroom, gatherin’ speed as we went. Another three feet was all the room we had left, but instead of hittin’ a wall that might’ve stopped us, we hit her back door. This fine piece of engineering was no more equipped than I was for the job of halting our progress. We crashed through it like it was paper, much to the surprise of Manuel Rodriguez, who was busy grillin’ some kinda meat that I couldn’t identify by its smell. Our path took us dangerously close to the flames, but we were spared that fate, thank the Lord. The last of her three back steps was the last thing my feet touched. I’m still not sure if Ms. Johnston touched any of ‘em. My back hit the ground and was immediately flattened by her large personage.
Here’s where things get strange. You’d think it’d be painful to have four-hundred pounds of flesh pin you to the ground, but it wasn’t all that bad. I felt her spreadin out as she landed, and due to the fact that she was so much wider than me, the ground took the worst of it. It knocked the breath out of me, for sure, but beyond that, I was fine.
She bounced pretty good, I must say. She did an impressive somersault, landed on her own back, leavin’ us layin’ head to head in Manuel’s front yard, both pantin’ for breath.
Manuel laid aside his work and came straight to the aid of his neighbor. He took off his coat and covered up her most embarrassing parts, talked to her kindly, ignored me altogether. Ten minutes later, the two of us got her on her feet, which were returnin’ to their normal color. It would’ve taken a blind man to miss what was happenin’ now. Manuel had eyes for Ms. Johnston! And apparently, the feeling was mutual.
The next day, he gave me notice that he was adding another resident to his household. I was sad to lose a good tenant, but if you could see the two of them together, you’d have to say the greater good was served. They act like they’re happier than pigs in … Well, you know what I mean.
Tune in next time, when I’ll tell you ‘bout the Fincher’s, Bob and his wife Charlotte. They have twelve cats and a taste for adventure!
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