Welcome back, revelers and rogues. I hope you all had a splendid holiday.
I know I did.
Tuesday, some friends and I went to a very small town my friend aptly calls “Buttcrack, La.,” to enjoy their festivities.
We chased chickens, walked about 900 miles and yours truly did a very memorable tango with a horse.
It was that kind of dance where the horse stomps on one’s foot and leaves it with a bluish tint for a few days.
(At least now I have something to match my “azure tresses.”)
The Buttcrack, La. Mardi Gras parade was quite an experience, even without the horse waltz.
I haven’t seen so many drunken white folks in funny clothes since my last family reunion.
I haven’t seen so many attempts to choke chickens since the trip to the zoo in first grade when my teacher made the class run from the monkey cage because the poor beasts were performing “indecent acts.”
But Buttcrack was a near-religious experience for me.
When my companions and I drove into Buttcrack at the buttcrack of dawn, we heard the distant strumming of “Dueling Banjos.”
And, lo, we were so afraid.
Then, a vision of St. Dykious descended upon me and said, “Be not afraid, young lesbian. The trials are many and the road is long, but the beer is much and the Goddess will provideth for thee.”
I replied, “But, why are there none of my people in this town, oh wise saint of my people?”
She said, “All of your people fled this place when the rednecks drove them out with ignorance.”
“But, now say thou art from California. Let the townsmen think thou art strange, but tell them tales, make them merry and drink them under the Goddess’ holy table, and they will know your strengths and respect your people evermore.”
After the saint spoke, she lifted her hands skyward and disappeared in a great flash of light and smoke.
And I had a mission.
As a former resident of Buttcrack, Ala. I was well-prepared to relate to these townsfolk.
As they shouted, “Kelly Osbourne!” at me in attempt to mock my lovely blue locks, I asked if they wanted an autograph.
When they spit tobacco at my feet, I challenged them to a “spit-off.”
And when they raised their cans, I raised mine.
We laughed, drank, ate and genuinely enjoyed ourselves together.
By the end of the day, I befriended many of these people, and many told me they would like to visit California to meet more of my kind — especially my father, Ozzy.
So, friends, we have come to the inevitable moral of the story: “Acts of goodwill and plenty of beer leads to peace among the differing peoples.”
If only we could relay this message to “Shrub” and Saddam.