Don’t forget that The Mystery Hour is Friday night! Look over there for the info—–>
Here is the final installment of my interview with Jim Stafford. There might be a standing ovation.
For the last prompt I asked, “What is something bigger than your bedroom?”
I chose Matt Lemmon’s answer:
“A cheetah with three broken legs”
In fairness to Matt, he actually answered my previous prompt, “What is an animal that if you got in a fight with it the fight would be called a draw?” But, I think that the answer fits both prompts.
My favorite animal growing up was the mighty kangaroo. When you’re young you get obsessed with having favorites. If someone asked me my favorite animal now I would say a robot. That’s a grownup answer. I don’t love robots that much, but their still probably my favorite. I don’t look them up in encyclopedias like I did with kangaroos when I was younger. One, because adults don’t do that. Two, because robots made encyclopedias obsolete.
I also liked to draw kangaroos all the time. Sometimes I even traced them. In fact there is a tracing I made of a picture of a kangaroo still in my parent’s hallway. If I could have gone into the specialty of tracing in college then I probably would have been an art major. “Oh, look at that Van Gogh, it’s mesmerizing. But, oh dear, look beside it at the tracing of the same painting. It’s even better. Oh, it’s a Houghton. Hip Hip Hooray!” Apparently, the man looking at the paintings was a 1920’s male cheerleader.
Last year when I was driving to my in-laws house I was traveling down a hilly dark road…let’s make this more dramatic.
It was the autumn of my youth, 2008. I was traveling in my chariot that I appropriately named Hawnda, for the sound it made reaching for the air like a lover for but one kiss, grabbing it, and flinging it backward ne’er to be seen from again. I found myself on Weaver Road, taking it’s ups and downs and twists and turns in the darkness of the harvest moon. The name Weaver was appropriate considering the tangled web I would soon find myself. The chariot, named Camree, in front of me struck an object in the road. What could it be? I asked myself as Vivaldi rang out in the background. Will I have time to thrust my foot upon the pedal and avoid this surefire calamity? The answer came in the silence, “no you idiot.” All I can recall is thinking, “it must be the plastic bag of a commoner. But why is it spraying a liguid in the air as it tumbles?” No sooner had I asked that I was barreling over the object as it sprayed in full stream the undercarriage of my carriage. As soon as those scents reached my nose I was aware that I had indeed run over one of God’s majestic creatures, the skunk.
It was like the scent of a lover leaping from an amorous letter, except the exact opposite. Not only had I run over the majestic creature, but in his defense of being maimed by the first chariot it had done the only thing the noble creature knew to do. Spray, spray, and spray. It was coating the undercarriage, it had passed through the intake vents and it had sprayed yours truly and everything in the car.
Upon arrival at the parents’ of my love they told me to remove from me the rags of indiscretion saying only, “You stank Jeff! Gross what is that? Eeew, sick! Get out of here! Take your clothes off! You smell like you were sleeping in a dumpster when a diabetic dragon threw up on you!” After cleaning myself and my car to the tune of $400 shillings, there remains only a trace of the odor. Yet, in my heart, in my haunting memories, the smell remain.
Next prompt: What is your favorite thing to do in the summer?