It’s that time of year again, the Fallonian festival of Pskasurveetezov. It’s the time in which they appear as the innermost form of their dreams and parade around in public, dancing and drinking their home planet’s version of wine, a noxious mixture call Geechurgudisonne++. I think the clicks at the end are supposed to signify some sort of gustatory nirvana.
Anyway, since they can’t be home, C.W. and his counterparts meet once a year to celebrate as best they can. Last year they met in Branson, Missouri, but two of them disappeared. The Falloonian Elders have designated that place as sort of a spiritual “no-fly” zone.
This year they’re meeting in the wonderfully welcoming community of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, nestled in the Ozark Mountains. I can’t imagine a more fitting location.
But anyway, back to C.W. Get ready. He walks in to demonstrate his “dream-state” form and outfit, and … and … it was Shelley Winters.
Not the “American Tragedy” Shelley Winters, but the “Bloody Mama” Shelley Winters. The blond hair was so lively and free that it almost sang “Que Sera, Sera.” A red dress caressed every fold, hump, and mound from bodice to ankle. The whole body looked like the mountains of Mars draped in velvet. The sparkling of diamond earrings kept perfect cadence with that of her—his—eyes.
“Does this dress make me look too thin?” he asked.
I swallowed hard and managed, “I don’t think so.”
“Then, what do you think?”
I said nothing.
“Now come on,” he said. “Mrs. Big Dope and I have worked hard on this outfit. She says I’ll be the hit of the ball.”
“She said that?”
“Every time she pulled a dart in tighter, she said, “You are going attract attention like a Muslim woman at a Tea Party rally.”
“She said that?”
“She did. Now what do you think?”
I thought it over. “I think that, for those who like Falloonian transvestites, it’ll be just the sort of thing they’ll like.”
“I just knew you’d love it,” he said, almost gushing.
“Always glad to lend a helping hand,” I said. “Who else is going?”
“Tea Baby from North-Central will be there.”
“Somebody named Hattie McDaniel, they say. All three of his heads agreed on it.” He paused and expressed a frown. “Mine was a two to one vote.”
“Yes. Giggles wanted us to go as Ma Joad, you know, in that movie we all watched the other night.”
“Well, the actress who played her. Jane Darwell. Can you just imagine?”
“I think my imagination has been tried and found wanting,” I said. “Anyone else coming?”
“Yeah. Sweet Jesus will be there, Jumping Joe, Gypsy Don, Jimmy Blue Eyes, and, all the way from the west coast, Happy Hopalong. It should be a great festival.”
“And the folks in Eureka Springs? That’s one of our favorite towns, you know, mine and my wife’s. She had a boyfriend there once and I had a girlfriend. What do the present city leaders think about your coming?”
“Oh,” he said. “they’ve been marvelous. They’re even providing us with a ‘Shock Guide,’ for the entire time.”
“A shock guide? What’s that?”
“Oh,” he said, “that’s someone who goes on before us when we go out on the streets.”
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