My sweet wife booked a cultural tour for the two of us this past weekend to the Alliance for the Arts. She told me where we were to be that particular evening and I just rolled my eyes. I did not protest much, however, because even a cultural icon such as myself needs a little polishing now and then just to stay sharp.
I got ready an hour early, as always, and waited for my mate, as always. I whiled away the time watching Yosemite Sam on YouTube, and just as Bugs was about to get the best of him again, I was summoned to the boudoir to see if I liked what she picked out to wear. Upon entering the room I almost lost my breath. Baby was wearing one of my gifts from Victoria’s Secret and I mean it was HOT!
“Well, what do you think,” she asked?
I had to study hard to find the right words, the diplomatic words, words that meant “Are you crazy! You ain’t wearing that out in public, I know.” But not those exact words. Diplomatic words like “Wow that’s hot! But don’t you think it might be a little too suggestive? I mean the people we will be around are mostly our age and I don’t want the other ladies to think you are trying to show off. Not that you couldn’t, you understand, I just mean we don’t need to be presumptuous just because you have the figure of an 18 year old cheerleader. Besides, you might drive some of those old men to make a fool of themselves. They wouldn’t be looking you in the eye. They’d be looking down a little ways. I might have to calm them down and I’m getting too old for that.”
I really wouldn’t have minded too much. I’m proud of my baby doll but being as it was for the arts, well, propriety and all that, you know.
She relented and toned it down, but not much, because the valley of milk and honey was still prominent, and off we went with her proudly sporting another of my Victoria’s gifts which, though much less than the first pick, was still very revealing.
Upon arrival we found the meet to be quite enjoyable and met many old friends we had not seen in some time and it was here I met Tyler Harper, one of the candidates for state senate. His aid-de-camp, Dominique, introduced us and I asked him what set of Harpers he was from.
He replied, “J.C. Harper was my Grandpa and also Roscoe Harper.”
“J.C. the crop duster,” I asked?
“Yes,” he replied.
“Which Roscoe Harper? You know there are two of them that I know of. Was it the one down from the Elam Harper cemetery?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“Good Lord Jesus, Boy. You mean to tell me that Barefoot Riley Harper is your Uncle?” He smiled sheepishly and said, “Yes Sir. That’s him.”
I’d had one glass of wine too many at this point and my scoundrel streak came out because just as my wife came up and was standing close behind him, noticing how short Tyler is and how tall she is, especially wearing those new cowboy boots, I said “Son, I want you to turn around and meet my wife.”
He turned and was staring right into the valley of perdition. Looking straight ahead, he stammered “N, N, nice to meet you Ma’am.”
Being the gentleman he is, he recovered quickly as they made eye contact and shook hands.
I started snickering like Crazy Joe Biden but I promised Tyler that if he could get Barefoot Riley to wear shoes that I would vote for him, because if he can persuade Riley to wear shoes, he can convince the Senate to do anything.
Knowing Barefoot Riley like I do, Tyler’s got his work cut out for him, but I do believe he is up to the task.