vituperation

There’s still a contest going on, if you’re interested.

It’s entirely possible that the following candid conversation, as recorded by the author, may offend you if you’re politically correct or looking for a reason to feel put upon by certain word choices. Trust me, you’ll live.

We tooled along down highway 64, an Alabama family speeding through the Tennessee countryside with a carload of edible goodies. The trip to Lawrenceburg had been a blast, despite an uncomfortable incident involving some turnip greens and three Mennonite children. Apart from the sack of greens we had apples, squash, strawberry jam, and raspberry jam. The tiny pecan pie we bought at one home—another solo trip to the door for me—was gone, eaten in three bites, one per person. Good, but not very sweet, which seems to be a trademark in Mennonite foods.

I realized the radio, still tuned to a Huntsville station, was a little staticky, and pushed the button to switch my stereo over to a CD of my own mixing. Dulcet tones filled the car.

“Who’s this?” the spud asked.

“A group called Jet,” I said. “They’re from Australia.”

We listened to the music for a bit.

“The talent show at school is coming up,” the spud said. “It’s five dollars. I think I’m going to go, because everyone said it was really good last year. Especially when Simian sang. He’s…special.”

“You guys call a retarded kid ‘Simian‘?” I asked, aghast. Images of taunting, evil schoolchildren danced in my head. I cut my eyes up to the rearview mirror to glare at her.

A second, more horrifying thought occurred.

“He’s not black, is he?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

I was mortified. I thought we lived in a new south, where bias like this didn’t exist. Moving toward a color-blind society, and all that.

“How could you do something like that? Haven’t we taught you better?” In my head, I began enumerating creative ways to punish her.

“That’s his name,” she said, sounding defensive.

And suddenly I realized I’d pulled an Emily Litella, that he was named Simeon and not nicknamed Simian.

“Oh,” I said. “Never mind.”

Highway 64 became highway 31. On the stereo, Jet gave way to the Beastie Boys, and their Rhymin and Stealin from the classic 80’s album Licensed to Ill.

“Now this is good stuff,” I said, looking at the spud in the rearview mirror. “This is rap from the 80’s, when it was just taking hold. Back when it was good, and not like all that gangsta crap they have now.”

I never realized it was possible to be under 40 and sound so old.

I turned the volume up a little so the spud could better hear the song. I really wanted to rap along with Ad Rock, MCA, and Mike D, but I contained myself. The Beasties held court on their rhymin’ and stealin’ exploits.

“Did he just say ‘deliver Colonel Sanders down to Davy Jones’s locker’?” Robyn asked.

I’m not sure if my embarrassment was for the Beasties or because of them.

“Yes,” I said in a wee voice.

“How long do you think it took them to come up with that?”

“Shut up, it’s a good song.”

Outside, Tennessee became Alabama. Time marched on.

“Fred,” the spud said, after a while. “Did you know that you can get porn on your cell phone now?”

“Yep,” I replied. “But why anyone would pay for cell phone porn when there’s an infinite amount for free online is beyond me.”

Not that I know anything about looking at porn, free or otherwise.

“No popups?” Robyn suggested.

“I use Firefox,” I said with great authority. “I don’t get popups when I look at porn.”

My words hung in the air for an instant, and then the spud hooted. With great vigor, I might add.

“What?” I asked, looking at her in the rearview mirror. What I’d said—and where the spud went with it—hit me all at once, and I had one of those glowing parental moments of pride that come with the realization that your child has made a pervy joke out of something completely innocent.

I felt like a good father then, and basked in my feeling of accomplishment.

Highway 53 led to Wall Triana, the final road into Madison. We drove through endless fields of cotton separated by cookie cutter subdivisions. On the stereo, the song changed to David Bowie’s Dance Magic Dance from the Labyrinth soundtrack.

You remind me of the babe (what babe?)
The babe with the power (what power?)
The power of voodoo (who do?)
You do! (Do what?)
Remind me of the babe!

“What the fuck is this lame song?” Robyn asked.

“It’s not lame,” I said, defensively. “It’s Labyrinth.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me, as though I’d uttered an oxymoron.

“What?” I continued. “It’s got David Bowie in it. That’s not lame.”

If possible, her eyebrow slid up just a tad more.

“And muppets. David Bowie singing with muppets. Muppets aren’t lame! How can you say David Bowie singing with muppets is lame?”

From the speakers, David wondered what kind of magic spell to use: slime or snails, or puppy dog tails.

He wasn’t helping me out.

“Oh, shut up,” I said, and hit the button to take us to the radio.

Later that night we lay in bed discussing the drive home and how I was planning to write about the Labyrinth song. Robyn instructed me that I must write that part of the entry with the word ‘lame’ substituted for the actual word she’d used in the conversation to describe David Bowie singing with muppets. We’re all about the political correctness, you know.

Miz Poo jumped on the bed with a chirp. Inspiration struck me, as it often does in the musically enhanced world I live in, and I couldn’t help myself.

“You remind me of the Poo!” I sang.

“What Poo?” Robyn asked.

I was floored. For the first time ever, she was joining me in one of my musical interludes, taking the role of the muppets in the song from Labyrinth we were just talking about!

“The Poo with the power!” I said, excited.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Never mind.”