Bah-dah, Bah-dah-dah-dah

Our Lady of the Trump Virus for Easter Sunday, April 12th: Florence Harding
  1. My Dearest Darling Readers: I was ready to record another inspirational drag number to accompany this post and my Mac Airbook died on me today. Less than 4 months old and I can’t get a pulse. And doing it on the phone like this just doesnt cut it. Should be fun trying to solve this one with no customer service departments. Stuck in this apartment for how long without a computer? Ugh. But enough about me. I don’t want to detain you from reading more about me.

Easter was always a special time in Indiana. The weekend would start quietly with just a gathering of the immediate family. After dinner on Thursday we’d sing along with the Mamas and the Papas:

Maunday, Maunday
Get washed that day
Maunday morning
Rank dirty feet smelled of decay

Then Friday we’d play Is He Dead Yet? It was a tedious, three hour game I don’t really remember the rules for. All I know is that I never felt closer to my family than on those sacred afternoons.

Things would open up on Saturday as the whole community became involved. The carnival would be in town for the weekend and brave carnies would volunteer for the Nail It! booth. That’s where we kids, who could hit the nail head about one out of every ten hammer swings, mutilated the digits of those poor guys. I don’t know why they complained so much. They were paid time and a half.

There’d always be one smart ass who’d been practicing technique and would get that sucker nailed to the plank. But the rest of us sure had fun trying!

Then the parents would sit in their lawn chairs sipping bloody marys while they watched us play Can You Feel It? The local hospice wheeled out the patients with the worst bedsores and we’d squeeze our vinegar soaked sponges on them. The screams and the stench could get pretty bad at times. Mom and Dad loved guessing the names of the victims. “Isn’t that Bob Wilson? He was the Principal at our elementary school!”

It got more serious Sunday when it was time for Roll Away the Stone. Granddad would take the tractor down to the creek and pull up the biggest boulder he could find. Then, through tears and complaints, we were expected to roll it the length of the front lawn. Granddad would yell at us, “Come on you little bastards, move that son of a bitch! YOU’RE NOT REALLY TRYING!”

After the traditional ham, scalloped potatoes and deviled eggs, one of us would be crowned Most Likely to Be the Second Coming. I’m proud to say I held the title several years running. As the thorns ripped the flesh off my forehead, I can still hear Grandma whispering sweetly in my ear, “shut the fuck up. it’s only going to hurt for a minute.”

When the President wished us a Happy Crucifixion Day it provoked such wonderful memories of the funnest of all the holidays. Thank you Agent Orange.

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