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In the spirit of season, I've decided to share a lovely little Christmas story with you. It's a tale of family unity, sacrifice, brotherly love... and other stuff. *wink* It's a tad long, so grab some coffee or hot chocolate and settle in.
Dislclaimer. Rated somewhere between PG and R for a slightly naughty reference...or two. Or perhaps it's RBTS-rated. (Ridiculous But True Story.)
A Heathen Horde Christmas (or The Abominable Snow Wanger)
When I was fifteen, my dad moved us from the familiar confines of a mlitary base. By some diabolical machinations of the Gawds, we landed in the middle of a nearby town, and this is where the story begins. Within a week, our neighbors became my mortal arch nemesis.
It was inevitable. Written in the stars. Batman had the Joker. Superman had Lex Luther. Hector had Achilles. Tom had Jerry. I had the Yount clan. The Younts were a large family of blue-blooded high-brows with plenty of community clout and a haughty attitude that comes from deep pockets and shallow souls. They took an immediate disliking to me. Mores the pity for them. The Younts had wealth and community affluence. I had the Heathen Horde. Heh...heh...heh.
Old man Yount (he was all of forty!) put the capital 'C' in Curmudgeon. A money changer. A heretic. The man was…was… Episcopalian! And he owned a toy poodle named Shelia-Baby. (I bet there's a story in there!)
If my brothers and I were playing ball in our backyard, and Shelia Baby accidentally became agitated, barking her little foo-foo ass off, old man Yount called the Sheriff's office. If a baseball accidentally landed in his fenced yard and I accidentally jumped their chain-link fence to retrieve the ball, Yount called the Sheriff's Office. If a Frisbee accidentally (yes, we lived on an accident-prone street) landed in Yount's well-manicured flower garden, and I accidentally tromped through his prized gladiolas in my attempt to fetch the wayward Frisbee, he called the Sheriff's Office. Each time he called the Sheriff's Office, not one, not two, but a fleet of blue-lighted cruisers would miraculously appear in our driveway. Usually within minutes.
Yount and his eight kids thought that was just funnier'n shit, too. An entire Sheriff's Dept., at his beckon call. (It was the High Sheriff of this corrupt privateer army who first referred to we Jackson boys as "the Heathen Horde.") Whenever the cruisers would surround the Heathen Stronghold (my house), Yount would stand in his triple carport, surrounded by his demon-spawn, and chuckle like a maniacal Boss Hogg. My dad thought it was about as funny as an ice pick through the eye. He liked a low-profile life. We just couldn't make him understand that we were the victims of terrible social and political predjudice.
After suffering a few weeks of this abuse, my first thought was to take out my frustration on the Yount kids. They ranged in age from three to seventeen. I couldn't bring myself to torment the younger kids no matter their tainted heritage, and the older brats dodged me. So the game went on. Heathens doing what heathens do, and Yount calling out the Deputy Dawgs.
After weeks of evading Yount's county mounties, I adopted a counter-measure. I appointed my youngest brother to the uber important position of Chief Jigger. He was three or four at the time, and loved sitting on the roof of our modest house watching for those "purty blue lights." There's nothing cuter than a precocious toddler squealing, "Jiggers, it's the cwops!" (As a toddler, Baby Heathen had a slight lisp.)
At Christmas of our first year in the new neighborhood, the war between the Horde and the Clan reached a climax. A brand new official "Bart Starr" model football accidentally landed in Yount's yard. We watched through the fence as that old codger handed the ball to one of his kids and said, "Merry Christmas." He then looked over at us and laughed. Laughed! My dad was out of town on a job, thus it was left to me to avenge this callous treatment. That night we initiated the first phase of Operation Abominable Snow Wanger.
It was a Saturday night and snowing like all hell. ("Snowing like all hell" has to be one of the oddest clichéd metaphors ever uttered,) Here's another cliché for you. It was colder than a Montana well-digger's ass, too. Just before midnight, heavy sleet began to fall. From my bedroom window, I watched the ice accumulate and --BAM! It came to me.
I called the Heathen Horde to arms and outlined the plan. Fifteen minutes later, I stuffed Chief Jigger into sleeping bag and deposited him on the carport roof, and the rest of us went to work. I shouldn't call it work. It was an honest labor of love.
To make a long(er) story short(er), we knew that rain, sleet, or snow, the Yount Clan always went to church on Sundays. However, on that particular Sunday morning, the Clan had a little trouble getting the cars out of the driveway. You see, a highly detailed ice sculpture had sprouted in the street, directly in front of his gated driveway. And a seven foot penis made of snow and glazed ice isn't easily moved. (Do you have any idea how many wheel barrows of snow and ice goes into a seven foot penis? No, really. I'm asking. I lost count and I'd like to know.)
Around 10 a.m. that morning, the Younts came out of the house, a party of ten slipping and sliding toward the triple carport. One of the younger demon-spawn spotted the ice monster first.
"Look Daddy! Frosty the Snow Man!"
Daddy Yount looked.
I have to hand it to him. Yount figured out right away he wasn't looking at Frosty. He was pretty sharp that way. He immediately recognized the construct for what it was…a monument to the King of Wanger Heads. The expression on that old fart's face told me so.
He was slobbering like some slack-jawed, rabid rottweiler, eyes bulging, veins popping in his forehead, and all the while shaking his fists at our house like some modern day lavender leisure suit-wearing Scrooge. He tried to push it over but the damned thing wouldn't budge. So he called for reinforcements.
To this day I can't understand why he didn't just shove it aside with his car. Even a five hundred pound Abominable Snow Wanger has to surrender to the applied force of a two-ton Country Squire station wagon. But you'll never know how glad I am that it never occurred to him.
One by one, the Yount boys filed out of the two cars to help old dad move the Abominable Snow Wanger out of the road. It was like a scene out of some really bad 60's soft porn flick, featuring a tribe of hedonistic tundra-dwellers as they worshipped the sacred Ice Phallus.
Now might be a good time to remind you that the exterior of the sculpture was made of glazed ice. The more they pushed, the slicker the surface became. A little mental imagery should show you the scene better than I can tell you.
And the coup de gras: I had the Polaroids. Three of them taken from the safety of our living room bay window. Today, two of the photos are missing in action. The remaining picture is a little battered, a little yellowed. Age does that to a Polaroid. Passing the photos around to a couple of hundred high school kids didn't help much, either. After that Christmas, we never had much trouble from any of the Yount kids. Even got the Bart Starr model football back. Butter my buns and call me a buscuit if revenge ain't some kinda' sweet.
While the Yount kids surrendered without a whimper, the war between the Horde and old man Yount actually escalated, (Jeeze Louise, I wonder why?) continuing well into the following summer. But, just as Batman kicked the Joker in the 'nads, and Superman unloaded a full six-pack of old fashioned country whup-ass on Lex Luther, the Heathen Horde eventually put the hammerlock on old man Yount. (Remember Sheila-Baby? Mwhahahaha!) But that's another story for another time.
So, my friends, there you have it. Have a safe and happy Heathen Horde Christmas!
(The name of my childhood arch-enemy was changed in this story in order to protect the guilty.)
Dislclaimer. Rated somewhere between PG and R for a slightly naughty reference...or two. Or perhaps it's RBTS-rated. (Ridiculous But True Story.)
A Heathen Horde Christmas (or The Abominable Snow Wanger)
When I was fifteen, my dad moved us from the familiar confines of a mlitary base. By some diabolical machinations of the Gawds, we landed in the middle of a nearby town, and this is where the story begins. Within a week, our neighbors became my mortal arch nemesis.
It was inevitable. Written in the stars. Batman had the Joker. Superman had Lex Luther. Hector had Achilles. Tom had Jerry. I had the Yount clan. The Younts were a large family of blue-blooded high-brows with plenty of community clout and a haughty attitude that comes from deep pockets and shallow souls. They took an immediate disliking to me. Mores the pity for them. The Younts had wealth and community affluence. I had the Heathen Horde. Heh...heh...heh.
Old man Yount (he was all of forty!) put the capital 'C' in Curmudgeon. A money changer. A heretic. The man was…was… Episcopalian! And he owned a toy poodle named Shelia-Baby. (I bet there's a story in there!)
If my brothers and I were playing ball in our backyard, and Shelia Baby accidentally became agitated, barking her little foo-foo ass off, old man Yount called the Sheriff's office. If a baseball accidentally landed in his fenced yard and I accidentally jumped their chain-link fence to retrieve the ball, Yount called the Sheriff's Office. If a Frisbee accidentally (yes, we lived on an accident-prone street) landed in Yount's well-manicured flower garden, and I accidentally tromped through his prized gladiolas in my attempt to fetch the wayward Frisbee, he called the Sheriff's Office. Each time he called the Sheriff's Office, not one, not two, but a fleet of blue-lighted cruisers would miraculously appear in our driveway. Usually within minutes.
Yount and his eight kids thought that was just funnier'n shit, too. An entire Sheriff's Dept., at his beckon call. (It was the High Sheriff of this corrupt privateer army who first referred to we Jackson boys as "the Heathen Horde.") Whenever the cruisers would surround the Heathen Stronghold (my house), Yount would stand in his triple carport, surrounded by his demon-spawn, and chuckle like a maniacal Boss Hogg. My dad thought it was about as funny as an ice pick through the eye. He liked a low-profile life. We just couldn't make him understand that we were the victims of terrible social and political predjudice.
After suffering a few weeks of this abuse, my first thought was to take out my frustration on the Yount kids. They ranged in age from three to seventeen. I couldn't bring myself to torment the younger kids no matter their tainted heritage, and the older brats dodged me. So the game went on. Heathens doing what heathens do, and Yount calling out the Deputy Dawgs.
After weeks of evading Yount's county mounties, I adopted a counter-measure. I appointed my youngest brother to the uber important position of Chief Jigger. He was three or four at the time, and loved sitting on the roof of our modest house watching for those "purty blue lights." There's nothing cuter than a precocious toddler squealing, "Jiggers, it's the cwops!" (As a toddler, Baby Heathen had a slight lisp.)
At Christmas of our first year in the new neighborhood, the war between the Horde and the Clan reached a climax. A brand new official "Bart Starr" model football accidentally landed in Yount's yard. We watched through the fence as that old codger handed the ball to one of his kids and said, "Merry Christmas." He then looked over at us and laughed. Laughed! My dad was out of town on a job, thus it was left to me to avenge this callous treatment. That night we initiated the first phase of Operation Abominable Snow Wanger.
It was a Saturday night and snowing like all hell. ("Snowing like all hell" has to be one of the oddest clichéd metaphors ever uttered,) Here's another cliché for you. It was colder than a Montana well-digger's ass, too. Just before midnight, heavy sleet began to fall. From my bedroom window, I watched the ice accumulate and --BAM! It came to me.
I called the Heathen Horde to arms and outlined the plan. Fifteen minutes later, I stuffed Chief Jigger into sleeping bag and deposited him on the carport roof, and the rest of us went to work. I shouldn't call it work. It was an honest labor of love.
To make a long(er) story short(er), we knew that rain, sleet, or snow, the Yount Clan always went to church on Sundays. However, on that particular Sunday morning, the Clan had a little trouble getting the cars out of the driveway. You see, a highly detailed ice sculpture had sprouted in the street, directly in front of his gated driveway. And a seven foot penis made of snow and glazed ice isn't easily moved. (Do you have any idea how many wheel barrows of snow and ice goes into a seven foot penis? No, really. I'm asking. I lost count and I'd like to know.)
Around 10 a.m. that morning, the Younts came out of the house, a party of ten slipping and sliding toward the triple carport. One of the younger demon-spawn spotted the ice monster first.
"Look Daddy! Frosty the Snow Man!"
Daddy Yount looked.
I have to hand it to him. Yount figured out right away he wasn't looking at Frosty. He was pretty sharp that way. He immediately recognized the construct for what it was…a monument to the King of Wanger Heads. The expression on that old fart's face told me so.
He was slobbering like some slack-jawed, rabid rottweiler, eyes bulging, veins popping in his forehead, and all the while shaking his fists at our house like some modern day lavender leisure suit-wearing Scrooge. He tried to push it over but the damned thing wouldn't budge. So he called for reinforcements.
To this day I can't understand why he didn't just shove it aside with his car. Even a five hundred pound Abominable Snow Wanger has to surrender to the applied force of a two-ton Country Squire station wagon. But you'll never know how glad I am that it never occurred to him.
One by one, the Yount boys filed out of the two cars to help old dad move the Abominable Snow Wanger out of the road. It was like a scene out of some really bad 60's soft porn flick, featuring a tribe of hedonistic tundra-dwellers as they worshipped the sacred Ice Phallus.
Now might be a good time to remind you that the exterior of the sculpture was made of glazed ice. The more they pushed, the slicker the surface became. A little mental imagery should show you the scene better than I can tell you.
And the coup de gras: I had the Polaroids. Three of them taken from the safety of our living room bay window. Today, two of the photos are missing in action. The remaining picture is a little battered, a little yellowed. Age does that to a Polaroid. Passing the photos around to a couple of hundred high school kids didn't help much, either. After that Christmas, we never had much trouble from any of the Yount kids. Even got the Bart Starr model football back. Butter my buns and call me a buscuit if revenge ain't some kinda' sweet.
While the Yount kids surrendered without a whimper, the war between the Horde and old man Yount actually escalated, (Jeeze Louise, I wonder why?) continuing well into the following summer. But, just as Batman kicked the Joker in the 'nads, and Superman unloaded a full six-pack of old fashioned country whup-ass on Lex Luther, the Heathen Horde eventually put the hammerlock on old man Yount. (Remember Sheila-Baby? Mwhahahaha!) But that's another story for another time.
So, my friends, there you have it. Have a safe and happy Heathen Horde Christmas!
(The name of my childhood arch-enemy was changed in this story in order to protect the guilty.)
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