Sunday, June 04, 2006
Meet Mary Theresa
A guest post by Carol.
Hello dearies. Just a sec – let me check and make sure they’re really gone. [sounds of doors slamming and general looking noises]
Phew. Jesus be praised, they’re off on their little trip to Sodom and Gomorrah, or whatever heathen place it is they’re going. It’s a shame that Franklin can’t meet a nice girl. Sure as God made little green apples, the right girl and he’d give up that sinful lifestyle of his. (I bet the right girl could convince him to give up that hoo-doo he calls a religion, too – what is it? hari krishnas or something? -- and accept the Lord Jesus Christ as his own personal Saviour.) Anyhoo…
I’m Mary Theresa. Nice to meetcha. Maybe you guessed this, tee-hee, most say there is a resemblance, but I’m Dolores’s sister. Big sister, in fact. I was born the litter before she was. And oh my, what a difference a litter makes!
You see, I’ve been listening to Dolly natter on – oooh, didn’t she tell you that was my nickname for her? – for a little while now. She’s a panic, isn’t she? If I wasn’t so worried about the state of her soul, I’d get quite a kick out of her. It’s a little hard getting used to the smell of those Lucky Strikes, but my late husband – God rest his soul – smoked, too, and you get used to all kind of smells on the farm.
Yep, I’ve known Dolly her whole life. Born and bred on Twelve Willows Farm, both of us, a few too many years ago, tee-hee. (And if Dolly tells you she’s a day less than fifty, don’t believe her! tee-hee)
Really, dearies, the details of Dolly’s life are quite inconsequential... very well, where do I begin? Our father was a relentlessly self-improving Rambouillet from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery (he was always wont to help out a lonely sheep farmer). Our mother was a fifteen year old French Romney named Chloe with webbed feet. Our father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. Our childhood was typical. Summers in Putney, luge lessons. But you don’t need to hear all that, do you? You don’t really believe that someone’s childhood can warp their whole outlook, and my Lord, look at me! Why, I’m as healthy an ovine specimen as you’ll ever meet, praise Jesus!
Well, I’m off now. Only in town for a few days to visit a cousin or two. I just wanted you to know that Dolly comes from a nice family, with good Christian siblings that don’t go for that drinking, and whoring, and using the eff word. Tsk, tsk. I knew no good would come of her listening to our father’s ridiculous stories behind the pig pen when she was supposed to be in church, worshiping our Lord. And I know most of you girls who read this blog are nice ladies who knit and just love Franklin’s drawings of those cutie-pie animals (my sister excluded) but really don’t care for the, well, let’s call it “potty-mouth that passes for humor.” I mean, my Lord, who wants to read about cock-rings, and men marrying dogs, and those other perversions that go in the big city?! [fanning furiously] Just stick to the knitting, and nice stories about your sister and her ruan—whatever that shawl-thingy is, and a few more doggie drawings wouldn’t hurt. But where was I now?
Good-bye, and God bless you!
P.S. And don’t think that Dolly is the only one who can cable a mean gansey. You didn’t think that Scottish girlie who likes to sue people thunk up all those fair isles by Herself, did you? [Wink.]