Slap Yo Mama!

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It wasn’t my fault. Swear to god. I promise to tell the truth before Kavanaugh ever quits drinking.

Back in May—all that time ago—D went to the local grocery store to fetch what we’d forgotten to pack for our beach trip. Whine, whine, whine… but how was I to make supper without some giddy up? Not the kind that makes you exaggerate stories; the stuff that stimulates the digestive parts of the operation, and I’m being polite, ‘cause D says I’m not always.

So there we were in idyllic Duck, NC, hunkering down to vacate after being vaccinated.  Layla was happy to discover she could track wild rabbits from the wrap-around deck where we were staying. Almost as much fun as when we stopped over at my niece’s house and Layla nearly had herself two fat, floppy eared bunnies. Great fun, that. Layla enjoys digging for sand crabs almost as much, then digging in with her shoulders to get deep as she can—her special kind of beach fun. Who says a dog doesn’t have a sense of humor?

We were planning grilled salmon that particular evening in paradise and had no spices in the Sanderling rental where we’d landed. A very well ordered beach house and just a stumble from the ocean, but with no fixins to speak of. So D cruised to the Harris Teeter for victuals, bringing back the fish, assorted veggies and Slap Yo Mama along with another spice rub—I got to choose. Boy oh boy. I chose the one with abuse labeled right on the bottle. Nothing like putting it right out there.

Before the PC police get involved, it wasn’t my fault—that’s clear, right? My very liberated companion—so we don’t get too gender specific and give it away—brought it home. There’s a local place called Proof in Kitty Hawk that sells spectacular, local dry rubs, but we were north of there, and the Slap Yo Mama more than sufficed. It was surprisingly good, and I’ve been using it since we returned from the beach to our humdrum lives.

Let’s us consider this in a calm, frank state of mind, leaving aside all the ways that name might be misconstrued. I just needed a good rub—not that kind—and D found it at Harris Teeter. Who’da thunk.

We have several Big Ass fans hanging in the home, low voltage and quiet as whispers. Built in Kentucky, just across the Blue Ridge and one state north of North Carolina. When the Lexington airport authority was offered a contribution for naming rights to the new terminal, Big Ass Fans was thanked, but no thanked—on account of the grief the airport authority was sure they’d catch from the Kentucky Bible-thumpers for a name that disturbing.

Monty Python had a beautiful headland shot of monks thumping bibles that will serve.

Big Ass Fans for naming rights is almost as bad as that outdoor concert venue named Jiffy Lube Park parked just off I-66. For those who aren’t local, I-66 is a joke VDOT wishes they’d never built. Interstate? A misnomer to be sure—since the traffic can’t make inter-county let alone inter-state. VDOT might want to charge people for parking on it daily. “Flying to the World” isn’t going to make it if you can’t get to Dulles the same day you set out.

If Jiffy Lube and Big Ass Fans were to merge, think of the marketing opportunities.

To bring it back around frontal, so to speak, if the product is great, why criticize the marketing folks for a personal vision?  They gotta make a living, don’t they? 

Slap youse momma? Slap her tickle bone? What slaps a lady’s tickle bone, anyway? Horny males across the globe will give away their paychecks for the answer.

Slap ‘er backside, ain’t that a hoot? How ‘bout a round of slap and tickle?

Dear, I see a mosquito afore your, ah, head.

Now whenever I see some fine lady striding by proud and yell out, ‘I love your big ass’ and it’s posted on YouTube, well of course I’ll be needing some mansplaining later. And that doesn’t go down so well with my other half neither. Where’s this stuff made, anyway? Oh, of course, locally right there in Louisiana, home of the not so sensitive linguists. Say no more, say no more, as the wise Monty hisself said.

I make my own ‘slap yo momma’ sometimes when I’m out of the real stuff—Spanish paprika with a touch of cayenne pepper. Which reminds me; we’re out of Tabasco, that magic ingredient that covers so many cuts of post-dated meat—and come later in the evening it works better ‘n a lube job. Oh, I kid all those jiffy lubin’ teens down in the pits swapping out old for new at minimum wage—being learned why they should not sleep through math class. Nor English neither. T’aint such a good idea.

I wanna go on, maybe start a podcast. Where’s the damn camcorder and the mike? That fool protester done hauled it to Portland? Well slap that momma.

The name is “Slap Ya Mama” but I felt it needed a more fitting regional shading, BTW.

Talking to Layla

Talking to Layla the other night—we were deep into a discussion about why the language police are so hateful when we only want the love. Oh dear, another round of writing rants, this one titled When Illumination Said My Work Had 83 Errors. Though I explained when you spend so much time writing, these issues rankle.

After, she reminded me she’d been reading the NY Times article, What’s Going On Inside My Cat’s Head?—pawing at it so I would turn the page. I could tell she was irritated. Cat? Intelligence? Looking over at me at the time, her disgust was blatant: the headline didn’t mate up with reality she didn’t think. And the story held a question the author seemed to have just arrived at, for which he was seeking an answer: are humans the only conscious intelligence on this blue globe?

That’s easy to answer: nah. Hard to argue with a talking dog.

And after these past several years of insane human behavior, even suggesting we are of higher intelligence is a joke. If superior beings from an Alpha Centauri starship were to land and take a look around, they’d get the hell out again, and take the cats with them.

As for cats, holy shit, have you ever talked to one? They will answer—if only with cat logic and not in English, but that’s not universally practiced in New Jersey either. Most sentient beings agree on that point.

Being it was the end of August, I assume The Time editor needed a feel-good piece for the opinion section. Affirmation for Manhattan dog walkers—in essence saying they too have purpose, provided sufficient doody bags.

So the NY Times journalist says he’s charmed watching his two Bengal kittens frolic. Which has to be an oxymoron for a breed of domestic cats if you’ve ever seen a Bengal tiger. Same original species but it ends there. Were these the first non-humans he’d ever spent time with—other than malcontents riding the subway from Queens?

Layla rolls in the sand anytime she finds a good stretch of it, but it doesn’t make her Einstein anymore than writing about it does. Though she does have a sense of humor, so we get along fine, except when there are cats, rabbits and racoons involved—and the occasional fox, to be sure.

Let’s consider: having evolved from this blue rock in space, we are flying along through the universe with creatures we like and those we eat—er—we can overlook that difficulty. For most of our time on this rock, we’ve declared ourselves top dogs. We’re meaner, to be sure, but that make us superior? Who could say, but we’re definitely meaner.

The derivation of ‘bad ass’ comes from—I’ll stop there, but Layla knows what I’m talking about.

There are people training dogs to understand English. Whether that’s a good use of their time—the dogs, I mean—I’ll leave to others to argue over. But if our brilliant minds can be proved as evolved from common ancestors, why suppose we alone have full consciousness?

And there’s absolutely nothing better than a good back scratch, as Layla will confirm with all four legs pumping enthusiastically in the air. She’s told me I should try it some time.