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Cat on a Hot Tin Roof By: Richard Davidson on 10/10/2002; 10:38 PM Note from the author: Tenessee Ernie Ford's epic Opera "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" has always pissed me off. It's NOT the story of a cat on a hot tin roof at all, but a boring drama about some Southern people with sexual problems. I present to you the story, as it should have been written in the first place: "Shore is hot in here," wailed Jezebel, eating enough barley for any six men. "Reckon I'll be headin' out back fer a nap." And that's just what she did, almost sure to take some biscuits, and an umbrella. Little animals scurried to and fro, happy in the knowledge that they would rob her of everything, even the umbrella, the moment she fell asleep. "Ya think it's hot in here, imagine how hot it'd be up on that ther tin roof," noted Elmer, still unaware that Jezebel was sleeping outside. Elmer was forty one years old, and didn't look a day over a hundred fifty three. He could play songs on his face with his fingers, and that's exactly what he was doing at this precise moment. It was the William Tell Overture again, his favorite. He was in love with Jezebel. Always had been, but he just couldn't tell her. It wasn't that he was in some way emotionally stifled; it wasn't that his male pride wouldn't permit him to express himself honestly; it was more that Elmer was extremely stupid, and hadn't learned the word "Love" yet. He hadn't gotten to "feelings" either, and it was quite difficult to tell the difference between an aching heart, and a bad case of gas. I suppose you could say that about anybody, but in this case it's true. While Elmer was looking at a reflection of his nostrils in a piece of broken glass he'd found earlier, Pierre Dumont Chaveliar was complaining to his chambermaid, three thousand miles away. He was doing it in French, of course, as that was his native tongue. Please don't be intimidated if you don't speak French; I will simply explain that the gist of what Pierre was complaining about boils down to this: There was a rat. It came into the house, and caused some trouble. He got a cat. It chased and ate the rodent on the double. The cat got fat. The chambermaid was feeding it old pudding. The cat just sat. While mice and rats ran rampant through the wooding. So Pierre decided to get rid of the cat, which he had named "Nostradamus," but had then demoted him to "Carpaccio," which is basically raw meat. Carpaccio, soon after his exile from Pierre's rich home, became thin again, and quite hungry, to boot. One day he chased a rat all the way down to the docks, onto a ship, and sailed across the Atlantic in high style. There was so much garbage and dead fish that he had already become quite fat again by the time he reached America. For two years he wandered, eating whatever he could catch, or find laying dead on the road, until one day, he was too slow, and he was hit by a car, and he himself became roadkill. Interestingly enough, several crows had a nice meal of the bits of Carpaccio which were left, and ironically, had been cooked in the hot sun. But Carpaccio had visited a sleepy town, where he'd met a lovely local kitty, and only thirty five years later, the offspring of one of her kittens became the first cat to sell erasers. None of this has anything to do with our story though, so I'll get back to Elmer and Wanda. As I mentioned, Elmer may or may not have loved Wanda, and may or may not have had gas; there's really no way to tell. But it sure was hot out, especially on the tin roof of their makeshift shack, which was all poor Elmer could afford, since he'd never had a job in his life. Wanda had made Elmer an omelet from lard and pig's feet, which wasn't bad if you know how to eat it, which is to spit the horrible crap out as soon as Wanda's not looking, or simply kill yourself. Elmer had rigged the door of the microwave so that it would still work when it was open. He felt more comfortable cooking food he could see, and he hadn't figured out that if he'd only cleaned the little window, he could've seen everything. As it was, there was quite the pile of hair on the floor in front of that thing, but nobody ever put the two together, for some reason. While Elmer and Wanda were cooking tequila burgers in lye, Annebelle Grownstocking was selling pictures of mules to angry farmers. Annabelle loved her life in Yurgon County, where there was two men for every woman, and they could have 'em. She didn't need such trivialities, as she had memorized every kind of bird, iguana, and Librarian native to South America, Guam, and Ceylon. And Annabelle loved cats. How she loved them! She had several tabbies, a rare Siberian, two Mexican Fighting Cats, and a Dachshund. The Dachshund wasn't actually a cat, but Annabelle simply couldn't help herself. She subscribed to Cat Fancy magazine, and Cat Lover's Weekly, and had Kitty Calenders, Kitty Ice Cream Scoops, and Kitty Pickling Jars. She was especially proud of the Pickling Jars, and her handmade labels that she painstakingly painted a picture of Mr. Berzerk, her favorite tabby on, using only the hair of an ass, and a spoon. Annabelle had once walked right past the makeshift shack that Johhny and Edna lived in, but that was as close as she came to having anything to do with them. Edna looked frustrated again. "Johnny, come here and help me with this cement," she nearly hollered, and she meant it. Wilbur couldn't figure out why she was calling him Johnny again, but that's just how Jezebel was. She was building a fishing pond, which probably would have been a good idea if they didn't have sixteen cats. But they did, and each licked his chops more hungrily than the next at the thought of Goldfish Fricasse, Goldfish Gumbo, and their favorite: Raw Goldfish snatched up in mid-swim. Elmer, who was glad to be Elmer again, had been living vicariously through a potted palm for years, and was now considering starting a new life, somewhere out West. He dutifully plodded over, and began mixing the cement, groaning vigorously, as his lumbago was causing him quite a bit of pain. Jezebel sighed, and wiped some of the sweat from her brow, and they spent the next six weeks working on the fishing pond, taking turns hauling the water from the creek with a bucket and a sponge. Finally they were finished, and after a brief, spontaneous nervous breakdown, they lay twitching quietly in the afternoon sun. One of the cats, Mr. Wigglesworth, was stuck in the tree overhanging their makeshift shack. Elmer, still quite delirious in most respects, decided to try shaking the tree, which got Mr. Wigglesworth out all right, but he fell onto the hot tin roof directly underneath. Elmer and Jezebel stood slack jawed in amazement, as Mr. Wigglesworth danced, and meowed ferociously, somehow unaware that he simply needed to jump off. He danced and meowed like that for a good thirty or forty seconds, and then slid off, into the freshly filled fishing pond, and for the first time in his life, he was glad to be wet.
RE: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof By: Richard Davidson on 10/14/2002; 7:18 PM Did anyone like this? I have considered the possibility that this might have been a stupid idea. In that case, I won't even bother with "A Streetcar Named Desire."
RE: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof By: Evan on 10/17/2002; 12:14 AM I liked it a lot, I especially liked the comparison of love to gas. Gee I hope its not really like that though, I have enough trouble with my intestines stretching from gas bubbles. Or maybe I'm already in love, but if so, love makes me fart.
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