- GUEST OPINION: The Will for Moose-Wilson
- FEATURE: Letters to the Future
- THE BUZZ: Moose-Wilson Road Hogs
- THEM ON US
- GET OUT: Silencing the Storm
- MUSIC BOX: Resorts Represent, Afroman Returns
- CREATIVE PEAKS: The War on Wild
- WELL, THAT HAPPENED: Murders Up North, There
- WELL, THAT HAPPENED: Six Shooters and Ten Pins
- THE FOODIE FILES: The Bad News About Bacon
REDNECK PERSPECTIVE: Dickens of a redneck Christmas
JACKSON HOLE, WYO – After a strenuous day of Christmas shopping, I was relaxing at the trailer with a case of Budweiser, some pork rinds, and the TV clicker. I already had gifts for all my girls: for Susie, a box of shotgun shells; Alice, a bottle of Wild Turkey; a Ford shifter knob for Lill, my redneck girl; and for Blythe Winters-Paulson, vice president of ethics with Goldman Sachs, a crisp $20 bill.
Of course Susie doesn’t own a gun so she will let me keep the shells. Alice (a loyal Republican) drinks nothing but Wyoming Whiskey (Jim Beam with a couple W’s on the wrapper), so I will have to help with the Wild Turkey. Lill only drives Chevys so I’ll get the knob as well, and what does Blythe need with a $20 bill? After all, it’s the thought that counts.
My plan worked perfectly except the vice prez kept the twenty. “Clyde,” she cooed. “You are the only one who truly understands me!”
Suddenly there was a knock on my door. “Maybe Susie’s stopping by,” I thought. Since she got married, she always knocks whenever she comes by to “talk,” invoking a sense of propriety into what otherwise might be seen as improper to those who maintain strict Victorian world views.
Rather than Susie, there were three beautiful dark-haired young women wearing scant nightgowns. “We’re the ghosts of your Christmas past, present and future,” they explained.
I didn’t remember them from a past Christmas, and I don’t typically forget beautiful dark-haired young women in scant nightgowns. Still, who am I to argue?
“Great!” I exclaimed letting them in.
“We’re here to change you into a better person,” they clarified.
“I hope this doesn’t involve third level bondage and domination,” I added, trying to conceal my growing apprehension. In her enthusiasm to become a sponsored ambassador for Collar and Cuffs, Alice, my Republican lover, had gotten a bit aggressive with the whips. Three whips at once would be a bit intimidating.
“No,” they said in unison. “This involves your somewhat limited view of female companionship and how to improve it.”
I was offended. Limited? I have a Republican girlfriend, am involved with a married Westbank barista, regularly enjoy a redneck lover, am prime paramour to the vice president of an investment bank, and have never been known to turn down a Utah girl. Still, I was hesitant to debate proper male-female interactions at the moment, fearing it could dampen the opportunity for some amusing interactions with three scarcely-attired ghosts.
“I’m always up for expanding female companionship options,” I said. “And I have never been with ghosts.” I paused before adding, “However, on Halloween I spent the night with a vampiress, and she said it was the most fun she’d had in 500 years.”
“500 years!” The ghosts exclaimed, looking at each other with longing expressions before pulling me toward the bedroom. “We only have one night on earth each year. Maybe we can make you a better person next Christmas.”
The ghosts were right, and my view of female companionship was indeed expanded. Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas, and to all a good night!