Possum Philosophy: A Monday made for singing the blues

Columnist’s note: I wasn’t feeling well this week. Sinus/allergies were giving me a fit (I hope all of the lovers of fall with its pollen and such feel bad) so I asked my friend Buddy Joe “BJ” Jones to cover and write this column.Unfortunately, BJ has been pulling double shifts at the plant where he works, trying to help keep the place going since the rough economy has everyone worried. BJ suggested asking his buddy, Lester Lomax. Although I wasn’t too keen on that idea, I decided it beat having to do it myself so finally I called and worked out a deal with Lester.

By ROBERT CAHILL/Columnist

All y’all old enough probably remember old Fats Domino singing, “Blue Monday,” where old Fats says how he hates Mondays. Well, Brother Domino (a pretty good singer by the way) ain’t the only one. According to that thing old Rock uses, Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia (en.wikipedia.org), “Modern culture usually looks at Monday as the beginning of the workweek, as it is typically Monday when adults go back to work and children back to school after the weekend. Thus, Mondays are often seen as a misfortune.”
Well, I’m here to tell all y’all, this past Monday was a corker, according to Rock. Now I think he was just up all night, cryin’ the blues about them playin’ the last ball game in Yankee stadium. And I have to say I don’t blame him. It was kind of pitiful, watchin’ it. All those old Yankee players and all. Even us diehard Braves fans felt kind of sorry for Yankee fans. But it didn’t surprise me none at all. That George Steinbrenner is an ornery cuss. He talked em into buildin’ a new ballpark, even though it has less seats and the seats cost more. I’d like to say the Braves wouldn’t ever pull such a stunt, but then it wasn’t too long ago that they did pretty much the same thing.
Anyhow, back to old Rock. Now he’s kind of like me, what they call a creature of habit. He likes to get up, get his mornin’ paper and head to the bathroom. Says it’s the only place he can sit quietly and read the news without being interrupted by family, dogs or the TV. And since most of us pay a mornin’ visit there anyhow, you kill two birds with one stone.
Now a little back-story (y’all readers will get the significance of the back story a little further on) here. One of the bolts that hold the seat on the throne (if you know what I mean) had worked loose and apparently fell out. Rock said he had meant to fix it but besides feelin’ poorly, he had been kind of busy and just hadn’t got around to it. Another little fact is old Rock is a big fan of the Animal Planet Network, watches it a lot when he gets a chance. Now back to our story as they say…
Well Rock’s just settlin’ in, getting’ comfortable and openin’ the paper when he hears something fall out of his pants pocket. He sort of squirms around and sees his pride and joy, a Case XX Junior Trapper model pocketknife on the floor. Without thinking, he leans over sideways. Well when he did that, that loose seat slid a little sideways too and made a funny cracking noise.
A little more back-story if you please… Seems just a day or two before, Rock had watched a show on Animal Planet where a snake had come up through a toilet (supposedly) into this lady’s bathroom. Also his darlin’ wife, Terry, had just told him about a friend of hers looking up and seein’ something hangin’ out of a cabinet and findin’ a snake in there. So maybe he was just a little bit skittish, you know, kind of maybe had it in the back of his mind. (Yeah, I know some of y’all figure he ain’t got enough mind to have a back in it.)
Well anyhow, he straightened up real quick and all of a sudden something bit him right in his big old butt. Well, he let out a war-whoop and jumped almost to the ceilin’ straight up. He was already lookin’ for something to kill whatever kind of critter that nipped his rump, on his way down. That’s when he finally realized… that funny noise he heard earlier was the seat cracking. As he sat back up, it closed back and pinched a piece out of his rump as well as scaring him half to death.
Now this wasn’t the only bad thing for poor old Rock on Monday. Seems at supper that night, everyone was home for a change. Rock, his wife, his mother-in-law and his stepdaughter all were having supper together. When he told about the butt-bitin’ they all laughed like hyenas at him and his misfortunes, which naturally insulted him.
Well he was trying to change the subject. He was cuttin’ a little bite of meat and instead of changin’ hands with his fork like proper folks do, he just poked it in his mouth. Then as he cut another bite, he started to explain how during the war (WWII) anybody like spies or pilots that were likely to find themselves behind enemy lines were warned to use their silverware that way. Seems in Europe that’s how everybody ate—makes more sense than all that hand-changin’ business anyhow.
Well just as he told that highly interestin’ (or so he thought) fact he cut off another bite to illustrate what he was sayin’. As he raised it to his mouth with his fork in his left hand, Rock told them, “Here’s the way they do it in England and France.” Well at that very moment, the bite he had jumped off his fork and rolled straight down his shirt (leavin’ a big old gravy trail all the way) and hit the floor.
That was just more than Terry and the others could bear. They were still sittin’ around the table, snickerin’ about the bitten-butt incident. According to Rock when that gravy-slingin’ hunk of meat rolled down his shirt that insensitive bunch went to howlin’ like a band of Apache warriors on peyote. They laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks. They snorted like race horses runnin’ the Kentucky Derby. Terry laughed so hard she got a cramp in her back and poor old Rock had to rub her back for her to get it to quit hurtin’.
Needless to say, Rock was aghast (bet nobody thought I even knew that word) at their behavior. But as he said, “It was a fittin’ end to another Monday anyway.”
So folks, this is your old buddy Lester signin’ off. Rock’ll probably be better enough to be back next time, but if he ain’t I will be. Bye-bye and buy bonds, you might be able to save up enough of ‘em to fill up your old pick-up, if you’re lucky.

A freelance journalist, Robert “Rocky” Cahill writes regularly for the News & Messenger. His Possum Philosophy column appears in each Saturday edition.