Saturday - November 27, 2004

Christmas on the Bayou

With Allan, our Minister Of War, somewhere on the bayou drinking margaritas and eating seafood, this is absolutely appropriate.

12 Days of Christmas on the Bayou

Day - 1 Dear Boudreaux, Tanks for da bird in da Pear tree.  I fixed it las’ night wit dirty rice. I doan tink da pear tree will grow in the swamp, so I swapped it for a Satsuma.

Day - 2 Dear Boudreaux, You letter say you sent two turtle doves, but all I got was two scrawny pigeons. Anyway, I mix them with andouille and made some gumbo out of dem.

Day - 3 Dear Boudreaux, Why doan you sent some crawfish. I’m tired of eating dem darn birds. I gave two of those prissy French chickens ta Marie Trahan over at Grand Bayou and fed the tird one ta ma dog, Phideaux. Marie needed some sparring partners for her fighting rooster.

Day - 4 Dear Boudreaux, Mon Dieux! I told you no more friggin’ birds. Deez four, what you call them *calling birds* were so noisy you could hear dem all da way ta Napoleonville. I used dere necks for ma crab traps, and fed da rest of dem ta dem dere ‘gators.

Day - 5 Dear Boudreaux, You finally sent something useful.  I liked dem golden rings, me. I hocked dem at da pawn shop in Thibodeaux an’ got enuf money ta fix da shaft on my shrimp boat and buy a round for da boys at da Raisin’ Cane Lounge. Merci Beaucoup!

Day - 6 Dear Boudreaux, Couchon! Back to da birds, you turkey!  Poor egg suckin’ Phideaux is scared ta death at dem six geeeses. He tried ta eat dems eggs and dey peck da heck out ah his snout. They good at eating cockroaches, though. I may stuff one of dem wit erster dressing on Christmas day.

Day - 7 Dear Boudreaux, I’m gonna wring your fool neck next time I see you. Thibeau, da mailman, is ready to kill you.  The merde from all dem birds is stinkin’ up his mailboat.  He afraid someone will slip on dat stuff and sue him good.  I let those seven swans loose to swim on da bayou and some duck hunters from Mississippi blasted dem outta da water.  Talk at you tomorrow.

Day - 8 Dear Boudreaux, Poor ole Thibeau had to make tree trips on his mailboat to deliver dem 8 maids a milkin and their cows. One of dem cows got spooked by da alligators and almost tipped over da boat. I doan like dem shiftless maids, me no. I tolt dem ta get ta work guttin fish and sweeping the shack but dey say it wasn’t in dair contract.  Dey prob’ly think they too good ta skin dem nutrias I caught las night.

Day - 9 Dear Boudreaux, What you tryin’ to do Huh? Thibeau had ta borrow the Lutcher ferry ta carry them jumpin twits you call Lords-a-Leaping across the bayou. Soons dey gots here they wanted a tea break with crumpets. I doan know what dat means but I says, “WellLa Di Da. You get Chicory coffee or nuttin.” Mon Dieu, Emile. What
I’m gonna feed all dese bozos? They too snooty for fried nutria, and de cows ate ma turnip greens.

Day - 10 Dear Boudreaux, You got ta be outta your mind! If da mailman don’t kill you, I will for sure. Today he delivered 10 ‘alf nakid floozies from Bourbon Street. They said they be “Ladies Dancin” but they doan act like ladies in front of dose Limey twits. They almost left after one of dem got bit by a water moccasin over by ma out-house. I had to butcher 2 cows to feed toute le monde (everybody) and go get toilet paper. The Sears catalog wasn’t good enuf for dose hoity toity lord’s royal behind.

Day - 11 Dear Boudreaux, Where Y’at. You 11 pipers piping arrives today from the House of Blues, second lining as dey got off da boat. We fix stuffed goose and beef jambalaya, finished da whiskey and we’re having a fais-do-do. The new mailman drank a bottle of Jack Daniels and he’s having a good time dancing with the floozies. The old mailman jumped off of the Sunshine Bridge yesterday, screaming your name. If you get a mysterious, tickin’ package in the mail, don’t open it.

Day - 12 Dear Boudreaux, I’m sorry to tell you but I am not your true Love no more. After the fais-do-do, I spent da night planning with Jacque, the head piper. We decide to open a restaurant and gentleman’s club on the bayou. The floozies, pardon me, Ladies dancing can make $20 for a table dance, and the lords can be waiters and valet park de boats. Since the maids have no more cows to milk, I trained dem to set my crab traps, watch my trotlines, and run my shrimping business. We’ll probably gross a million dollars next year.

Posted by Ranting Right Wing Howler     on 11/27/2004 at 07:23 AM   
Filed Under: • Humor •  
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