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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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February
/ March 2007 Contest Results |
The Spill
Becomes "The Blob"
By Cheryl O'Donovan,
Illinois
Always, the Lake Superior of spills happens when I'm driving at 70 MPH on an
expressway with two screaming children and searching for a pinhead exit
on a map.
With dread, I glance back. Red ooze sinks into the carpet so that
the dealership can talk us down on price when we trade-in.
I am reminded of the funky 1958 horror movie, “The Blob,” starring Steve
McQueen pre-cool, or before the leather jacket and motorcycle. In the
film, a vengeful gelatin, Jell-O on steroids, terrorizes a town. Little
did they know. Leave Ole Blob in direct sun, and the village folk would
be able to scrape up dessert for decades to come.
“The Blob” became a film concept inside a lab, when a chemist invented a
polymer lard. When the polymer sat up and did sign language for
'cookie,' the chemist was struck by inspiration. “Hey, wouldn't that
make a great movie? A blob attacks a city and holds the mayor's brunette
daughter for ransom.”
“Make her a blonde and Blob here negotiates for two per cent of the
gross,” Lefty Bizarre, the agent says, lighting the Blob's cigar.
In that spirit of something unpredictable and messy, two terms that
describe my life, my kids have tried to make their spills Blob-worthy.
Even the dog gets in on the action, drooling and slobbering until the
dashboard caves in.
But nothing compared to what happened Thursday afternoon. The spill to
end all spills. The Hoover Dam buster.
“Mommy, it's spilling out from the van! The cars behind us are sliding
all over the road!”
Already, I can see the grim face of the state trooper. In the glove
compartment two slivers of rice paper that couldn't absorb a tse-tse
fly's urine.
Oh, other moms stock rolls of paper towels that could drain the Pacific
Rim. For gooey hands, they have Wonka Whopper wipes. For their husband's
barbecue stain, an Oxy Key Lime detergent stick.
Unlike these revolutionary minutewomen, preparation was never my forte.
I never feel quite alive unless I'm unglued. Cell division cannot occur
until I am in a hot gaseous state, enabling the release of stress
chemicals. At any given hour, roughly 82% of my 100 trillion cells cry
out for an elephant tranquilizer.
So, I'm driving with the laid-back flair of Popeye Doyle in “The French
Connection,” and my kids are bobbing tetherballs, anchored by seatbelts.
Along this stretch of highway are corn, soybean and farmhouses. I've
heard way too many farmhouse jokes to risk that. Besides. Some Ed Gein
lookalike might answer the door. I focus on green signs that lead to
rotating logos, triage care and the Department of Homeland Drainage.
“Look for an exit, sons!” I bark.
“But I can't even read yet,” my youngest protests.
“The spill's reaching our knees,” my oldest wails.
“Good, I'm thirsty.” The youngest leans over.
“Don't you dare!” I glare into the rearview mirror. “That carpet's a
billboard for E Coli.”
I lift the napkins to the sun and see my hand easily. Fast food
executives designed these things, wanting to save money. Mom
shareholders should raid the boardroom and pummel them with diaper bags
until they offer cotton beach towels with every purchase.
I chew my lip. I could tear off my shirt and toss it back. The state
troopers would then add indecent exposure to my arrest sheet, along with
reckless spilling and endangering.
Well, we eventually end up at a gas station. My panic cells recede.
We're strolling through the aisles of the food mart. My youngest wants a
juice box. Cherry flavor. My oldest wants a snow cone. A neon magenta.
Somewhere, employees at the Red Dye Institute are applauding.
Sighing, I tell myself, live dangerously. Jackson Pollock made millions
with his splatter paintings. Our van's a work of rot. As we leave, I hug
the kids. Let's win one for the Blobster.
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