Parsons Daughters
Latigo Flint has always been attracted to Parsons daughters. I guess that's kind of a literary certainty though, ain't it? The juxtaposition of sweet and innocent with the cold and ruthless shooting of people - plus that whole subconscious desire for redemption thing. But hell, Latigo Flint doesn't care what they say, and there is some truth in every cliché.
I met my first Parson's daughter when I was nine. She was eight and small for her age; quiet, dark and demure. I had never met anything like her before and a million dormant synapses exploded. I purchased and presented her a small bottle of perfume. Her reaction was difficult to read. (Made doubly so by the fact that I kept on interrupting our conversation to drop down and triphammer out a set of push-ups.)
The next day she handed me an elegantly wrapped day calendar that featured color photos of meadows. Every morning I could flip the page and see a new meadow. They were all beautiful, as most meadows are, but I couldn't seem to stop thinking about being on a lovely picnic in the middle of that meadow with the Parson's daughter, and then having a deranged grizzly bear charge up on us with no trees to climb and whatnot, and with one massive swat that deranged grizzly bear would cripple me, and then I'd get to lay there paralyzed and watch as it proceeds to eat the Parson's daughter alive because the perfume I gave her smelled so yummy.
I was only nine but I knew in my heart that there had to be a way to keep a deranged grizzly bear from savaging the woman you loved if it happened to attack while you were on a picnic. Yet for the life of me I couldn't figure out how. It tormented me no end and I became just an absolute mess. Woke up every morning uneasy, twitchy and disturbed. By early February the Parson's daughter had grown weary of my burgeoning dementia, and started holding hands with Travis Armstrong, the only boy in the 3rd grade with a real BMX bike.
I took it kinda hard, and ended up spending the rest of my ninth year and most of age ten trying to drink myself to death.
(Capri Sun was my poison of choice.)
posted by Latigo Flint @ 1:48 PM
11 comments
11 Comments:
With me it wasn't grizleys.
It was zombies.
I always throught that dinosaurs would come rip my limbs off.
I hope that wasn't pineapple Capri Sun, Latigo. that stuff is volatile and can cause lasting damage.
When did you first take up your guns?
In your daydreams about the meadow and the parson's daughter, one way to end the torment would be to imagine that, just after the grizzly swatted you down leaving you in a viscous pool of your own blood, the parson's daughter turns into a teenage irish girl right before the bear eats her.
Everybody wins.
Capri Sun. Brings back memories.
Makes me want to punch a straw through one right about now.
Hey, I'm sorry that ho held hands with another. Correcting for sex-inflation, that's like a hummer today.
So I feel your pain.
Yeah, chicks go fer the BMXers.
how did you manage to pull through? and when did you meet your next parson's daughter?
i'm on the edge of my seat?
and what's wrong with teenage irish girls? i used to be one.
I wouldn't loose to much sleep over your dream Flint. Even a young sweet Parsons daughter will eventually turn evil on you, they all do.
I was waiting to hear that you figured the only way to keep a deranged grizzly bear from savaging the woman you loved was to take up a brace of six-shooters and become the quickest quick-draw the world has ever known.
By now you must know that a parson's daughter is much like heroin. Once you get a tast for them you will always be and adict.
Be strong Latigo, we are here for you; to keep you on the wagon. Nothing but cute girls at coffee shops from here on out.
That reminds me of the story about the traveling salesman....
Ah yes, I've heard of them Jinx. So you can empathize then.
I hear that Steve. So basically bears, zombies, dinosaurs: ever the mortal foe, and occasionally friend, to nine-year-old boys. (And that last one may have to be covered in a series of future tales.)
I don't think that would have helped Dave. At age nine I was still nearly 20 years away from that particular reoccurring dream.
Thank you LBB. It was a difficult time. It permanently squinted eyes. (But you know it also built character.)
Man-nod to you Carnie.
Stories for another day Tabitha, right now I've got to talk about yogurt. (Dave was referring to a reoccurring dream I've had for over 100 nights in a row now, in which I'm outdrawn and gutshot by a grinning Irish girl... not good times, bad times.)
Speaking from experience are we, my dear Grublygold?
Thanks Ghost Dog. I wish that had happened too. Life doesn't always work out the way we want it to though.
Thank you very much Argo. Your calm and steady words have had a... um, had a... calming and... steadying... effect... on me. (Crap! That really could have been much more eloquent.)
But if I recall correctly Old Hoss, almost everything reminds you of a story about a traveling salesman.
I know you can Amandapants, I know you can.
And lastly, even though I didn't leave a comment, I'm going to reply to myself anyway: Hi me. I'm glad we are alive. Good night self.
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