Snarls of Lavender Pain
Typically, in the Squinty-eyed American West, disputes over the right to court a fetching young woman were settled in a polite and gentlemanly manner. Namely with gunfire until one or both of the arguing men relented and/or died.
But sometimes passions ran too deep and shooting at each other simply wouldn't do. Because when you get right down to it, how can you really prove to a woman that your love is more pure than that of the man you just shot?
Sure you’ve proved he's not as good with a gun, as evidenced by his cooling corpse. But you can't prove he didn't love her more--not now, not tomorrow, not ever.
Most men didn't care and were content to now woo unchallenged. But for a few it was a sticking point and an alternative to gunplay had to be found.
It came to be known as Lavender Pain--this alternative to gunfights when settling claims on the mutual love of a woman.
(It’s not love that’s savage--just the things it makes us do.)
The rules of Lavender Pain were pretty simple. The two combatants would stand face to face at the bottom of a narrow ravine. Next to them would be placed a tub, filled to the brim with purple paint. They'd strip down to their underwear and fasten blindfolds across their eyes. And then as the object of their affection looked on, they'd dunk a wild bobcat in the paint and pass the bobcat back and forth until one of them stepped back and cried.
This was the one who loved her less--the man who was no longer willing to cuddle a twisting, spitting lavender lump of claws and ferocious rage.
The victor would get to marry the girl, the breadth of his love no longer in doubt. But his wounds would often turn septic and she'd usually leave him not long after and move in with the Town Doc.
And what of the bobcat you ask? Does he at least find some joy? Sure--sure he does... that is if there's any joy to had in strangling to death on the noxious fumes of dripping lavender paint.
(The effects of love are cruel--always have been, always will. Sure they can be funny at times but mostly they're just cruel.)
posted by Latigo Flint @ 1:30 AM
8 comments
8 Comments:
The effects of love are also always funny, so long as they don't happen to you. However, if and when love does come knocking, the joke quickly gets old.
For love is a burning thing, and it makes a firey ring.
The town doc is usually a drunk, so she gets what she deserves.
(nice Social D reference, Trev)
Thus we now know the genesis of The Lavender Hill Mob.
I thought they died of lead poisoning, not septicima. But, what the hell, dead is dead.
Like Grizzly Jackson Adams-Pollock you splashed the fury of love onto the world.
Man... I wish I'd read this a few days ago. I totally could have won my lady love's fair hand from her other suitor.
Sadly I was uninformed at the time and she choose him. Very sad.
Oddly enough, the girl's name was Ari.
Sorry about that, Everton.
I suppose I'll forgive, what with having never known you lived in Texas and all.
So true Trevor Record, so true indeed. And all jokes eventually grow old.
(And all fires long to be wild.)
Oh sweet Cindy-Lou, he wouldn't be half as charming if he weren’t.
(BTW, the Man in Black and June predate Mike Ness by a good three decades or so.)
Indeed Old Hoss, indeed. And you can't ever go home again. (Though I'm not sure why you'd ever want to.)
A remarkable combination Ari--easily the first time those two have ever been mentioned in the same sentence. Well done I say!
Odd things happen all the time Everton. For instance, I thought you were a girl the first few times you commented... Can fantasies be retracted by any chance?
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