Present for a friend
Nov. 28th, 2006 08:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hobgoblinnA
friend of mine (you know who you are) asked, among other things, what I was reading tonight. My son and I just got done reading this, and I thought I'd share it. This is from a book by Bil Lepp, the five time winner (as of this book's writing) of the West Virginia State Liar's Contest. The book is Inept: Impaired: Overwhelmed - Tales from West Virginia and Beyond. My son and I saw this guy at a Regional Storytelling Festival last May, and -- if you get a chance, go see this guy. Just to be very clear-- this is Not my writing. As if I could write anything near this good....
Here's the Story:
As a pastor, I am often forced to attend various and sundry meetings -- Sunday meetings, too. And thus, when I lived in Meadow Bridge, West Virginia, and was asked to attend a pastors' meeting in Halfdollar, I was not only willing to go, but I offered to drive the car in which we carpooled. "We" being the Baptist pastor, the Catholic priest, and me.
While we were at the meeting, I won a door prize. It was an offering plate, about as big around as a trash can lid and lined with plush velvet. A lovely thing. On the way home I put that offering plate in the front seat. Buck-dog, who had ridden along, found the offering plate to be a wonderful place to catch a nap. The Baptist pastor and the priest rode in the back. Being three members of the Cloth, and a dog, it was only natural that we stopped on the way home and picked up a bucket of fried chicken. The chicken was sitting nicely between the front seats.
Well, this was January. And there was no way to get between Meadow Bridge and Halfdollar by car except to go up Sandstone Mountain, a 3,200 foot monster that is incline enough going up, but almost straight down on the way home. At the bottom is the New River. We were coming down that mountain and it was snowing so hard that I was eventually forced to pull over onto the shoulder. No sooner had I pulled over than I noticed a semi truck coming at us full steam ahead down that hill, and there was no chance he was going to stop....
That ol' truck got bigger and bigger in my rearview mirror. The priest was Hail Marying so fast it sounded like he was speaking in tongues. The Baptist pastor was trying to get into his Big Gulp, hoping to immerse himself one last time before doom struck, and I was, well, I'm a Methodist, so I was just sitting there. Buck-dog, on the other hand, is a dog and thus was interested mainly in preserving himself.
Buck saw the truck, grabbed the bucket of fried chicken, pulled it into the offering plate, and hunkered down. When that truck hit, the impact shot Buck through the windshield, still in that offering plate with the fried chicken, like a Frisbee. The priest, the Baptist and I were next through the windshield. There we were, a Methodist preacher, a Baptist pastor, and a Catholic priest flying through the evening sky, and not a punch line in sight.
That ol' truck burst in two. It was carrying shoes and suddenly there were 100,000 pair of tennis shoes flying through the sky.
Buck-dog, in that offering plate, flew all the way down to the New River, which was frozen over solid. He hit the ice in that offering plate so hard that it knocked his hind legs out of the plate. But that friend chicken was still in there, so with his front half, Buck hung on tight. He slid out across the ice.
Me, the Baptist pastor and the Catholic priest hit next. We slid across the ice in a somewhat tangled ecumenical movement, following Buck's path. The 100,000 pairs of shoes dropped into the woods behind us. That's when I said to those other fellas, "Boys, I sure hope no one can see us. Here we are living up to all the stereotypes people have about clergy. I mean, look at us. Three pastors chasing a bowl full of fried chicken and half a Buck in the offering plate out onto thin ice while 200,000 soles are lost in the wilderness behind us."
Here endeth the lesson. As to what I think, I love his rhythm and sense of timing. And the sophistication of some of his puns. This, my friends, is Art. And I hope it brings some cheer to everybody's night.
Hob, who needs to get back to the hopeless nano novel.
friend of mine (you know who you are) asked, among other things, what I was reading tonight. My son and I just got done reading this, and I thought I'd share it. This is from a book by Bil Lepp, the five time winner (as of this book's writing) of the West Virginia State Liar's Contest. The book is Inept: Impaired: Overwhelmed - Tales from West Virginia and Beyond. My son and I saw this guy at a Regional Storytelling Festival last May, and -- if you get a chance, go see this guy. Just to be very clear-- this is Not my writing. As if I could write anything near this good....
Here's the Story:
As a pastor, I am often forced to attend various and sundry meetings -- Sunday meetings, too. And thus, when I lived in Meadow Bridge, West Virginia, and was asked to attend a pastors' meeting in Halfdollar, I was not only willing to go, but I offered to drive the car in which we carpooled. "We" being the Baptist pastor, the Catholic priest, and me.
While we were at the meeting, I won a door prize. It was an offering plate, about as big around as a trash can lid and lined with plush velvet. A lovely thing. On the way home I put that offering plate in the front seat. Buck-dog, who had ridden along, found the offering plate to be a wonderful place to catch a nap. The Baptist pastor and the priest rode in the back. Being three members of the Cloth, and a dog, it was only natural that we stopped on the way home and picked up a bucket of fried chicken. The chicken was sitting nicely between the front seats.
Well, this was January. And there was no way to get between Meadow Bridge and Halfdollar by car except to go up Sandstone Mountain, a 3,200 foot monster that is incline enough going up, but almost straight down on the way home. At the bottom is the New River. We were coming down that mountain and it was snowing so hard that I was eventually forced to pull over onto the shoulder. No sooner had I pulled over than I noticed a semi truck coming at us full steam ahead down that hill, and there was no chance he was going to stop....
That ol' truck got bigger and bigger in my rearview mirror. The priest was Hail Marying so fast it sounded like he was speaking in tongues. The Baptist pastor was trying to get into his Big Gulp, hoping to immerse himself one last time before doom struck, and I was, well, I'm a Methodist, so I was just sitting there. Buck-dog, on the other hand, is a dog and thus was interested mainly in preserving himself.
Buck saw the truck, grabbed the bucket of fried chicken, pulled it into the offering plate, and hunkered down. When that truck hit, the impact shot Buck through the windshield, still in that offering plate with the fried chicken, like a Frisbee. The priest, the Baptist and I were next through the windshield. There we were, a Methodist preacher, a Baptist pastor, and a Catholic priest flying through the evening sky, and not a punch line in sight.
That ol' truck burst in two. It was carrying shoes and suddenly there were 100,000 pair of tennis shoes flying through the sky.
Buck-dog, in that offering plate, flew all the way down to the New River, which was frozen over solid. He hit the ice in that offering plate so hard that it knocked his hind legs out of the plate. But that friend chicken was still in there, so with his front half, Buck hung on tight. He slid out across the ice.
Me, the Baptist pastor and the Catholic priest hit next. We slid across the ice in a somewhat tangled ecumenical movement, following Buck's path. The 100,000 pairs of shoes dropped into the woods behind us. That's when I said to those other fellas, "Boys, I sure hope no one can see us. Here we are living up to all the stereotypes people have about clergy. I mean, look at us. Three pastors chasing a bowl full of fried chicken and half a Buck in the offering plate out onto thin ice while 200,000 soles are lost in the wilderness behind us."
Here endeth the lesson. As to what I think, I love his rhythm and sense of timing. And the sophistication of some of his puns. This, my friends, is Art. And I hope it brings some cheer to everybody's night.
Hob, who needs to get back to the hopeless nano novel.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-29 03:54 pm (UTC)A particular kind of tale-telling I associate with southern writers, from Twain to ... the dude whose name I've forgotten who I'll remember in about an hour who has a wonderfully rambling novel-writing style in which one tale leads inevitably to another leaving you wondering if he'll ever return to his point...
(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-29 04:08 pm (UTC)Best line: "somewhat tangled ecumenical movement...."
Hob,
whose grandfather held this *exact* stereotype, and told stories a lot like this, God rest his soul.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-29 04:11 pm (UTC)Lord, yes! That was the moment when I laughed out loud.