SHARLENE’S NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH

UNCLE RALPH’S FIRST TATTOO

I’m kinda tired of this “Uncle Ralph” stuff.  And I’ve just about had it with his (*)dopinions.    So, I can say what I want, because he ain’t my uncle…he’s my baby brother!

His last advice column intimated that Ma and I might not usually be sober.  The truth (which he often stretches!) is that when it comes to strong drink, Ma is a die-hard, pinched-faced Baptist.  Why, she wouldn’t touch a drop of drink even if Jesus himself turned water into wine and offered it to her in a silver chalice.

For me, I ain’t had a drop to drink since the boys at the box factory dared me to share half a Buckhorn with ‘em after work.  I unwisely disclosed to them that I’d get very friendly after drinking half a Buckhorn, the other half I’d go to sleep.  I can’t believe I drank the whole thing!  No, no, don’t get me wrong.  To the boy’s disappointment, I didn’t get friendly a’tall.  I guzzled the entire bottle of Buckhorn and promptly fell asleep.  The boys tell me I drooled all over the bar. But what really made me cross-my-heart, hope-to-die pledge never, ever to drink again is the memory I created when I oozed off the barstool and provided the box factory boys with a panoramic view of my Tweety and Sylvester underpants. I understand from Ralphie…yes, that’s what I call him…the story is reaching mythical proportions at the bar.  But hey, you’re not really trailer trash without lots and lots of good stories. 

And do I have ‘em.  Why, I can tell you stories up the wazoo.  That’s what I get for being the oldest kid.  I’m kinda the keeper of trailer trash history round these parts, I guess.  And I got loads on your “Uncle Ralph,” believe me.  Maybe he thinks all his…shall we say… experiences qualify him to provide trailer trash advice?  I say, if anything good comes from a man, a good woman’s behind him.  And he’s got his lovely, beauty queen wife.  But he’s got me, too.  See, me and him have a special bond. I tattooed him.  Yup, I really did. 

It wasn’t my fault.  I was twelve year old kid, and Ralphie was just a squalling, diapered brat Momma and Daddy expected me to take care of whenever they went away. They’d leave and, whew! Ralphie would dirty his diaper again.  I was getting pretty tired of cleaning his little aaaaaa…um, behind. But how could I know that diaper pin didn’t close like it was supposed to?  He howled and screamed and bawled.  And thankfully Momma and Daddy came home before I acted upon my desperate impulse to flush him down the toilet.  Momma discovered all those little tiny pin pricks had left a kidney shaped, pee-colored tattoo on Ralphie’s side. 

Now I proudly show it off at every reunion and family gathering, or at least when I can catch him off guard and yank up his shirt.  And even if I can’t show it, I love to talk about it.  After all…he’s the one who continues to prod the box factory boys into fondly remembering Tweety and Sylvester when they meet over their Buckhorn beers, and the story grows better with each telling.

So hang on…I’ll really let you in on Uncle Ralph’s trailer trash world.  You wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun.       

*Editors Note:    Sharlene loves to create new words.

dopinions: Meaning Dopy Opinions

dopinionated: Meaning to have Dopy Opinions

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Copyright September 2008 all rights reserved