It was a dark and stormy…. wait!

Actually, when I went into Connie’s Superette, it was crisp and clear. It was a perfect fall evening — at that time some might call Twilight.

It was only when I came out of Connie’s with a bag full of junk food that night descended in its most dark and stormy form.

I, of course, was oblivious to the fact that my life had taken an illegal left turn into the Twilight Zone. I mean, who would think that Connie’s Superette was a convenience store on the boundary of Hell and Indiana.  Although, come to think of it, every once in a while I would notice a herd of Harleys with Hell’s Angels’ colors lined up outside of Connie’s. But when I’d go into the store, I’d see nary a biker.  Naturally, I figured that not seeing any bikers was a good thing, so I never gave it a second thought.

Now, that I’m having a lot of second thoughts about a lot of things, I think that was one of the things I should have had a third thought about.  But if I’d known back then that it was really foreshadowing or whatever you call déjà vu the first time before the déjà hits the vu, I wouldn’t be writing this Horror Story from Highway 666.

I got my first clue that something wasn’t Kosher when I thought I heard a muffled sound from my plastic sack.  I gave it a quick peek to make sure the goth-looking high school kid working the counter hadn’t accidentally popped Pyewacket, Connie’s Siamese cat, into my plastic sack.

She hadn’t.  No cat.  Just six Dolly Madison Devil’s Food Raspberry crème-filled Zingers and a Mountain Dew.  Yeah, don’t say it, I know. But ever since I quit boozing, a process in which my alcohol was naturally turned into sugar, I’ve had these cravings for Dolly’s Zingers — a craving that only pregnant women could begin to understand.

I heard the sound again. Kind of a muffled crinkly moaning.

Ever since I saw the Stephen King movie about the haunted car, I’ve wondered about my ‘68 Firebird 350. I’d bought it really cheap from an extremely thin man in a black suit, reflective aviator sunglasses, and white gloves. I’ve often wondered if the car suffered from a “Christine” complex.  I mean, when I use my radio search function, all I get are oldies stations that play songs by dead people. Of course, those are the tunes I’d listen to anyway, so it didn’t bother me all that much.

The muffled crinkly moans weren’t from the car.  They were from the plastic sack that had Elvira’s picture on it doing something with a chain saw to a six pack of Coor’s Light.  Connie can’t afford new sacks and she gets really old remnant sacks at a discount.  I’ve got a collection of them at home I can show you, if we get to the end of this horror story alive.

I think I should warn you, that just by reading this, or listening to someone read it aloud, it opens a door — a door that is extremely difficult to close without a human sacrifice.  What happened to me that night  — it could happen to you.  It could happen even before I get to the part where my brain dissolves into a warm slushy and leaks out of my ears. So be warned!

I took a Dolly Madison Zinger out of the bag. The package looked normal. Devil’s Food. Raspberry crème filling. The freshness date was 2012, but with the preservatives they put into food, most junk food could last until the next glacier age, which might be just around the corner anyway.

I was hoping maybe there was a live mouse moving around in there instead of crème filling so I could sue Dolly Madison and retire to Haiti, where you can buy a home very reasonably these days, if voodoo curses don’t bother you. And they don’t bother me. My ex was a Wiccan Mambo and she cursed me seven ways from the Devil’s Sabbath. And nothing bad has ever happened!

I peeled off the plastic wrapping on the Zinger. It still looked okay. Then as I took a bite, it happened. It was the strangest thing I’d ever felt since the Halloween in which my buddy H.P. and me… we t-peed the old Jackson mansion up on the hill, but that’s another story, one I may never have the chance to tell.

The filling moved. It was like “The Blob,” that old movie with Steve McQueen.  The crème filling started to grow. But I’m no Steve McQueen, so I threw it out the shotgun-side window.  Or rather I tried, but since the window was closed to keep out the dark and stormy night, I only succeeded in slopping it against the window glass.

Whatever it was, it continued to ooze.  And grow.  It filled the car with the smell of sugar-saturated raspberries.

I tried to jump out my side of the Firebird, but the Christine factor kicked in and the door couldn’t be opened.  The radio started playing Hotel California and I screamed.  It was a little scream out of my mouth, but it was an explosively loud scream inside my head.

Then I heard The Voice. I hoped it was the oldies dj, but it was the crème filling. Yes, my pretties, the crème filling spoke. In a woman’s voice. A woman’s voice with laryngitis, like it hadn’t spoken words in a long, long time. It said, “I’m back.”

If I was a cool hero-type dude, I could have made a Schwarzenegger joke about the Governator’s favorite movie cliché, but my mouth would only make little screaming noises that were barely audible. I tried to crank open the window. The Firebird ‘Christined’ me again.

It occurred to me as I pushed myself as far away from the apparition as possible, that a hero would definitely comment on the “I’m back” line, but this was the proof I was no hero. No, I was the first insignificant victim who barely had lines, and was dead before the opening credits stopped rolling. Oh, merde!

What began shaping itself into a mouth on a whitish crème-filled head, said, “I am here because the world is ending in 2012.”

The Voice had an accent I didn’t recognize.  Like English English, but somehow different.

“There are wrongs that must be righted before The End.”

Since it hadn’t dissolved my face yet, I had hope. I interrupted my silent “Act Of Contrition” to stammer, “Uh, who, who, who are you?”

“I am Dolley Madison.”

“Then you made the Zingers!”

A bubbling started in the gook, the speed of its expansion increased, and the raspberry smell got smellier.

Good going, Gallagher, I thought to myself. I’ve just pissed off a monstrous creme filling that is about to engulf me and dissolve the flesh from my body.

“Imbecile!” it croaked, bubbling more and expanding even faster.

“Uh, oh, uh, you’re the original Dolly Madison?”

“Duh,” it replied. Well it didn’t really say “duh.” It was really a gurgle and pop in the goop more than words, but I knew what it meant.

“What wrongs are you righting?” I asked in my most suck-up voice.

“The first wrong I want to right is how they spelled my name wrong on these awful cakes.”

“Huh?” I wittily retorted.

“Dolley is spelled with an ‘e’.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“D-o-l-l-e-y”

“Really?” I said, hoping I would live long enough to look it up on Wikipedia.

“But that’s not the primary reason I’ve come back.”

I said my trademark line again. “Huh?”

“Before The End, there is a man I must scourge for spreading his lies and misrepresentations.”

“Was it my job application?” I asked, now almost in tears.

“Imbecile!” it screamed.

This conversation isn’t going well, I thought to myself.

“I need to find a person named Glenn Beck.”

“Glenn Beck?” I was definitely in the Twilight Zone.

“I must punish Glenn Beck for misquoting my husband and Thomas Jefferson, and spreading total horse manure about the Founding Fathers without ever mentioning the Founding Mothers, the lying misogynist pig.”

“Try FoxNews in New York,” I suggested. “It’s where a lot of the lying pigs hang out.”

There was no answer from the crème filled ooze that was now gushing onto the bucket seat and forming itself into what looked like the body of a full-figured woman. Or else it was just picking up momentum to cross over the gearshift between the bucket seats in order to dissolve my lower extremities which, needless to say, are some of my favorite parts.

“Is the world really going to end in 2012?” I asked, while wondering why I had ever given up drinking.

“30% chance of fire.  40% chance of ice.”

“Then there’s still a 30% chance it won’t end?”

“Don’t count it,” the now full-body apparition said at as my traitorous Pontiac popped open the door.

Before the door closed, I thought I heard, “But stay away from Devil Dogs, just in case.”

I peeled out of there muy pronto, fishtailing on the wet blacktop, not even worrying about getting a ticket for no seat belt.

As I drove away, the haunted radio on the Firebird started playing “They’re Coming To Take Me Away. Ha-Haa, ho-ho, hee-hee!”

I remembered! I had taken a bite of the Zinger before the creme hit the fan. I had. I had! Did I swallow? I must have! Double merde!

I knew right then I could never to tell this story, not to anyone.

At least I could never ever tell it to anyone who I was going to allow to live. Ha-Haa, ho-ho, hee-hee!”

As all true Daughters of the South know (when they are reminded by their psycho Autie Belle) that James Ewell Brown Stuart was born on February 6, 1833. You know, “JEB” Stuart!

For you ignorant Yankees, JEB was a kickass Confederate Army general during the War Of Secession. As a cavalry commander, JEB was known for his dashing image (red-lined gray cape, yellow sash, hat cocked to the side with a peacock feather, red flower in his lapel) and his audacious tactics. His wild raids and daring recon missions made him the Robert Pattinson of the Civil War.

So on Saturday, I’m fixing to party like it’s 1861. I’m going to succeed from the Union, and form my own country that I’m going to call TexAmerica, which I’ll tell all about in some other blog.

I’d like ya’all to join me in a fandango across America. First, we should all form our pickups and tractors in a circle around the Trailer Park. If you are so underprivileged to have neither a pickup nor to live in a trailer park, just do the best you can. The rest of us will understand.

Next, dig out that big jug from under the sink, the light brown ceramic one with no label. Crank up Gretchen Wilson on your iPods. Put on your boot scootin boogie duds. And tune up your rebel yells. There’s a lot to do to get this hoedown right, so I’m going to read you from the book, starting with your decor.

Put up the Texamerica flag that I designed featuring Little Dickie Armeydillo. If you ain’t got yourself an official Noni Texamerica flag, then a Texas Lonestar flag, or the Rebel Battle flag will do. But you should show your country colors just like you would if we was all teabagging. Indiana flags don’t count.

Appetizers for the boys should include Slim Jims and pork rinds. For dessert, Fried Twinkies. If you’re feeling adventuresome, ask Aunt Cousin Jody Lee to make her famous Jello Surprize Mold. Main courses should be anything you can cook on a barbeque that don’t clash with potato salad.

Sing-along tunes should be like Kenny Chesney’s “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,” or Alan Jackson’s “It’s Alright To Be A Redneck”. I identify with Gretchen’s “Redneck Woman”. Joe Diffie’s “John Deere Green” make me want to cry. Garth’s classic “I’ve Got Friends In Low Places” is probably the best singalong. In Texas, we don’t listen to the Dixie Chicks no more, but if you must, you can play “Goodbye Earl”. If you want a crossover dude, I like Kid Rock singing Sweet Home Alabama “All Summer Long”.

If you feel you need some western to balance all the country, how about Willie and Toby wailing “Whiskey For My Men, Beer For My Horses!” For your mandatory wet t-shirt pole dance contest I’m partial to “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off” which Miley Cyrus likes, too, and I borrowed some sweet moves from her from her “Party In The USA” video.

Male attire for this fandango might be like DeKalb Seedcorn ballcaps, Marlboros rolled up in the sleeve of your green “Runs Like A Deer” t-shirt, clean pressed jeans, and steel toed engineers boots just in case somebody needs a right good stompin’. Mullet cuts are no longer cool. And don’t forget to carry your second amendment statement everwheres you go.

The female dress code might include a cowboy hat like mine, short-short cutoffs, tight t-shirt or K-Mart blouse rolled up to show off those situps, with either red cowboy boots or rhinestone-covered fckme pumps. Accessorize with bling bought in Vegas or a National Park. If you want to go nuevo-upscale, just wear whatever Lady GaGa or Lindsay Lohan do in their latest stupid escapade in the Star, which is where I get my best fashion ideas.

Our beer de jour depends on what part of the country your party is a happening. Of course, a premier Trailer Park in the deep south is best. But not everybody can be so lucky. I’m partial to Shiner beer. But Jax or Dixie will do the job. Pabst Blue Ribbon is a also a pretty good Bubba Beer. Well hell, get whatever beer is cheapest at the Connie’s Superette where your Mom worked when she let you rob it as a 14th birthday present.

If you’re the kind that goes for real drinks, there’s straight shots of Rebel Yell for the boys. Alabama Slammers are always nice for the little ladies. And Strip And Go Nakeds for everybody for when Cousin Heather gets a mite rowdy and takes off her top to relive how she danced on the bar at her wedding reception.

You should have some contests after when everybody finds their “Hell, Yeah!” spirit. These contests might involve spittin, pissin, and two-step dancin’. Maybe a tattoo contest that ain’t about how good the tat is, but best story that goes with it. I ain’t telling mine again, cause everybody just snickers. If you want to get really rowdy, and your cousins are understanding badge-totters, you might consider Party Favors (created in a basement laboratory by the neighborhood biker gang) that have a name like Iron Mike’s Crystal Zoom. But I don’t really recommend going thataway unless you need to be just a mite crazer to get your SSI disability.

I strongly recommend a row of portapoddies or Uncle Buford (or your family equivalent) might probably embarrass you again this year. And finally, remember not to sleep with cousins or closer, and keep your uncles away from the sheep. I really mean it.

We Americans live in a time of zero sacrifice. We think what’s good for us is what’s best for everyone. And if it isn’t good for everyone, screw everyone else. We are the Selfish Society.

It doesn’t matter to us if some new program up before Congress is good for the country as a whole. If it doesn’t make our lives better now, if it requires the slightest sacrifice, we’re against it. Sorry, I misstated that. If it looks like in the future, it possibly could lead to a slippery slope that could lead to a slight sacrifice, we’re against it.

It used to be said, “What’s good for General Motors is good for America.” Now it’s like “What’s good for me is all that matters.”

Jack Kennedy, that silly dreamer, said, “Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.” When did that get turned around? When did it become politically correct to think, “Screw you, Jack, I’ve got mine”?

When a Michael Douglas movie character said, “Greed is good,” we knew he was the bad guy, which meant that he was wrong. How did Gordon Gecko get to be the good guy whose philosophy is now a mantra for half the people in the country?

I believe in the philosophy of the bigger pie. I don’t believe if everyone protects their cherries, we’ll never get it cooked.

I believe if we make some sacrifices now, it will pay off in the future for everyone, including me, even it means I’m the one who must sacrifice now.

I’m willing to give up a cherry or two now for a piece of pie later.  Are you?

Written Under Divine Inspiration by Paddy The Prophet

As a child who thought as a child, I believed what I was taught by nuns with sharp rulers that there was only one God. One God? No problem, Sister Torquemada.

Then the nuns taught me about the Holy Trinity. God the Father. God the Son. And God the Holy Ghost, who changed is name sometime before I graduated from High School to the Holy Spirit. But I still think of him sorta like Casper, and I’m not into people who change their names. So He’ll always be the Holy Ghost to me.

As we all know, even you heathen unbelievers who never even bought a pagan baby, that important books have been written about the Father and the Son, and they’ve sold a lot of copies. There have been beaucoup paintings, a movie where He costarred with Charlton Heston, songs, mural on ceilings, concertos and even a tv series with Michael Landon. I mean, over the centuries, this dynamic duo has been bigger than Buddha or the Beatles, or even Brangelina!

But what about the poor Holy Ghost? He’s not even in the Old Testament. And He’s like a few oblique one-liners in the New One. I’m not sure He even existed until Holy Mother The Church, yes, that’s what the nuns called the Pope and his henchmen, until the one Holy and Apostolic Church declared that The Father could not have knocked up Mary because… well, I’m not sure of the because, but it has something to do with sex without marriage being a mortal sin. And like how could the Daddy God do the hunka-chunka with the Virgin Mary without it being a sin, which would mean he wasn’t God, which would have put all the Bishops and priests out of a job. So it just couldn’t be!

This problem was solved by the realization that there must be another way, and I don’t mean anal, and that it must have been God’s Evil Twin who done the dirty deed on the sleeping teenager.

But wait, as you amateur theologians just figured out, then that would mean two Gods, and we can’t have that. Or next thing you know we’d have Zeuses and Thors and pagan gods who do the nasty in the shape of swans and other heretical perversions that a well-brought-up Christian God just wouldn’t do.

So the Trinity was roughed out by The Church Fathers at the Council of Nicaea in 325. And after a while, some people got confused. So some Pope who isn’t in Wikipedia delivered a Papal Bull, which is a lot like it sounds, to proclaim the Trinity. As you Catholics might remember from your Baltimore Catechism all the Popes are infallible in matter of faith and morals, but might think the Nazis were okay. Anyway, the Holy Trinity was declared to consist of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

That’s how it stood, century after century, even surviving the Protestant Reformation, the Spanish Inquisition, and Pat Robertson — until last night.

Last Night the Holy Spirit appeared to me. At first I was afraid, especially to roll over and give Him a shot at my backside, but then His Caspar qualities showed themselves and I was able to listen to His story.

He said He like my writing style and wanted me to write Him up. Give Him his own book. Like a New New Testament. I told Him I didn’t have an agent or a publisher and the best I could do was a Blog.

He decided to take the Blog, this Blog, with the hope that a writer with an agent and a publishing contract and maybe even a three picture movie deal would get inspired to pick up the idea and run with it. He mentioned Mel Gibson, but I think He’s aiming too high.

I mentioned He might consider doing some of those “Sleep Creep” videos for the Internet, but He wants something with more class.

I said, I’d write His Story, but I needed more background to even write a blog. I asked if He’d done anything else but the Mary thing, and he said he hadn’t. So I asked about Mary, and He said, “She was Good!”

I told him that if I’m going to do this for Him, He needs to do something more that I can write about. And He said He’ll do anything or anybody for the publicity. And He’ll work for food as long as he isn’t paid in bread or wine, for which Jesus holds the rights.

He also implied unless I can make Him bigger than Pink, who He’s a fan of (go figure!), unless I got him some ink, somebody was going to Hell. I think He meant me.

Please contact me at this Blog to make Him an offer. Please! The future of eternal soul hangs in the balance. Of course, after writing this, I’m probably going to hell anyway.

Here endeth the revelation.