Eustace Feetbeer v. Lil' Max Meatboots

 

Untitled. Photo by Joe

Remember when no one asked me about hobo romance, but I ANSWERED ANYWAY? Wasn't that sweet? Well dig this - lately no one is constantly asking me about hobo breakups. Enough, already! I'll tell you. You see, a lot of people don't know (or understand, or accept) this, but hoboes were people, and as people, they did most of the same people-y things that people do*. That includes divorce. They divorced at a lower rate than the general population, but that is mainly due to the facts that A) they had very little access to courts or legal representation, and B) to a lot of hoboes, "divorce" was defined as "push off a trestle."

In the matter of Eustace Feetbeer v. Lil' Max Meatboots, the divorce decree was read by Judge Roughneck.

"In the matter of Eustace Feetbeer versus Lil' Max Meatboots, this court finds in favor of the plaintiff, and does hereby decree that plaintiff's marriage to the defendant is dissolved, and all of plaintiff's claims are hereby awarded..."

"'AMEN,' said the church!" Eustace exclaimed, stomping a yeasty foot and raising both hands heavenward.

The judge struck his sound block with its matching gavel. "Order, please."

"Sorry, your honor."

"Defendant is hereby ordered to immediately relinquish full and complete custody of all of the marital progeny produced by this union..."

"Fine," Lil' Max Meatboots sneered. "Take 'em, and here's to good riddance. Have you seen the price of mealworms, lately?"

We love Mommy and Daddy equally. Just feed us. Photo by Joe

Another smack of the gavel, a little harder this time. "Order, Mr. Meatboots. Both parties will observe silence while the judgement is read."

"Will we, though?" Max wondered aloud.

"You will."

Eustace raised her hand, and when the judge returned his attention to the document before him, pointedly ignoring her, she said, "Wait. I don't really want the lizards..."

"Iguanas," Max corrected.

"Whatever. Shut up. If you did other things as well as you correct me, maybe we wouldn't be here! Anyway, I don't want a bunch of iguanas. I'm a hobo; they'll be nothing but a hindrance."

Additional gavel strikes. "Order, both of you! Please let me finish. You're welcome to go argue your little divorced heads off - outside, after we adjourn. Understood?"

"Yes, your honor," they chorused.

"Mr. Meatboots, you are hereby prohibited from sharing, in public or in private, the story of Ms. Feetbeer's parents' untimely demise, no matter how funny you may think it is."

"Oh come on, Judge!" Max protested. "Sharing a romantic smooch in the city fountain, only to be eaten by carnivorous whelks?** That, my friend, is funny."

Even SNAILS?? Harsh... Photo by Joe

"Order. I'm begging you..." 

"But she's allowed to share my stories? That's not fair!"

"It's as fair as you breaking your solemn vow, and canoodling all over the Union Pacific with Ol' Barb Stab-You Quick," Eustace said flatly.

"For the hundredth time, that was not canoodling. I was at knifepoint. She was going to stab me..."

"Whatever you say, mister. I now have the court-ordered right to tell everyone about how your folks met their fates - your dad with the nickel overdose, and your mother asphyxiating, face-down in a giant mixing bowl full of proofing pizza dough. I can't wait for the next fellowship dinner..."

"Mean," Lil' Max said with a pout.

"Order! Just let me get through this, please. There's not much more."

"Yes, sir."

"Defendant is prohibited from describing Plaintiff's feet and their hoppy, intoxicating aroma..."

"Ha!" Eustace gloated. 

Judge Roughneck was undeterred. "Plaintiff is likewise forbidden to discuss Defendant's rancid gamey footwear, or its disgusting, unholy origin."

"Ha!" Max shouted.

"Boooooo," Eustace booed.

"Finally, on the desperately-contested matter of the custody of the icicles..."

"Mine!" they chorused, glaring at each other.

We don't like red thermometers. Photo by Joe

"Custody is hereby awarded to the earth," the judge deadpanned.

"What?" Max asked. "What does that mean?"

"They were icicles, sir. They are no longer icicles, having long ago melted. You're not very bright, are you?"

"YOU'RE not very bright!" Max countered.

"Okay," said the judge. He banged his gavel one last time, rose from his chair and headed for his chambers, declaring "Adjourned!" over his shoulder.

Eustace laughed. "You tell him, Max. You still don't take no guff, do you?"

"Thanks," Max said, "I do not."

Eustace thought for a moment. "Say, crazy idea," she said, "Shot in the dark. You wanna go get a drink or something - for old time's sake?"

"Love to, Eun. Love to."

*You are not going to find many bloggers willing to put that many people (FIVE!) in a single sentence.

**"Carnivorous whelks" courtesy of [Maris] - all rights reserved.

A Slacker* Looks At 40 . . . From 45 - An Introduction

A few years ago, during one of those Jimmy Buffett moods that my iPod frequently experiences, I decided to write about turning forty.  For most of my life, I had heard so much about the big 4-0.  I'd heard it was way more significant than 30, and for some it was more traumatic than turning 50.  I had seen others cross that threshold, and although a few of them hardly batted an eyelash at the end of their fourth decade of life, most found it to be fairly momentous.

I was curious as to just how it would affect me, if at all.  My 30th birthday had been a bigger deal to my friends, family and (now former) in-laws than it was to me.  That could have had something to do with my having had bigger fish to fry, that year, as my first marriage was grinding to an end, but whatever the reason, it came and went without a whole lot of special attention from me.  Thirty felt exactly as twenty-nine had felt.

But what of this "big 4-0?"  I had made a very different life for myself, by the time I had hit 39.  I had a remarried - my soul mate, this time - bought a little house, paid off all the debts of my former life and vastly improved my employment situation in many ways.  I knew myself a lot better by then, and I was almost looking forward to turning 40, if for no other reason than a simple curiosity.  Would it affect me in surprising ways, and far more significantly than I could imagine?

Would I be depressed?  Maybe.

Would I be motivated to shift my life into another gear?  Maybe, but not likely.

Would I have a mid-life crisis and get divorced and buy a convertible?  No need, as I had already long ago been there and done that.

Would I abandon my meandering "career" path and at long last launch myself in pursuit of my dreams?  Maybe!

Would I be angry?  Probably.

Would I look back with remorse at 40 years less than brilliantly-spent?  Probably not, but I wouldn't rule it out.

Would I be well?  No.  No, I would not be well.  At all.

Couple the sudden and simultaneous onset of three moderate-to-severe health problems (it was as if my warranty expired at age 39 1/2, and everything broke down the next day) with my preexisting condition of slackeriness, and -whoosh- went my 40th birthday, breezing past me like a high school girl in the hallway, who is making damn sure I see how much she is not talking to me.

* I feel I should mention at this point that I am not a slacker in the true sense of the word.  In fact, I'm hardly a slacker at all.  I can hold down a job (although I have been laid off a lot), and when I'm at work, I work very hard.  I take ownership and responsibility of - and pride in - my work, no matter what the job.  I pay my bills and taxes and stay out of trouble.  Even during my layoffs, I joke about being an "unemployed layabout," but that's really never the case.  I do have some slacker-like tendencies, like a preference for rest over activity, but that's about as far as I can really take the slacker label.  However, I need an excuse for not taking a good hard look at forty until more than halfway through my 45th year, and "I got sick" isn't going to cut it.  

So.  From time to time, when I need a break from writing about hoboes or other fun and fictional things, I'll post some drivel-y bits about my thoughts and feelings on the Big 4-0 -- with the benefit of an ever-increasing amount of hindsight.

Stick with me - it might be more fun than it sounds, and with any luck, I can wrap it up before I turn 50.