The Devil and Danielle Webster
Here in the south, where the love for all things churchy is exceeded only by the love of semi-automatic weaponry and flags from a segregated history, a strange phenomenon is sweeping the land.
I’m talking, of course, about the kudzu-like proliferation of hen parties.
Yes, hen party is a rather archaic, politically incorrect term for a gathering of womenfolk. And somebody in some church somewhere is bound to be offended by its use. (Church people? Offended? It boggles the mind. They’re usually so genteel and peaceful… whoops, didn’t mean to sarcasm my way into Al’s subject matter.)
To which I say:
Hen party.
Hen party.
Hen. Par. Tay.
Today’s hen party isn’t the ladylike, tea-sipping, June Cleavery, mom-do-you-ever-feel-not-so-fresh event of yesteryear. No, Mary Tyler Moore had to go all Capri pants on us and ruin things for everybody. (Except, of course, those of us who still get a little frisky at the thought or sight of Laura Petrie in said Capri pants. Yow.) No, my friends, today’s gathering is a high-pressure sales event, something akin to a Tupperware party hosted by Ron Artest.
Here’s how this gals-only am-scay works. Sara goes to church with Susie, Sally, and Shamequa. (It’s a diverse church, which is how we can be assured that it’s only make-believe.) Sara is a stay-home mom, which means that money is a little tight at her house. Sara’s non-church friend, Satan (she’s a really sweet girl, if a little naughty), introduces Sara to a quick and easy home-based business by which Sara can do her part to help make household ends meet. All Sara has to do is host a (hen) party at her house and invite all of her church friends. Satan – now Sara’s friend, business partner, and soul proprietor (ha!) – will do all the work at this (hen) party.
Sara dutifully invites all of her church friends to this (hen) party. “You don’t have to buy anything, just come over!” she promises. So they do. And Satan puts on quite a show. Fireworks pop. Lasers flash. Fog billows in from unknown origins. Heads swivel 360 degrees on their bodies. Keanu shakes hands with Pacino…
And they buy.
Susie, that dirty-legged trollop, is the first to cave. She simply must have the lavender brooch on page 275. Buying it will help Sara get extra free stuff as the host of the (hen) party, and the brooch is only $48! (It’s $3.50 at Target, but Target doesn’t have Lucifer as the middleman.) But alas! Poor Susie will have to pay shipping costs unless she gets her order over $100. Isn’t there something, any tiny little thing that Sally might buy to help Susie avoid those frightful shipping charges?
Sally feels just gosh-darned terrible seeing Susie – and, in turn, Sara – in such straits. Susie has always been so helpful and kind, and – oh! – her precious little family mustn’t suffer because of these unfair freight fees. Sally owes it to her sister, so in Christian love – O agape, we hardly knew ye! – she drops thirty bucks on a ring that caught her eye (and, she’ll learn later, her nose as well) a few pages back.
And the angels rejoice.
Shamequa, though, is holding her own. Unswayed by the prodding of Satan’s salespitchfork, she refuses to give in. The jewelry catalog is nice enough, but nothing in there really flipped her switch. She politely nods and giggles as the others transact themselves into an eternity of fire and brimstone, but she is resolute in her decision not to buy.
“Shammy,” her suddenly shadowless friends coo, “this jade-studded eyepatch would look so good on you!”
Shamequa does not bite, but it suddenly appears that Sara, Susie and Sally just might. They begin to stalk Shamequa with bloodlust in their eyes. “But we’re your sisters,” they hiss. Shamequa, fearing for her very life, grabs the catalog and turns to the page with the crucifix necklaces. She holds it out toward her undead church friends and quickly recites the incantation that will protect her from their evil:
“The power of commerce compels me!”
The deed is done. Shamequa awakens to find herself signing (gasp… in her own blood!) an order form for one crucifix necklace, the cost of which allows Susie and Sally to get their orders shipped for free.
Satan smiles as she tears off the pink copy and hands it to Shamequa. “You know, girls, with the money you saved on shipping, you could almost afford those earrings on page 666…”
(NOTE: Obviously, part of the entry above was stretched a bit beyond reality. In the real world, it might not be jewelry, but rather makeup, cookware, spa items, bath items, sex toys (no kidding), candles, decorative items for the home, children’s clothing, more makeup, or even – dare I say – plastic containers for food storage.)
I’m talking, of course, about the kudzu-like proliferation of hen parties.
Yes, hen party is a rather archaic, politically incorrect term for a gathering of womenfolk. And somebody in some church somewhere is bound to be offended by its use. (Church people? Offended? It boggles the mind. They’re usually so genteel and peaceful… whoops, didn’t mean to sarcasm my way into Al’s subject matter.)
To which I say:
Hen party.
Hen party.
Hen. Par. Tay.
Today’s hen party isn’t the ladylike, tea-sipping, June Cleavery, mom-do-you-ever-feel-not-so-fresh event of yesteryear. No, Mary Tyler Moore had to go all Capri pants on us and ruin things for everybody. (Except, of course, those of us who still get a little frisky at the thought or sight of Laura Petrie in said Capri pants. Yow.) No, my friends, today’s gathering is a high-pressure sales event, something akin to a Tupperware party hosted by Ron Artest.
Here’s how this gals-only am-scay works. Sara goes to church with Susie, Sally, and Shamequa. (It’s a diverse church, which is how we can be assured that it’s only make-believe.) Sara is a stay-home mom, which means that money is a little tight at her house. Sara’s non-church friend, Satan (she’s a really sweet girl, if a little naughty), introduces Sara to a quick and easy home-based business by which Sara can do her part to help make household ends meet. All Sara has to do is host a (hen) party at her house and invite all of her church friends. Satan – now Sara’s friend, business partner, and soul proprietor (ha!) – will do all the work at this (hen) party.
Sara dutifully invites all of her church friends to this (hen) party. “You don’t have to buy anything, just come over!” she promises. So they do. And Satan puts on quite a show. Fireworks pop. Lasers flash. Fog billows in from unknown origins. Heads swivel 360 degrees on their bodies. Keanu shakes hands with Pacino…
And they buy.
Susie, that dirty-legged trollop, is the first to cave. She simply must have the lavender brooch on page 275. Buying it will help Sara get extra free stuff as the host of the (hen) party, and the brooch is only $48! (It’s $3.50 at Target, but Target doesn’t have Lucifer as the middleman.) But alas! Poor Susie will have to pay shipping costs unless she gets her order over $100. Isn’t there something, any tiny little thing that Sally might buy to help Susie avoid those frightful shipping charges?
Sally feels just gosh-darned terrible seeing Susie – and, in turn, Sara – in such straits. Susie has always been so helpful and kind, and – oh! – her precious little family mustn’t suffer because of these unfair freight fees. Sally owes it to her sister, so in Christian love – O agape, we hardly knew ye! – she drops thirty bucks on a ring that caught her eye (and, she’ll learn later, her nose as well) a few pages back.
And the angels rejoice.
Shamequa, though, is holding her own. Unswayed by the prodding of Satan’s salespitchfork, she refuses to give in. The jewelry catalog is nice enough, but nothing in there really flipped her switch. She politely nods and giggles as the others transact themselves into an eternity of fire and brimstone, but she is resolute in her decision not to buy.
“Shammy,” her suddenly shadowless friends coo, “this jade-studded eyepatch would look so good on you!”
Shamequa does not bite, but it suddenly appears that Sara, Susie and Sally just might. They begin to stalk Shamequa with bloodlust in their eyes. “But we’re your sisters,” they hiss. Shamequa, fearing for her very life, grabs the catalog and turns to the page with the crucifix necklaces. She holds it out toward her undead church friends and quickly recites the incantation that will protect her from their evil:
“The power of commerce compels me!”
The deed is done. Shamequa awakens to find herself signing (gasp… in her own blood!) an order form for one crucifix necklace, the cost of which allows Susie and Sally to get their orders shipped for free.
Satan smiles as she tears off the pink copy and hands it to Shamequa. “You know, girls, with the money you saved on shipping, you could almost afford those earrings on page 666…”
(NOTE: Obviously, part of the entry above was stretched a bit beyond reality. In the real world, it might not be jewelry, but rather makeup, cookware, spa items, bath items, sex toys (no kidding), candles, decorative items for the home, children’s clothing, more makeup, or even – dare I say – plastic containers for food storage.)
posted by Terry Austin | 3:41 PM
2 Comments:
Fabulous. I laughed all the way through. We've done our share of these devilish events. Aweful.
Preach!
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