[dropcap]H[/dropcap]alloween night 2004: my wife, Jamie, greeted me at the door dressed like a life-sized buffalo wing. “Hey big boy,” she said, shaking her darkmeat. “Are you ready to win the costume contest?” She held up a pair of electric-orange hot pants and a blonde wig.
“It’s a cash prize, get dressed, you’re a Hooters waitress.”
“What are these, water balloons?”
The costume contest was at an honest-to-goodness honky-tonk, situated off the interstate. A handful of motorcycles parked beneath a blinking neon sign, the oversized bouncer looked an awfully lot like Rosie Greir. I showed him my ID, then tugged at the seat of my orange knicker shorts.
I didn’t care for the way Rosie winked at me.
The establishment was ablaze with costumed folks. And when contestants took the stage, the crowd went berserk. A man dressed like Jaws ate red Jell-O using only his fins. Next: an inebriated Kermit the Frog impersonator. After that, a fire swallower.
Then it was our turn.
Jamie swatted my rear. “Make me proud, Tiffany.”
Together, we took the stage. Jamie cued the DJ and “Proud Mary” blasted through the speakers. I stood paralyzed beneath the lights like a slug. Then, something happened, the pulsating music worked its way down into my tailfeathers.
And I let myself go.
There, before three hundred of my peers, I flipped my blonde wig and shimmied my hindparts like co-captain of the Auburn University cheer squad. And when Jamie poured hot-wing sauce all over my spurious bosoms, someone in the audience stood and hollered, “I see London, I see France!”
I wiped my eyes and glanced across the stage to see a pair of uninhabited neon-orange Daisy Dukes.