Fletcher's Ramblings

I actually began this thing a couple of years ago when I thought it was worth having to post my political views. In the past couple of months I've decided expressing political opinions are just too tedious and tend to make enemies faster than friends. On occasion there will possibly be a political jab or two, but overall, I just want this place to be a venue for reading. Your comments are welcomed and encouraged.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Off The Cuff - Dimmit, Dammit!

Dimmit, Dammit! - © Kent Fletcher
May 24, 2007

There was some discussion on USADS this morning about cussing' out in a nice way. Ye Editor had her own version of how, in high school (a loooooooong time ago, by the way), she and her running buddies would put someone down. Really nonsensical, pretty bland stuff unless you were on the receiving end and had "virgin" ears. Delta Dawns recounted how one of her early bosses would use the term "shuckins" in lieu of "s**t", and that Billie had told her that four "shuckins" equaled one "s**t", so she may as well just go on and say it. Bayou Bill chimed in about one Grady Nutt, one of the characters on Hee-Haw, that venerable laugh-fest from the 1970s through the late 1990s, who would explain how a preacher would cuss.

Now, the fellers would attempt to use more guttural and violent speech when cussing someone out, and I'll not even attempt to reiterate those notions. Except for one. And this happened to me in high school, also way long time ago.

In the evenings most all us high-schoolers with vehicles would cruise the streets of Cleveland, MS, smoking and drinking and listening to the radio, talking on the CB radios, looking for the girls who had snuck out of their homes under false pretenses. We would meet others on the streets, hollering and taunting with languages and actions that were sometimes really crude and rude. No Southern Gentlemen were we when in the company of our peers, and not the Southern Belles like Ye Editor and Delta Dawns.

One evening I was out in my rusty, trusty 1939 Plymouth, a.k.a., The Bomb. The Bomb ran on a 6-volt system, so the headlights weren't really bright enough to blind anyone approaching, but enough to at least see what was coming on. I met a feller while driving on Leflore Avenue who was a couple or few years older than me, Sammy Mitchell. Sammy had a 1954 (or thereabouts) Chevy two-door, really a slick car, all shiny and purty, lotsa chrome, nice paint job. Sammy was driving with his high beams on (his car was on a 12-volt system) and were those headlights bright! I flicked my own headlights up and down several times, but either Sammy didn't see my actions, or he ignored my actions. Whatever.

As he passed, I yelled out my window, "Dimmit, would ya?" Oops! Wrong statement at the wrong time!

Being the hothead he was, Sammy slammed on his brakes, screeching to a halt, he and his riding companion (I know not who it was) were whoopin' and hollerin', turned around, and started after me. When I heard the squealing tires on the pavement, I decided to find a safe place to pull over. I ended up in front of 900 College Street, my home, and literally "stood" on my brakes.

Within a minute or two, here came Sammy, and he wasn't going to stop. Bang! Then Sproing! He backed his car up a bit, rammed me yet again. Bang! Sproing! After one more Bang! and Sproing!, he pulled out around me, he and his passenger hollering at me, calling me all sorts of vile and vulgar names. After letting my heart settle a little, I got out of the car to look at the damage his car had done to mine.

And what did I discover? Nothing, no dents, no drips, no errors. That Plymouth had the old-styled spring bumpers, hard to collapse if hit. I don't think there was any damage to Sammy's car, either, but at the moment, that was the least of my worries. I had to face that sucker the next day at school.

When we finally got face-to-face, I told him what I had yelled at him, "Dimmit, would ya?" Of course he pontificated around his friends that I had yelled, "Dimmit, Dammit!", and he was going to kick my butt. Well, I don't know what happened to escape this whuppin' he was wanting to dish out, but he never laid a hand on me. Sammy thought he was going to be a bad-ass, turned out he was just a blow-hard, after all.

Sammy died some time back. I wonder if he ever got over that incident?

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