"I'ma wrassle you like a gator," threatened the rough trade I had picked up outside Artmosphere, the DIY venue of choice for the punk population of Lafayette, a.k.a. Louisiana's "Cajun capital." After my set, we had retired to my beau's floating swamp palace where a sticker on the front door - "When this houseboat's rockin', don't come a knockin'" - summarized this libertine's view of both life and love.
"We're going to shake this houseboat until you have to run the bilge pump," I cooed as the shadowy outline of the beast with two backs approached. "Take me under these low hanging palms and amongst these mysterious algaes."
"I'ma overwhelm your levees," the swamp stud replied. "I'ma flood you like Katrina."
"I want it dark, dank, and humid," I panted. "I want to feel your primordial, Pleistocene passion!"
"I'ma gonna give it to you Zydeco style," my rednecked lover insisted. "I'ma eat you like a crawfish, baby!"
"Take me, Justin Wilson!" I exclaimed.
"Goddamnit!" my lover shouted. He stood up and stared into the dark humid night like a Tennessee Williams protagonist. "Justin Wilson wasn't Cajun!"
"What?" I queried. "Justin Wilson - the famous American humorist known for the catchphrase 'I guar-on-tee!' - wasn't Cajun?"
"No," my beau replied. "Bastard was from Mississippi. Cajun act was just a lot of blackface, if you ask me." My lover stood and shook his fists at the ancient swamp he called home. "I hate Justin Wilson with every drop of my Cajun blood! And his shitty potato chips too!"
"Take heart," I replied. "I quote from Wikipedia: 'It has been rumored incorrectly that Wilson was born not in Louisiana, but in Mississippi or some other southern state, and that he was not a Cajun. But Wilson identified himself as a Cajun through maternal lines, and as mentioned was indeed born in Louisiana, albeit not in the traditional Cajun section of the state.' So - worry not. Wilson really was a coon-ass."
"Coon-ass!" my macho man exclaimed. "Who you callin' coon-ass?"
"Well, Justin Wilson," I replied. "And Cajuns in general. Isn't that the term?"
"Callin' a Cajun 'coon-ass' is like callin' a black feller 'nigger!'" the stud chastised. "You got to be more politically correct."
"Well...maybe you'd like to hear some Cajun jokes," I suggested. "You know you're Cajun if..."
"Oh no," my lover sighed.
"...your kitchen has three basic spices: Tony C's, Tabasco, and ketchup," I finished.
"Oh, mamere," my lover grunted.
"... your four seasons are Almost Summer, Summer, Still Summer, and Christmas," I explained.
"Oh, papere," my lover fumed.
"...you pass up a chance to meet the President to go to the Crawfish Festival in Breaux Bridge," I offered.
"Mon Dieu!" my lover exclaimed. He grabbed me by my petite shoulders and pushed my to the edge of the houseboat. "I'ma drown you in this swamp!"
"When faced with gators, make Gatorade!" I quipped.
Previously in Tangents:
- 12/28: Terrible Boyfriend/ Girlfriend Generator.
- 11/2: PHOTOS: TAXLO Halloween (feat. Chain Gang of 1974)
- 10/10: #OccupyWallStreet
- 8/10: PHOTOS: Lawn Mover Racing, Eastern Seaboard Regionals @ Bowles Farm
- 7/26: Special List: Things the BYGays Want Now That We Can Marry In DC (and NY!)
- 7/20: PHOTOS: Artscape
- 7/19: Miho Hatori's Guide to New York City
- 4/11: Cirque Du Soleil: Totem (A Review)
- 12/29: War, Reenacted
- 12/29: What in Hell is Slaughterama?!?
God loves a cheerful giver.
Ok, this one passes muster.
That was awesome. I guar-on-tee!