Don’t Go By A Nutria’s Promises…

Look, I am one. And I’m tellin’ you, we’ll do what we gotta do. Sometimes, it’s not particularly a win-win.

But that depends on how you define things.

I’ll give you a fer-instance. ¬†Take my uncle T-Larry, for example. He’s a super guy, and he’s as generous as can be. T-Larry doesn’t wear a shirt on his back, because he’s got a pelt you wouldn’t believe. But if he did, you could have it just for the askin’. And he might even give you what he’s got on his back, and that’s enough of a big deal.

Seriously, the Oscar de la Renta people call him once a week telling him when he kicks off they’ll send a team of Frogs in skinny jeans and those Ban-Lon fruit shirts down to Arabi where he lives to come get his pelt. T-Larry has to stay out of civilization as best he can so he can keep from catching a bullet as a result.

He’s fine, but all this make him a country boy, big-time. All he knows is what he sees on satellite TV. So when you talk to him he knows more about Pawn Stars than Swamp People, and that’s just friggin’ un-American.

Anyway, T-Larry came across some good fortune the other day. But you people need to understand that we’re all opportunists. We’re no worse than y’all are, but we ain’t no better. And T-Larry’s what I’m talkin’ about even though that river otter lawyer from Abbeville he hired to handle all his publicity will probably bring a suit on me for sayin’ so.

In any event, T-Larry was driving down the road last Monday, when all of a sudden he saw this hot broad standing in the middle of it. She was 5-foot-10, big hooters, a butt J-Lo would kill for and feet from a catalog. We nutria are drop-dead crazy for good-lookin’ feet, and T-Larry’s just a sucker for ’em. It goes way back to childhood with him.

Too much information. We’ll move on.

Anyway, so T-Larry sees this broad, he slams on the the brakes and stops right in front of her. He hops out of his ride, waddles over and asks her – “Hey dere,” he says, “You know you in de middle of de road?”

She says “Yeah, I know. You coulda hit me.”

“Dat’s true,” he said. And if I hadn’t hit de brakes wit’ all I got I’d done you in. Whatsamatta wit’ you standin’ out in de road?”

“I don’t want to live no more,” she said. “Nobody cares about me. I’m just prayin’ that someone will run me over and I can go on to my great re-ward.”

“Aw, cher,” said T-Larry. “Don’t be dat way. You got yourself a beautiful body, your face is not half bad, you speak dat pretty good English, at leas’ for St. Bernard Parish, and you got a whole full life ahead of you.”

“You think so?” she perked up.

“Fa’ sho’,” said T-Larry. “In fact, why don’t you hop in dis truck and I’ll sneak you on dat boat I work on. We gonna go to France, and I’ll stow you away. When we get dere, I’ll get you off de boat and we gonna go all over Europe and see all dem old sights and live dat beautiful life – restaurants and opera-houses and dem Jerry Lewis movies and all dat.”

Man, she was beamin’ like a headlight once T-Larry finished that spiel. He had her goin’, and she got in that truck quick-like.

So anyway, they got to the boat, and T-Larry put his new lady-friend up in one of the cabins in the bow. And for a few days he’d come bring her three meals a day, water and even a lil’ cheap wine of an evening, and made sweet love to her in a life boat every night while the crew was asleep.

Except at some point T-Larry’s captain caught her when she insisted on using the ladies’ room. She was the only one who did that, you see, so it was kinda hard to hide.

“Look,” he told her, “I’m not one of these people who’s a stickler for the rules, and it’s clear T-Larry’s real fond of you so I don’t want to say anything about you bein’ a stowaway, but do you really want to stay in that cramped little cabin?”

“T-Larry says it’s just temporary until we get to France,”she said. “I’ll be getting off then, and he will too. We’re in love.”

“I believe that’s so,” the captain said. “Except it’s gonna be a good while before y’all make it to France. You on de Chalmette ferry.”

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