Old hippie chick who's always collecting money
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That old hippie chick who’s always collecting money for some wacky cause or other is heading to your front door at this very minute. You don’t know this, of course, because you’re reading this article about her instead of watching who's approaching your house like you should be. But as sure as the sun comes up in the east and goes down in the west, she’s getting ready to ring your doorbell, and — ahhh, that’s her right now.
Now you’ve got to decide: Should you do the nice thing and go down there and give her a few bucks just to get rid of her? Or should you follow your instincts and avoid her by hiding like a criminal in your own house? If you picked Option B, sorry, bub! Of course you’re going to hide, because you know that if you give her money to save feral kittens, the next thing you know she’s going be asking you for money to save feral cats.
Blissed off about what, now?
For a woman of her age – she has to be a member of the AARP – shouldn’t she know that the Sixties ended, like 37 years ago? Shouldn’t she?
And she always has that blissed-out look on her face, too. That comes from her inner peace and sense of humanity that she’s always lording over people. But here’s the thing: For someone who is so concerned with the environment, the plight of the feral cat, and whether or not children in Myanmar smoke too many cigarettes, why does she always look so blissed out? She should look like a nervous wreck, what with the polar ice caps melting and everything else.
Block Party Pooper
Last year at the neighborhood block party, before the old man down the street went and ruined everything by calling the rescue squad because he got a flipping splinter in his foot, she was sitting across from you eating her macrobiotic tofu and 100-percent organic peas, which she said that she fertilized with her own composting toilet, going on about "how good nature's bounty was," in between spoonfuls of peas partially from her own self. Eeewwww.
Poor Mrs. Wu, the nice Korean lady who lives next door. She felt like she had to honor something from every dish that someone brought, including those shit-infused peas. Oh God, you just know she'd rather be in North Korea at that exact moment than eat those peas, but she did it, because she doesn't want to be a bad guest.
Every time someone would say something the Hippie Chick agreed with, she’d respond by saying “Truth, truth.” If she disagreed, she’d blame it on the government, or flouride in the water systems.
And then she made the mistake of suggesting that we pool our money and buy the duplex down by the corner, so that we could turn it into a "wellness recovery house" for methadone users. You would have thought she denied the Holocaust. That old woman next door started crabbing away about her daughter not being welcome in any neighborhood where she tries to get an apartment, and then Mrs. Wu got all upset because she thought she saw that creepy guy who lives across the street looking at us when he was opening the garage door for the nun who visits every day for ten minutes.
And before you know it, here comes the freaking rescue squad and the party's ruined.
She turned me into a newt!
If things weren’t strange enough about her already, Mrs. Wu said the woman who reads the electric meters (at least you think it’s a woman) told her that the Hippie Chick was a witch. Not a bad witch, but a "good witch" – calls herself a "Wicka," like the furniture. So you asked Mrs. Wu how that topic came up, and she said that the Hippie Chick is a Wicker as well, and that every June 21st, all the Wickers join together go down into the park before sunrise, strip to their naked stiff, and they dance about to herald the solstice.
That’s nice, but you wanted Mrs. Wu to tell you how they got to that tangent of conversation, and it was because she does this Chia Tea exercise every morning in the backyard (with her clothes on), and the Hippie Chick was wondering if she could show these Wickers how to do it.
Thank Shinto that Mrs. Wu said no, or you’d have to call the rescue squad for help when those Wickers started doing Chia Tea in Mrs. Wu’s backyard without their dashikis on.
Sandals in the Snow
The Hippie Chick always wears sandals, be it rain, sleet, or snow. It wouldn't bother you that much, except that she's got those nasty poisonous spider-veins and appears to be part-Hobbit, which would go a long way toward explaining her behavior. And, oh, there are these yellow toe nails - Jesus those things are grotty. It could be twenty below zero with three inches of fresh powder on the ground, and she’s still got that sandal action going on. Well, there was that time when she wore those muck-lucks, but she made sure to point out that her boots were not made with the pelts of farm-raised animals, since Mother Earth had generously provided her with the squirrel pelts to line the muck-lucks.
You know when she’s been by your house in the winter, because her dog, Wilda, makes these offerings in the snow all over your yard to appease the "winter spirits." Clean them up? Perish the thought! They are a natural part of the elimination and rebirth cycle! And it makes you wonder if she’s really a classist – her own defecations are good enough for the compost pile, but not Wilda’s.
Bare Breasts Nourish Us All
And then there was that one Summer’s Eve when you and yours were sitting on the front porch and your sister came running home to tell you that the Hippie Chick and her lesbian friends were on the front porch at her house “suckling the young.” Jesus, did your Dad get pissed off, and he sent your mother down there to find out what in the name of merciful Jesus H. Christ the Hippie Chick was up to this time.
When your Mom got home she said the Hippie Chick was hosting her friends' Lesbian LaLeche League meeting and that people should stop being afraid of the womanly art of breast-feeding. Your father wanted to know who was suckling on the Hippie Chick’s withered boobs, and your Mother said nobody, but the Hippie Chick was bare-breasted anyway, as a sign of support.
Don’t that beat all?
No, it doesn’t. And why, you ask? It’s because of what your mom didn’t tell your dad and still won’t repeat to this day. Some of the suckling young were 4 and 5 year olds barely able to fit in the moms’ home-made slings. Even worse, they were eating placenta hors d'oeuvres while they enjoyed a nice Chianti. You do your best to avoid provoking your mom’s memories because your mom, when recalling the event, just repeats the phrase, “At least they weren’t eating fava beans…at least they weren’t eating fava beans...", over and over again.
Now, don’t that beat all?
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