At Least It's
Not A Rancor
by Jimmy Neenan
It all started
about two years ago while I was mowing the lawn.
I was hedging up the grass, nice and trim, twenty-eight
nice neat rows of grass all cut into perfect
lines, tracing up and down the backyard, when I
heard it. My little angel-pie was crying. Even
over the mower I could hear the faint whimpering
of my darling little girl, coming from inside the
house. I dropped the mower and shot inside up to
her room.
Let me say,
for the record that what sat before me, balling
incessantly in a pink, Hello Kitty nightgown, was
nothing short of a nightmare. There were long
brown locks of hair sprouting out all over her
body, pushing into every direction. Some would
say ragamuffin, others frazzlepuss, I say Wookiee.
Her once luxuriously long blond curls were warped
into chaotic tangle of auburn brown follicles
remiscent of a bird’s nest. Her once
gleaming white dentures set perfect from years of
rigorous orthodontistry, now, a vampiric travesty
of brownish incisor after incisor nestled on top
of each other, intertwined like pillars from a
coral reef. And then there was the voice: my God,
the voice. At one point her speech was equivocal
to a Seraph serenading God himself. Now, it has
been reduced to the lowliest of toads croaking
away in a pile of muck.
I rushed from
the room and was forced to purge myself before
reacquainting with the beast that had become my
daughter. What could I do? It was as though Kafka
had stepped in and written my future. Only,
rather than a cuddly little insect hiding out in
my upstairs bedroom, shrugging away from the bits
of milk and cheese I leave behind, I have a
walking, talking, monstrosity who eats nothing
but enormous sides of beef.
Indeed ladies
and gentlemen, God is certainly not without a
sense of irony. It was no more then two years ago
my daughter and I were parading around the
country winning pageant after pageant,
accumulating a regular treasure chest in medals,
trophies and the occasional ribbon. She was the
best—that is, until the fateful night God
himself decided to turn the tides on her success
and reduce her to the lowest of all science
fiction mascots.
In reality
anything would have been better than a Wookiee.
Give me dwarf, droid, beetle, yeti, sand person,
sasquatch, chupacabra, anything. God forbid, she
turn into a cute little Ewok that could have
passed as a new dog or pet. Even the amphibious
Gungan would have served as a better daughter. At
least then I wouldn’t have to hire a pool
cleaner every summer. But I digress. Fate has
spoken and there’s nothing in this world I
can do but accept the fact that my once beautiful
little snookums has turned into a living,
breathing, Cousin It, with a haircut and an ammo
belt.
What now you
ask? At the moment we’ve been investigating
the latest in laser hair removal techniques, but
to no avail. Every doctor we’ve met with has
refused participation in what they refer to as
the barbaric shaving of a member of the once
proud race of Wookiee’s from the planet
Kashyyyk. I call them nut jobs; they call me a
sadistic ass that enjoys nothing more then
belittling a race already downtrodden. Mark my
words ladies and gentlemen; I will stop at
nothing until my daughter is restored back to her
original self. She will once again twirl the
baton in a spandex leotard in front of
overzealous judges. She will once again parade
around singing, “My Little Butterbup,”
in the luminescent glow of stage lights. She will
once again smear petroleum jelly across her teeth
and belt the Star Spangled Banner in off key,
adolescent tones.
How do I live
with myself you ask? I take it one step at a time
and repeat my mantra: At least it’s not a
Rancor, at least it’s not a Rancor, at least
she’s not a Rancor.
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