Your Weekly Hoodoo Thread

Alas, a new dawn has risen upon our beloved Crimson Tide, as the boys in crimson laid a smackdown of Carthaginian proportion upon the all-too polite and accommodating feral vermin-critters of Wisconsin. And, for what it's worth, our Hoodoo offerings in the previous week must have satiated, at least for a time, the unquenchable karmic thirst of our gridiron patron Football Loki, as Bama could do little wrong in the opening stanza of the 2015 football campaign.

The Hoodoo was strong in the Dark Side, though admittedly, not nearly powerful enough to carry the Tide throughout a season as loaded with treachery as 2015 appears to be. I reckon either Loki was still pissed at us last year when the schedules were made, or the old boy was asleep at the wheel, because to call this year's slate of opponents daunting would be a grand exercise in understatement.

However, as we are constantly implored by our fearless leader, we must remember not to cast our collective gaze to the horizon, but rather, to focus on the opponent at hand. After all, the most important opponent is the next opponent and all that jazz. Coach speak aside, though our Crimson Tide will likely dominate the Blue Raiders of Middle Tennessee State around their buttocks region in a fashion reminiscent of a Southern-bred grandma's backyard switch-whuppin', we must at least dedicate some degree of Hoodoo to this upcoming opponent...if for no other reason than to ensure that our Tide moves forward unscathed and injury free.

Now being that this opponent requires a lesser degree of Hoodoo, I'm going to lay upon thine ears a mild tale of youthful dalliance gone awry, of close calls and the embarrassing after-effects that rippled forth like those from a stone tossed into a placid pond. And now, here go my Hoodoo...

Let's go back in time, shall we. Step, if you will, into this here Hoodoo time machine so that we can fire directly back to a set of days filled with duality. An epoch in which your humble narrator knew not only the Roger Daltrey-ish despair of my own teenage wasteland, but the pinnacle of Bay City Roller-like Saturday night glee. The year was 1993, I was a senior at a high school tucked deep in the suburbs of Mobile, AL. Though I was a child of a lesser privileged part of town, my high school was loaded with middle-class white bread crackers and crackettes who knew little of the struggle. It was a time of joy, a time of pain. But ah, such is the paradox of one's teenage years, no?

Now as I've recounted to you fine folks in the past, during this time period, I was a deep cover operative behind enemy lines in regard to my amorous pursuits. In other words, I was dating a Dye'd-in-the-wool (YSWIDT?) Aub who was a couple years my junior but who was in possession of such a beautiful set of sweater-fillers that her affiliation to that particular institution of animal-husbandry mattered little to your humble narrator. No, though I've since mended my wicked ways, my breasticle-blinders were obviously tuned to black-and-white, as I could see not the perpetual orange and blue tint of her décor and wardrobe. (At least that's what I've been telling myself low all these years...after all, Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, y'all...it is a Hoodoo operator's best friend).

Now my heavy-chested apprentice was as nubile (let's call her Aubie-Cat) as they came in the ways of the flesh when she and I first made our mutual acquaintance. She had never really had a beau to speak of, while I, in my wide reaching realm of personal experience, had participated in many acts of ribaldry with fine young ladies in my neighborhood and beyond. Being a young man of the world, I felt compelled to initiate my padawan into the pleasures of the flesh, as soon as Alabama's rather loose statutory laws allowed for it.

As recounted in past tales, our carnal relationship first grew to the light in the back seat of my '85 Chevy Nova, sweaty bodies tucked into the angular folds of the best in Japanese economy craftsmanship (Yeah, the logo said Chevy, but this particular rendition of the "No-Go" was rice-burner through and through, a glorified and rebranded Corolla). During many nights, in all kinds of weather, she and I enjoyed round after round of necking, heavy petting and beyond.

Eventually, our fleshly pursuits went past third base and on towards the event horizon that was full-blown, Adam and Eve-type missionary intercourse. Nothing odd, mind you, just good ole All-American apple pie good-lovin'. Of course, such was damn near impossible, due to the laws of gravity and physics, in a compact car, especially when one considers the width and breadth of my lummox ass. And then there was the avalanche of white-meat that Aubie-Cat spilled forth each time I unsnapped the rubber-band taut elastic of her bra straps...enough to smother a Bantha, I tell you what.

So obviously, in the interest of mutual comfort (and after a near miss with school security in one of our previous dalliances, recounted here in this Hoodoo ledger last season), we decided to take our illicit pursuits to their rightful location...the boudoir (or, to be factually correct, the living room couch, or back porch swing, or bathtub...we were young, people...don't judge).

Ultimately, one of us would wait until there was a vacant house and an hour or two of free time between us, and then a call would be placed summoning the other party. During that time frame, I stood like a minuteman, a hero of my own sexual revolution awaiting the effervescent tone of the booty-call shofar.

Since, to my estimation, my house was a far more pleasant and less stress-inducing place to copulate, I used my Jedi powers of mental manipulation whenever I could to induce an empty house. B-Rad was the easy one to work with, as all your narrator had to do was keep an ear to the high school party track and relay the coordinates of said throwdowns to B-Rad on the casual. B-Rad always loved a party, and no matter where the locale or clientele, such a diversion would rid the house of his presence for whole nights.

Momz was a bit more difficult to maneuver, however, and leading her away from the barn took a little more contrivance. My manipulation of her schedule took a more high-handed approach, to say the least. It would begin with seeds planted early in the week, as weekends were the most likely opportunity for all stars to align and sweet-lovin' to result.

Momz had a significant other at the time, who we'll refer to as Gnarly Old Goat-Dude for the purposes of this tale. I would call him by another, more venom-filled pejorative, but since I recently discovered he has left this mortal plane, I will defer in regard to my gentlemanly upbringing. Gnarly Old Goat-Dude (or GOG for those of you into the whole brevity thing) was a celebrator of the night life and spender of prodigious coin, despite his otherwise rather scalawagish ways (and penchant for using the term "cunus hair," which is just a vile assemblage of consonants and vowels that causes my bowel to quake upon its hearing...Never heard of a "cunus hair" you say? Oh, well allow me to place it in context for you so as to convey its utility to the Chickasawian population of northern Mobile County..."Boy, I tooka shot at ‘at err possum but missed ‘im by just a cunus hair." Now...don't you feel illuminated? But I digress...)

To that end, Momz and GOG would spend the weekends on the town, eating steak and drinking scotch, listening to jazz at local clubs and returning late into the evening. Sounds like the perfect set-up for ya boy, no? But alas, the worm turns. Because GOG was as pure a breed of asshole as one can imagine, he and Momz fell in and out of good graces on the regular. Things would be fine, then there'd be a little yellin', a little cryin', a good bit of telephone commiseration with Momz' friends of similar persuasion...then we wouldn't see GOG for a few weeks. Eventually, he'd sweet-talk his way back into Momz life, and they'd pick up where they left off.

During their falling-outs, there was little chance for my own carnal pursuits to take place at the house. Momz was a homebody, would rather sit on the couch and read or work in the yard if it was up to her alone. During these stints sans male companionship, I'd have to do a good bit of prep work to get her out of the house. However, Momz was a single mother, and was usually covered over with the pressures of being such. I would appeal to her fun-loving side and cajole her into steppin' out. It would generally go a lil' something like this:

"Momz, you know I'm really proud of you. You work really hard and have had a rough week, I know. Why don't you go meet up with a  few of your teacher friends for margaritas Friday night?...I don't mind, I'll stay here and clean up the house, and I can cook dinner for me and B-Rad. You deserve a night off."

Money in the bank. Worked nearly every time.

When she and GOG were on the same page, I could work him. We'd be sitting in the living room, watching Turner Classic Movies or some such old dude shit (he commandeered the remote when he arrived at our house, which was something that stuck in my young craw perpetually, but led to my great and impressive knowledge of classic film and love of the Western genre in its golden age). I'd ask him what they had planned for that Saturday night.

"Aw I don't know boy, probably just get some steaks and cook ‘em on the grill, hang around here. Why?"

"No reason," I'd reply. Being a former investigator for the local DA, GOG was the kind to keep suspicion close at hand, especially on the rare occasion that I would actually strike up a conversation with him. The Force told me his radar was engaged, so I needed to further amplify my explanation with detail.

"If you're gonna cook steaks, you're gonna have to fix the grill though." I was a genius, and what I said was true, as I had noticed during a previous grilling spell. "The burners rusted through when I was cooking ribs last weekend. That sweet sauce just oxidizes them all to hell."

"Aw hell boy. I reckon we'll just go on down to the Captain's Table and get a steak then."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. You know, Momz had a really tough week, principal was all in her grill and some other guinea-hen at the school house was ‘stabbin' her in the back' or some such foolishness. Might be nice if you stepped your game up a little and took her out on like a real date."

GOG shot me the skunk eye, brow raised not in suspicion, but in disbelief that an 18 year old was lecturing a man of the world of his caliber on the finer points of wining and dining a member of the opposite sex.

"Now look a'here, boy, I been...."

"Yeah, you're right, my bad...she'll probably be content to just do the same old boring bullshit y'all always do...I mean, she'll have your brilliant company to enjoy, right?"

As a master of manipulation, I played upon his insecurity as a man and the always tenuous nature of his relationship with my mother. I left the conversation at that stopping point and went about my business.

The next day, Momz informed me that I would need to stay close to the house during the coming weekend and make sure B-Rad stayed within the lines, as GOG had surprised her with a weekend in Biloxi at "The Boats," a colloquialism referring to the once-floating (not so much now after Katrina) gambling houses that dot the Mississippi Coast.

"Boo-yah," I thought. Mission accomplished.

I relayed the message to Aubie-Cat, and she was ecstatic to have a worry-free chance to engage in corporeal acts with your humble narrator. When we were in the car or at her house, she was as nervous as a cat, indeed, always afraid that her Puritanical Winston County-bred grandmatron would walk in upon us in the midst of full copulation, at which time she would more than likely morph back into her red-eyed demon form and tear our still-beating hearts. Having a house all to ourselves for the span of a weekend would be fantastic, though Aubie-Cat would have to leave each night and return to her abode.

Fast forward to the big weekend. I nudged (read: paid) B-Rad to spend the night at a buddy's house just to cover all of my bases. I helped Momz and GOG load his Grand Marquis with their suitcases (and half a case of Cutty Sark). Finally, around sundown on that Friday, they shoved off, western bound.

I ran to the phone. "A'ight, they gone. I'ma come get ya!"

About 15 minutes later, there was my beloved (Auburnish as she was), about to enter my empty house with a box of Popeye's fried chicken and a two liter of Co-Cola. I'd never seen a purtier sight in all my live-long life. The chicken was hot, and so was she. I could barely contain my excitement as we gobbled up the bird and chugged the Co-Cola. I'm sure there is some platitude or another regarding sexual intercourse immediately after eating, kinda like the whole "wait 30 minutes before swimming" thing. That said, I was willing to test that precept, if it indeed existed, because I couldn't wait to get mi amore nekkid.

We didn't even make it to the bedroom. The living room was only a few steps away from the dining room where we had gorged ourselves, and by the time we reached the couch, I was tripping my way out of my ankle-binding britches as she fell backwards into the cushions, reaching behind her back to unsnap her bra. I fell upon her like a wolf on a sheep, starting what I thought would surely be the longest bout of uninterrupted love-makin' that I'd yet experienced in my young life.

I won't stun you people with the details of our dalliance, other than to say it was fan-fkn-tastic. Trumpets sounded a clarion call, birds sang together in tune like a heavenly chorus, love poured forth and surrounded us as we consummated (once again) our "love" for one another on the threadbare couch upon which I had watched hours of television as a child.

"If Heaven is anything like this, I hope I get run over by a truck tomorrow," I thought.

I held my own for a young man, but what I lacked in duration I more than made up for in stamina. We were fully involved, and fully unclothed. Why not? After all, we had nothing to fear, safe in the knowledge that everyone we knew was far away. We were sealed in our own little unassailable, private bubble of physical contentment.

Or so we thought.

My first indication that there was trouble was the unmistakable sizzle-hum of the cycling compressor of a Grand Marquis outside of the house. My ears were attuned to such a sound after years of sneaking around, committing various acts while in the absence of my mother and her significant other. I had trained my ear to pick up such sounds, but engulfed in the Helen Keller-like sensory deprivation that comes along with intercourse, my logical brain denied the input from my senses.

"Nah, can't be. They're in Biloxi by now...I'm just trippin'"

I heard what sounded like the struts of a Ford, a heavy one at that, squawk. Again, I was able to convince my ears that such was folly. Then, however, I heard the unmistakable sound of a heavy car door slamming, and the even more unmistakable sound of my mother yelling something akin to "Blah-blah-BLAH-BLAH-blah-ASSHOLE!"

We froze...peered deep into one another's eyes in absolute terror. The distance from the driveway to the front door was no more than 25 feet, a span an angry mama could cover in approximately 2.7 seconds. Being on top (of course, I didn't know any better), I was the keystone to our getaway. I leapt up so as to allow Aubie-Cat an avenue of escape. Picking up her clothes (scattered like the debris of Hiroshima across my living room floor), she scampered her pretty little nekkid tail towards the bathroom in the back, where she could reassemble herself into a modicum of Southern ladyhood.

Me...well, I was standing over the couch, trying to find my clothes as I heard the key in the door. I had no option but to flee, myself nekkid save but for the socks I had failed to remove previously in my haste to savor the sweet-lovin'. I bolted towards the back of the house, where my bedroom was, just as I heard the door begin to open and a torrent of GOG-bound epithets pouring from my mother's mouth.

I would have made a clean getaway, too...had it not been for that damn lamp. At the end of the couch stood a pedestal lamp, maybe five feet of brass-based illumination that was top-heavy at best. While leaping towards concealment, I had bumped the already unstable lighting accessory, and from the corner of my eye I could see it teetering. Had it fallen, the light bulb would have exploded (as had happened many times in the past) and my mother would know that something was awry. I had to go back and grab it to prevent it from falling, even if doing so exposed my still unclothed ass to my mother and possibly GOG.

In an act of athleticism, I managed to wrap my arm around the wall blindly to catch the lamp while still concealing my person. It was as if my arms were flexible to the degree of contortion. Fortunately, I was benefitted by the fact that, with the door open, my mother's focus was still on whatever dumb act on behalf of GOG had apparently led her to demand return to her house. She wasn't studying the events inside, but rather continued to give the neighbors a lesson in cussin' with the door ajar.

I made it to my room and found some clothes. The bathroom to which Aubie-Cat had fled shared a wall with my bedroom, and I knocked on the wall quietly to get her attention. I could still hear Momz cussing.

"Hey, I think we're safe, she and GOG are fightin'...I'm dressed and in the bedroom, we're all good."

"Uhhh, almost..."

"Huh? What do you mean?" I was puzzled, as I thought she'd be happy that our secret would be safe a little longer.

"I didn't get my bra."

Now, I know what some of you are thinking. No big deal, right? Maybe Momz wouldn't notice the bra, wherever in the hell it may be? That is linear thinking, people. Of course, the bra could be behind the couch, under the end table, or in some other concealed locale. What could not be concealed, however, was that massive set of pendulous baby-feeders Aubie-Cat had beneath only a thin layer of linen. This girl was so stacked she had to wear a bra at all times. When she didn't, even the casual observer would have no doubt about the presence (or lack thereof) of her undergarmentry.

"Shit. Okay, lemme see what I can do."

Fully dressed, I decided to set out on a salvage mission to recover the said unmentionable. I could hear that the cussin' was over, which meant Momz was probably inside (more particularly, near the refrigerator, where she was most assuredly plucking a cold Schaeffer from the icebox). I peeked around the corner. No Momz. Coast was clear.

I ran into the living room in a frenzy I can only describe as Martin Short hunting Easter eggs. I skittered around, looking everywhere all at once, lifting afghans, tipping tables, peeking under cushions. But for the love of me, that over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder evaded me like the Sangreal: it had simply vanished into a cotdang Bermuda Triangle of couch cushions and coffee table periodicals.

Momz walked in and found me looking around. I could tell she was in no mood to be messed with.

"What are you looking for?"

"Umm, the remote."

"Oh. What's that wet spot on the couch?...did you spill something?"

"Uhhhh..." I had neglected to notice the after-effects of multiple climaxes had soaked the pilled couch cushions considerably. "Yeah, yeah, that's the ticket...spilled something."

Momz gave me the skunk eye. She wouldn't need many clues to uncover my ruse. A wet spot here, a phantom brazier there...that coupled with her previously planned trip out of town would have led her to the conclusion that I feared she'd discover. I responded by fleeing to my bedroom. Still, sans brazier.

Safe in my room, I knocked once again on the wall.

"No luck, can't find it. Now what?"

"Ohhhh, I don't know!..." Aubie-Cat was worried, and rightfully so. It would take some fast thinkin' on the part of your humble narrator to get out of such a pinch.

"THINK, MAN!" I implored myself. "Remember your Jedi training..."

The last thing I wanted to do was talk to Momz at this point for fear of interrogation. However, I knew what I had to do. I walked back into the living room, where Momz had plopped on the unsoiled couch to watch what was undoubtedly some man-hatin' Lifetime Original or some such shit.

"Sooooo...why are you not in Biloxi?"

That was the fuse pulled on the hand grenade. Momz immediate went off like she had no timer.

"BECAUSE THAT WORTHLESS REDNECK IS ABOUT 100% PURE-DEE ASSHOLE, THAT'S WHY!" That was the line that launched a thousand venom-filled verbal warships. I'll spare you all the full recounting in the interest of brevity (ikr?), but it went something like this. Apparently there was a flat tire near the state line. GOG, being indeed a gnarly old goat dude, didn't want to change it himself but rather wanted to call AAA. Momz wanted to get to Biloxi and asked him if he could just change it himself rather than waiting the roughly one and a half hours it would take for an AAA dispatch. GOG told her if she wanted it changed to change it her damn self. Things went on a negative tangent from there, a verbal snowball rolling down the hill. Manhood was questioned, et al. Verbal combat ensued, followed by a mostly silent car ride back to Mobile once my mother, indeed, got out and changed the tire. The fireworks in the front yard upon her arrival at the house represented the final stanza.

Upon hearing the tale, I saw the opening for my Jedi mind manipulation. It was not nice, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and I desperately wanted to get Aubie-Cat out of the bathroom and on her way before her presence was discovered.

"Well Momz, don't you think you were kinda rough on him? Maybe you should think about your role in it and maybe take some responsibility..."

At that moment, I felt what one must have felt like looking into the eyes of the Gorgon, immediately preceding one's conversion to stone. My mother looked at me as though I'd lost my mind, threw a drink in her face and stabbed her in the heart with a letter opener all at the same time.

"WHAT? I can't even...you said...WHAT?" The look on her face said what her words couldn't. She ran to her bedroom, crying and mumbling up under her breath, something about "ungrateful" and "asshole, too." Honestly, I tried to bear it little mind, and rather, rushed to free Aubie-Cat from the bathroom, her pendulous bosom still swinging freely in the clutches of gravity.

"Quick, let's go!" I whispered. We hurried out the side door, where my chariot (the Nova, y'all) awaited. I left the driveway in a hurry, and after a few deep breaths, knew we had escaped what at one time had appeared an imminent fate.

I dropped Aubie-Cat off with a kiss, and decided to pick up a cheeseburger Extra Value Meal from McDonald's on my way back to the house. After all, be best to give Momz a little while to cool off. I didn't want her waiting in the living room with a shotgun when I returned to the house. I was fortunate to escape with my life, and I wasn't about to run that gauntlet twice in the same day.

Moral of the story: Stack your clothes neatly prior to amorous pursuits, as one never knows when the need may arise to flee in haste.

Roll Tide, y'all...no injuries.