Well, as a matter of fact...

My parents were very strict with us growing up. We were all straight-laced, old-time religion, honor students with lots of chores to do and a deep understanding of the phrase, "I'm not going to tell you twice." When we became adults, however, we became our parents' drinking buddies (for lack of a better phrase.) I remember walking into my parents' house after I became an adult of legal drinking age to the first dirty joke I ever heard my dad utter.

"This little 80 year old lady walks into a biker bar and requests the highest ranking Hell's Angel to meet her at a table for a drink. Upon arrival, he openly chuckles.

'Ma'am, what do you want?'

'I wanna join the Hell's Angels. I've been ridin' my Harley Panhead for almost 60 years, and I could outride all the girly punks you got sitt'n 'round in here,' she says with a snort.

'Well, other than that, what sort of stripes you got? You been picked up by the fuzz?'

She sits back and thinks for a minute. Sitting up with her eyebrows tense and a stern tone, 'No. I never been picked up by the fuzz... but I been drug around by the tits!'"

Hey, mama.

I had been raised in the UPC, or United Pentecostal Church, for the non-southerners. I grew up in a town of approximately 700 people, and life was very slow. I was gainfully employed since the age of 13 and graduated Valedictorian of my high school. College was a blast and a huge experiment, but my parents didn't know what I had been learning. Hearing Daddy say that was a real shock to my system. He laughed hysterically; not at the joke, but at my reaction which I am sure was a deer-in-headlights expression.

When Rebecca became of legal drinking age, Momma and Daddy used to like to go with us to the local bar/restuarant, Babe's. Owned and operated by the Monceaux family, it was our favorite place to go as a family. As Daddy used to like to say, "A family that drinks together stays together." We spent a bunch of nights there in the earthy screened-in cedar plank patio, eating real Cajun food, and listening to a live Cajun band or an LSU game.

One night, soon after Daddy was diagnosed with Stage 3B colon cancer and started chemotherapy, we were in there with a town trouble-maker and slut. I'm gonna change the name here and refer to her as, "Cold Sore." (It's not like me to be cruel, so I'm not associating her name to any of the events that transpired in this story. I'm merely assigning an alias, a descriptive term, if you will.) Daddy had been feeling down, and I'm sure a man's man could be pretty emasculated by a diagnosis such as he was facing. Cold Sore was flirting with him incessantly. Becky (Rebecca) and I were standing beside the bar, taking in the goin's down. For those of you that don't know my sister, she has been described as quick-tempered, tough, feisty, small, and my personal favorite, a fucking asshole. In her hay day, she has thrown grown men through walls, run over a partner, collapsed an eye socket, and unhinged a jaw. She was definitely all of those descriptors, and when she got angry, she could definitely be a fucking asshole.

That night Cold Sore was pissing her off. We could see her, laughing at Daddy's jokes with the zeal of a psychopath, touching his arm, asking him if he'd like another beer. My mother was sitting beside him, timid and unconfrontational, taking into account his severely bruised ego and the history of the pest at their table. She started shifting her weight from foot to foot like a veteran of a boxing ring.

"You see that shit?" she asked.

"Yea, I see her," I replied.

"Dat bitch givin' me the redass."

 "Hold on now, Becky. She hasn't done anything overt, and Daddy'd have your ass if you embarrassed him. Let's wait until she crosses the line and then we'll have a little talk."

Becky commenced to slinging back her Malibu and Pineapple cocktail and giving Cold Sore the stank eye. We tried to let the situation roll off our backs and enjoy our drinks and fun time with Momma and Daddy. After a little while longer, Daddy charmed the table with another joke. We were fired into high alarm mode when we saw Cold Sore squeeze Daddy's thigh.

"DID YOU SEE THAT SHIT!? Did you SEE that SHIT!!!??" yelled Becky, complementing her screeching with an accusatory pointer finger in the direction of Oral Herpes while weaving her head and torso and shifting from foot to foot.

Before I could react, Cold Sore puts her hands on the table, and the bar hushed to an oh-boy-a-cat-fight-breakin-out setting. Then, with a thunderous, drunken drawl she slurred, "WHAT?? You wanna kick my ass???"

Without missing a single beat, my sister smiled from ear to ear, put one hand on her hip, and retorted, "Well. As a matter of fact, BITCH," her smile fading and assuming a determined grit in her teeth, "YES, I DO." Slapping my shoulder with the back of her left hand, she commanded, "Come on, Julie!" (My whole family calls me Julie, and it drives me up the motherfeathering wall.)

Cold Sore took the lead outside, and Becky aggressively followed. Resolving that I absolutely had to defend Momma even though my sister was not in need of my help, I sighed, set my drink down, and trodded out the door. I'm a medium to large boned girl and 5'11" barefoot. That night I was in four inch heels. While I am not sure whether I fight with any competence whatsoever, I KNOW I can hogtie. I was prepared to lay her down on her belly, perch on her back, and wrap her limbs up in mine if she tried to swing at my sister, all in less than 5 seconds. My goal was specifically set because if there's one thing I know about a skank, it's that most skanks can throw down, and I didn't want to get that herpes-laden hoodrat juice on me, even if I could lay her out. You can understand my delight when I stepped out of the door with my imposing frame towering above her, and she took off running in terror of what I'd do to her. Even though that left me a little insecure about my size, I was ecstatic that we won a fight without having to get all physical with Cold Sore. Splendid.

Daddy was a little more difficult to handle, however, since his little girls thoroughly embarrassed him in public. We took an ass chewing, and then we all went back inside to calm down and have some drinks that were bought by the patrons of the bar, all glad to see that annoying Cold Sore gone.

Sometimes I find myself wanting to reply, "Well. As a matter of fact, BITCH... YES I DO," to people in normal conversation. It's harder to stifle than you'd think. A line like that kinda sticks with ya like a cold sore.