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Show 10 THE SIGNPOST Wednesday, May 9, 1990 FOLKS (continued from page 7) sack and lifts an assortment of salted nuts and bolts to his friendly-as-a-man-hole-cover face. You're scared, you're terrified, you fear that your pants could be permanently stained. "This is. ..what was it again?" your docile young maiden inquires. Your throat is parched and tight, as if it had been a damp towel and someone had rung it out over your forehead, sending streams of liquid to drench your quivering body. Still, somehow you are able to summon a gasping, arid grunt to tell her your name. "Oh yeah, thafs it. Well, anyway, could he have dinner? He doesn't have a job, you see, and..." "T-That's all right, Mabel," you stammer, Td better be getting home." You smile meekly, nod at the jolly mean giant and reach your foot back in the direction of the nearest state line. But your escape is not to be. Your gal looks at you with eyes as wide, as innocent and as sad as a whimpering puppy that hadn't eaten for weeks, was caught in the rain and and had lost the use of its primary limbs due to a rare and terminal bone marrow disease. You knew you couldn't leave, though it very well could mean the end of life as you knew it. Before long, Pops has ambled back from the doorway with all the agility and poise of a Brontosaurus, and begins to lumber down the hall. The floor creaks and sags and sways like a tenuously-strung rope bridge; furniture topples and rolls. "Now we meet Mom," your gal says with a playful slug to your ribs that undoubtedly deflated a lung. Certainly she couldn't be any worse, you think. Beautifully Handcrafted ii OLO- ii Constructed from real antler horns. All bolo ties are Specialty orders available ETCHED & INLAID IN GOLD Satisfaction Guaranteed $19 Call 423-2800 ask But of course, as you round the corner to the kitchen, you realize you were wrong. Not to say that she was unattractive, but she the rocking chair remnants of Norman Bate's shriveled bearer in "Psycho" seemed more appealing. Mom had the complexion of a fruit roll-up and lump-of-coal eyes that she had borrowed from the melted snowman in somebody's back yard. "Who the hell is this?" she drags in a gut-scraping grunt, sounding eerily like what that big mother egg-laying beast in "Aliens" would sound like if she could talk. You say nothing in the fear that one wrong word would spring her neck from her torso like a living, sabre-jawedJill-in-the-box and she'd chomp off your face. Instead there is silence, as stale and uncomfortable- as forgotten refuse in a condemned fish cannery, as you sityourselves at the table. "Here you go, dear," says Mom as she ladles boiled carburetor onto Pop's plate. All the while the dad is watching you from the corner of his Loch-Ness-Monster eye; watching, sizing you up as a human, a man, a potential beau for the innocent young reap of his loins... or, more likely, he's seeing you stripped and gored on a spit with an apple in your mouth and pineapple chunks up your nose, slowly roasting alive in the fireplace; turning you for hours and hours until you're baked to just the right crispness. He's smiling now. A pool of saliva builds between his old-wallet lips and picket-fence teeth and trickles down his chin... The next morning you awake to realize it was all just a bad dream, just like an old rerun of "Dallas." "What is it, honey?" Startled, you turn to see your r IES one - of - a - kind. .95 for Robert) 1 w IK gal wrapped up beside you in your bedsheets, your cherished jujube bean, your dab of whip cream, your.. ..wife? "Huh? Oh, uh.. .nothing, nothing. Justa dream," you say in confusion. Calvin and Hobbes SO, HMNG EMtU UER. FILL, m. 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